OK (so, pardon me for fartin'): This blog never promised you a rose garden. In fact, I'm pretty much certain that I labeled it a repository for all things, toxic and otherwise, which reside in dark corners of my sometimes conscious brain.
I did not promise you a set of encyclopedias, all the wealth and history, up-to-date, with play-by-play action of all things Andrew. I don't have the time or the inclination to describe in detail each and every turd.
If you want the curated, best side only version, go to Fakebook. I couldn't keep it up. It was creating stress, from the responsibility to react and interact and constantly issue an opinion, an appropriate response or reaction (or non-reaction).
I admit, this blog is rather like a gall bladder, spewing bile when needed, or a spleen, venting God knows what. Or some other purely excretory system on the body, you fill in the blank.
But my main point was going to be this: Yes, I am aware that this blog is missing, like, the main bits, as far as being any kind of story, journal or memoir. It is a collection of toilet paper squares, upon which random wasted thoughts were smudged. These are mostly gaseous secretions, with very little substance.
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.