I wrote a blog post yesterday.  Some of you may have read it.  Others of you may have read the lift on my page at FaceBook.  Whichever you read, you read the repetition of the line, "I think I quit."  Some of you have asked what exactly that means, others of you have voiced concerns about my well-being.  (Heather, while your concern is greatly appreciated, you should know that I'm planning on living forever and bugging a certain someone you know and love.)  After reading it while listening to a song commonly associated with slitting your wrists (I won't say which one), I thought that some of the things I said can be read as a precursor to a suicide note.  This is not the case; I'm just pissy is all.

I made references to my workplace, my friends, my "drinking copious amounts of alcoholic beverages" and my "fussing."  These, along with several statements (that will, for purpose of brevity, be omitted here) can lead some to conclude that I have made some kind of drastic decision to treat a case of mere dandruff.  Though I do occasionally feel tempted to smash someone's head on my counter at work, I will just say that things are not always as "black-and-white" as I'd like for them to be, and that I need to develop my ability to see gray.  Until then, I'm going to limit the depths of my rantings to simply telling people that Ditka reigns supreme and that beer is still good for you.

And, just by way of side notation, I goofed up the words to the hymn I added at the end of yesterday's blog.  For accurate lyrics, check the pre-blog post on September 10th, 2006.  And yes, I meant it when I said that O.J. did it again.

In the words of Thomas Jefferson, "I never had an opinion in politics or religion which I was afraid to own. A costive reserve on these subjects might have procured me more esteem from some people, but less from myself."