Those of you, dear readers, who at least occasionally poke your wizened little old man’s heads out of the tortoiseshells of your narcissism may have noticed, with varying degrees of disinterest, that something strange has happened to my URL.
And no, “URL” has nothing to do with erectile dysfunction, and while we’re on the subject, stop texting “I need U 2 TOP ME KNOW!” [sic] which I’m well aware was intended for someone else who hid in the basement when they saw you coming; and besides, one, it’s my party and I’ll bottom if I want to, and two, it’s 3 AM and time for sleep, or at least a brief, post-partying narcoleptic collapse where I plant my face full force onto the keyboard of my laptop. Why else did you think I had a-s-d-f-j-k-l-; imprinted on my forehead? Thwack!
And to all and sundry regarding SMS, the tiny new labor-intensive iteration of email, that urgent telegraph grown into a leisurely three-screen confessional, please know that I’M HERE for you, baby, day and night, 24/7; and I’ll answer, in my own sweet time, your teasing “Sup??”s and your shy little “Hi”s, electronic grunts that are not, as I first imagined, the verbal tics of the terminally reticent; but in fact the noblesse oblige of the comically self-absorbed.
You may honestly be wondering at this point, and I know how eager you are to get on with your PTSD, so without further ado, here’s the update:
I’m no longer to be found primarily at slowpainful.wordpress.com. Instead, look for me at my very own domain, slowpainful.com.
It’s the grown-up equivalent of taking off the training wheels, and for that kind of thrill it’s seventeen bucks well wasted.