Shan for President

At dinner one night, my dad brought up this little blog ‘o mine. “You’re funny”, he said while shaking his head. The way he said it I knew there was a ‘but’ coming.  Sure enough, he followed it up with, “But you could never run for President. Not with the stuff you talk about.” I think I said something like “Right. Because me running for President sooooo is likely to happen…”

But upon further reflection, what I should have said was this, “Thank you Dad, for thinking that I am capable of being President. Thank you for always believing that I could do anything I set my mind to. I love you.”

– Shan

PS – I think my potty mouth and tendency to talk about poo actually makes me relatable. He may be on to something with the Presidency thing… In fact, I’ve already thought of a campaign slogan. “I poo. Just like you.” Eh?  Catchy, isn’t it?




Dear June, you are a Bastard

Lately I have been an emotionally needy baby. Which is now just being exacerbated by my monthly lady time (sorry fellas – but ladies, you know what I’m talkin’ about).

I don’t know exactly why it started but I can pinpoint when. When I banged the shit out of my head a little more than two weeks ago.  My best hypothesis is that I must have damaged my emotional needy-ness cortex in my brain.

My battle wound...

My battle wound… One should never do battle with a cabinet.  It’s a              lose-lose situation.

Ever since then it has been a string of interactions where I feel that every conversation has to end with “I love you, I really, really love you” (sorry for the awkward hug the other day, mail man) or “I hate you, I fucking hate you” (sorry lawn guy who came by every day this week to ask me if I needed my lawn done – I mean clearly it needs some attention but it’s been raining every day – when are we supposed to mow the damn thing??).

Add to that, that I have had a further string of injuries (two pulled hamstrings trying to relive my teenage years… stupid, stupid of me) and sickness (fucking allergies) that has kept me from the gym for two weeks where I typically work all this weird emotional aggression out. I think the month of June is just really fucking with me. It’s mocking me and toying with my emotions.

I’m ready for July… Which just so happens to be the month in which I will turn 35. I will officially be in my mid-thirties. I know, technically you could say 34 is mid-thirtes but I like to divide decades as such – the same such rationale applied to my 20’s, and will apply to my 40’s, 50’s, 60’s and however else longer the Lord sees fit to keep me on this green earth:

30 – I’m thirty.  Not in my “thirties”.

31 – 34 – Early thirties

35-38 – Mid thirties

39 – Late thirties

40 – I’ll be fucking 40.  And it begins anew…

Perhaps all of this emotional neediness stems from some psychological fear of being, gulp, 35. You see, in my head I’m still like 27. Emotionally I haven’t even reached my thirties. How can I be turning 35 when I haven’t even hit 30 yet? Perhaps all of this is me begging, pleading with everyone I know to tell me how cool I am. How young, hip, with it and virile I still am. To tell me they love me. They really, really love me. (Writers note: I’m not really sure what virile means but am too lazy to look it up, I just thought it sounded good. Is virile just a dude thing? If it is then just ignore the “virile” part.)

Whatever it is, I’m ready for it to go away. I feel weird feeling all…feelingsy.  Because I don’t know how to behave with these feelings, and I am really starting to annoy and embarrass myself. And the mail man has now begun to smile at me weird while raising his eyebrows and kinda winking a little… and you know that’s just not good. (Sorry, non-sexy mail man.  You’re just not my type. Although I do appreciate you bringing me my mail every day.)