Writing Like a Douche in a Coffee Shop

Yup.  Crossed that final threshold.  I'm that douche writing in a coffee shop.

I'm hanging with Holden, Day Three of Displacement, drinking coffee and writing a blog post.  Self-loathing somehow bores deeper.  We're waiting for Mommy to show up so we can work out, and God willing, move back to our house on the hill...

Looking over the last few days' hits, which we chart like MTV monitoring its latest teen drama with the coveted 14- to 18-year-old demographic, we're trying to figure out what you, our target audience, want.  Since we prefer to operate in the negative, first here's what we know you don't want.

• No Politics, No Religion, No Baseball

          These three topics are tantamount to desperation while trying to get laid: you get no play.

• Don't Be Mean

          It be a fine line ye walk when ye talk like a pirate.  And when you are treading that razor's edge of candid, forthright, and cutting... 

• Don't Insult Jane Austen

         It upsets my friend, Laura, and we like Laura (Hi, Laura); furthermore, since she is one of our regular readers, and we are here to serve our regular readers, we will pick a new writer to hate.

        Subtopic: Which Writer Should Now Be the Subject of Our Scorn?   Please select from one of the following:  

      a. Stephanie Meyer

      b. Nicholas Sparks

      c. Jon Page

So those are the new rules by which we will operate.  Still, doesn't tell us what you want me to write about, in terms of a topic, though I know you like 

• Lists  

          These go over particularly well, especially the bulleted variety

• Holden

          And I am not beyond using my kid to shill my work ("Who's a cute boy?  Wave at the computer, son.  [Holden, waving at computer screen.]  Good boy!")

• Tales of Personal Humiliation

          Whether be tales of dating woe, rock 'n' roll failure, or attempts to cash in the this pirate craze (What?  It's not pirates; it's vampires?  Fuck), you like to read, judging purely by daily hits, the times I admit to being a tool.  Like admitting that I am writing a fucking blog in a fucking coffee shop.

That's it.  Gotta go.  (Holden waves bye-bye [looking extra cute and...hungry...])