I had traded the affection of a Golden Retriever, the pet I really wanted, for the fame of a self-sacrificing raccoon. I was sure that he would form a loving bond so strong with our family that in a moment of great need he would do something heroic, like fight off an intruder, even though those were rare in our exceptionally small town. Or maybe he would just stop one of the neighborhood bullies from pushing me off my bike, then. But mostly Ricky grew up to be a jerk. He couldn’t help it. His brain was approximately the size of a walnut, and he was not born to be a social animal, nevermind a noble self-sacrificing one.
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What's in a name? A Jane by any other name would smell as sweet. But these ladies don't want to smell sweet. They want to smell gay. So they change their names to something a little more, well, not Jane.
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Blogging is writing, but with no one telling you what you can or cannot publish. For those of us who can't understand ourselves without making some notes, the internet comes to the rescue. This is a list of reasons for me and possibly for you. Check back here if you forget why we're doing this.
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The perfect bio would be the epitome of the humble brag without appearing too humble, because that’s sexist, or too boastful, because that’s tedious. It would have enough detail to assure people that I wasn’t a corpse, but enough generalities so that I wouldn’t sound like a person who waits around for my dog to sneeze so I can snap a picture with my camera phone.
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