This is a drunk blog.  Because I am drunk.  I have the spins so badly that I can only see the screen in off intervals.  But I can still type.  And my thoughts are remarkably coherent.
     Right now, I’m just reflecting a little about how everything is my fault.  You see, for whatever reason, everything is my fault.  There are different reasons for it being my fault, but usually revolves around the fact that I have a penis.
     This all started when I was a born.

     Being a rather healthy newborn didn’t help matters.  You see, it was my fault my mother had such a difficult labor.  It was my fault, too, that she ended up married to my father.  In fact, it was also my fault when she was tired, when she was sick, and even when it was just too damn gloomy outside.
     Now, you know for certain that this crap we’ve called weather for months in East Tennessee is all my fault.  Because I can control the weather.  Seriously, you know, I am a minor Weather diety.

     Apparently, when someone I don’t know calls me up screaming and yelling at me, it’s my fault.  A few years ago, Bellsouth hooked me up with this great telephone number, 865-544-5750.  The reason I post this is because, ya know, it’s published in about one hundred fourty-four thousand places as the number to the Knox County Public Library, no including every book that’s ever passed through their doors and the fact that the number changed ten years ago.
     You see, I was just screwing with people when I told them I wasn’t.  Yes, asshat, you owe $6958.42 in late charges for the book you didn’t return in 1963.  I know this because it’s my fault you dialed the number without checking in your telephone directory.  It’s my fault because I am the library.

     It’s my fault when some guy who wants to bone my girlfriend starts harrassing both of us to no end.  It’s my fault when he makes up an elaborate story about how I came to his house to beat the crap out of him and he’s afraid for his life.  It’s my fault.
     Apparently, when I’m sitting on a plane and half way across the country, I have the ability to make people do really stupid shit like make up stories.  And whenI land at DFW Airport for a layover, it’s my fault that he’s calling the police right then. 
     You see, I have this effect on people I’ve never met.  I can control people with my mind.

     It’s my fault, too, that someone finally decrypted a password on one of my old computers.  I didn’t have a chance to wipe it before they took it from me, and, well, you know.  I planned it all.  
     I planned, a year later, for them to start sending Yahoo messages to anyone who sent me a message, digging to see whether or not I was screwing them.  I also planned for them to use the Desktop SMS App and start sending text messages to random bloggers.  And I intentionally didn’t change my phone number just so this could happen.
     It’s my fault, because I’m a sociopath who can plan things down to the miniscule detail, just to screw with people for no apparent reason.

     It’s my fault, when two people who were trying their damndest to get me to do something I didn’t wanna do pop up a year later with phone calls and threats.  You see, by not having sex with these two — well, yeah, hot — women who threw themselves at me, because my heart and body belong to someone else, I’m a complete asshole.
     Because you know, I am God’s gift to women, and the biggest player ever.  Totally.  I just make women want me by not doing a damn thing and telling them to go away.  It’s all my fault that they don’t take their medication and fuck off like rational people.

     Tonight, I responded to an email to “Mr. Shit Head,” which was sent Monday night.  I responded to an accusation, with cut-and-paste proof, and said, basically, “I don’t play games because — I do care.”
     Because I’m just trying to confuse someone who thinks everything is my fault.  I’m trying to take advantage of her.  I’m trying to mess with her head and make her think she’s crazy.  I’m stalking her.  I threw a glass at her head.  I cussed her mother out.  I’m stalking her kids.  I’m a hit man for the mob.   I beat her on a daily basis.  I tried to run us both off a cliff.  I’m just the worst, biggest piece of shit in the world.  Why, once, I even killed her!  (I suppose her being alive now is just further proof of the extent of my Divinity.)  Nevermind that most of this was from 150 miles away, and thank to this bullshit, I have easily double the number of scars of Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon.
     It’s my fault…
     …that regardless of everything, I’ve still been here waiting… because I know most of this shit was not her fault.  And no matter what I do, I cannot give up on her… And can’t wait for the day she wakes up realizes — it’s not me doing this shit.

     And maybe then… she’ll try and come back… and I’ll look into her eyes and tell her…
     It’s my fault that when you look me in the eyes, you’ll know I’m telling you the truth, and that’s something you do not want to face because it just makes you feel like shit, doesn’t it?
     And maybe at that point … I’ll let go.

     Sometimes it hurts.  But it’s better than feeling nothing at all…

     Meanwhile, 378 people in the background are yelling, “Mark!  You need to get laid!”  And right now, I’m starting to agree.  That’s my fault.  Because I’m human.  And I have a penis.
     Amazingly, I know that if there were 100 women in the room who wanted to, I would end up with the one who’s more fucked up than a football bat…

     And that’s my fault, too… because when I see somebody who’s hurt, I give a damn…

     I’m sorry.  I just suck like that.  My fault…

     Just for that … I’m gonna make it rain again!  You’ll see, you bastards!