Smelling my fingers

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Got a Facebook DM from my pal Jeanne a few minutes ago. Here, take a look …

Screen Shot 2015-07-17 at 10.15.14 AMI clicked on the link. And, indeed, it is me. Well, a photo of me, swiped from my blog. The accompanying story—hilarious as can be—is about a woman farting in front of a bunch of people. So I suppose the image is supposed to be me smelling my finger of ass gas. Which should probably embarrass me. But it doesn’t. Because, with rare exception, I don’t embarrass.

Do I get nervous? Sure. Anxious? Definitely. I’m not a fan of confrontation and I hate when people are repulsed or furious over something I write (surprising, perhaps, considering it happens fairly often). Embarrassment and humiliation, however, sorta roll off my shoulders. I learned during my one-fuckup-after-another Tennessean days that the best way to take a flogging is with your chin up and your pride held together.

Anyhow, I’m babbling. So I’ll conclude with this photo, taken last night in the bathroom of United Flight 660 from Los Angeles to Chicago. I struggle to sleep on planes, the whole joint was silent, I was trying to think of a way to make my kids laugh. So … hey!

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