Maybe I should make myself clear.

When I first started this bullshit masquerade of literary knowledge, I was published on a friend of mine website, a.c.r.o.n.y.m.com, or something like that. He edited what I had to say, made it a little less frenetic, a lot more coherent.

No one who didn’t know where to look would ever find it. No one who cared would ever respond to it. It was like the blog in the plastic bubble. Completely immune from anything but positive reviews.

Oops. Guess I started writing again. And I still don’t give a fuck.

Grammar can kiss my ass. Punctuation can blow me. All I want to do is tell you exactly what I think, how I think it, why I think it, and make you laugh (or cry, or react any how,) and get it off my chest.

Last Blog I wrote, I said I know more about food, cooking, kitchens, and restaurant work than any of you, if you’re lucky. Oddly, I had a fellow respond to me and let me know that he, as a matter of fact, knew more about cooking and kitchens than I ever would. Had to clarify that he was not lucky, he was just more retarded than me.

It was not a well received clarification.

You see, my trade sucks. I have hands made of scar tissue, a soul made of brass, and a mouth made of George Carlin’s seven words.

But, go to work tomorrow. Look at that spreadsheet, that program, that caramel macchiato.

And see if you give a fuck.

That’s where I win. I look at every plate of food, I look at every burger, every fucking thing, the way the plate is dressed, what the garnish is, and it inspires passion in me. It lights me on fire inside, I really care.

And that’s the only reason to live: really caring.

Get your ass out there and really care about something, no matter how small it is.