It all started with a bathrobe.
There comes a time in every man's life when he must stand up for what he believes in. Now, when this time came in my life, I decided it sounded like it would take a good deal of effort, and thus sounded like a giant hassle. As a result, I continued to sit back and do nothing as those around me voiced their misguided opinions and musings regarding the world that surrounded them. It was a simpler time...
But eventually, that simplicity that I revered so heavily unraveled, giving way to the cranky, uncompromisingly logical, sarcastic, and dashingly handsome young man that you don't see before you today, because this is a blog post. That unraveling event to which I refer, was a dark day. It awakened inside of me an unquenchable thirst to point out to people, and in relatively specific detail I might add, why their actions and beliefs are inherently stupid.
And what caused this unraveling, you might ask, if you don't already know?
The fucking Snuggie.
To avoid slipping into a semi-concious rage spurred by what was likely some drunk putting his bathrobe on backwards and failing to notice how cold his back-half was as a result, I will not get into specifics. Regardless, Snuggie started me into a downward spiral of weekly hard-core sarcasm, soft-core hate, and full-fledged ranting in the form of a weekly column for The Suffolk Voice entitled "You're Killin' Me, Smalls", in honor of the timeless classic baseball film The Sandlot.
"You're Killin' Me, Smalls" was the most arrogant and opinionated extension of myself that I could muster. Some installments were literary genius, while others were quite obviously written on autopilot at 1 in the morning and do nothing to hide that fact. I enjoyed every word of them.
As the semester ended, however, and so did my stint as a respected (well, probably not) columnist, graduation spewed me out into the post-collegiate world. In the weeks that followed, I quickly realized that I no longer had an outlet through which to channel all the pet peeves and idiocy-related hatreds I had developed. In short, I had too many damn feelings.
So here we are. From the seeds of a uncomprehensibly lucky marketing success, a blog has sprouted. I no longer wanted to be restrained by the Sandlot gimmic I went by in the past. I'm more mature now. And by that I mean, I still have the sense of humor of an 8 year old. However, I still wanted to retain the creative ego and literary arrogance I developed while sitting on my self-appointed thought pedestal at the Voice.
That brings us to today. "It's Lonely Up Here: Thoughts From and Elite Thinker of Things" will be a place for all my impressive, creative, literary diarrhea to take form, very much in a way that diarrhea does not. It will likely be offensive, satirical, abrasive, clever, and sometimes, just sometimes, it might actually be a serious piece of journalistic opinion. The only rule, is that there are no rules, except for one rule, and that rule is that Irish need not apply.