A Dream For Parsimonious Truncation

"Would you like to go somewhere quiet and discuss the joys of scientology?"
"No," I say.  She's joking.  She doesn't know anything about scientology except what she's learned on South Park.  South Park, The Unwitting Gospel of L.Tom Cruise Ron Hubbard.
"How about back to my place?"
"To do what, debate Marxist Socialism or heuristic pursuits?"  She laughs.  A carefree raucous laugh with her hand resting on my arm saying 'Kiss Me Already' through soft aloe vera fingers.
"No, no.  Nothing so puerile..."  Gah!  Be still my heart.  I like this girl.  I mean, REALLY like this girl.  At least I thought I did.  Until she suggested, "I was thinking we could read through your blog."

Stop.
Roll back tape.
My blog.

-Discuss:

When I meet a girl I want her to talk about my mask.  I want her to talk about how good looking she speculates I am beneath it.  I want to hear her say how sarcastic I am, and clever, and wise and energetic.
I DO NOT want her to talk about how I remind her of her dad.  Or what diseases she has.  Or the last guy she slept with.  Or the guy she is currently sleeping with.  Or, most heinous and offensively of all, I especially don't want to hear a girl tell me that she reads my blog.

That having been said: Knowing a girl is interested in your art is Guaranteed to give grown men woodies.

I cannot clarify why this is.
When I had my comic strip I was never bashful.  I would frequently bring along MaskedManComic#27- "The Nudie Issue" as my fans lovingly referred to it- with me on a first date.  For reference.

But the blog is different.  The blog is another mask.  Another layer to disguise myself.  And tho the work herein is mine is beith not a definition of who I am.

Sometimes my posts are examinations in rudimentary writing.  Or excuses to expunge myself of links and excessive vocabulary.
Rarely are they enlightening or effective, my thoughts are distanced by too much thought; they become cynical and somewhat suspect. Apparently less truthful.  Sometimes my overly intellectual tone ends up defeating the purpose.  If I ever even have a purpose.

And more often than not, I'm afraid my blogs are too long.

Short Blogs:

“if you want to buy a pair of pants you want them to be tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you” -Frank O'Hara

It is an art, not a science.  And often, I think, were I to stumble upon a blog like mine I'd puncture my cochleae sooner than read through the enormity of its pretentious malfeasance.  
Which is a shame. For it is awesome.

DMM's Ideal Blog would be intelligent without trying too hard.  It would be pertinent first.  Then snarky.  Then maybe a cool pictuer.  Then something poetic and a cool new way to sign my name.  
DMM's Ideal Blog
would look something like this: 

See How it is Meant to Be!

Stop.  
Roll back tape.
What was I ranting talking about? 

-Ah yes:

That blog would be amazing.  I wish I'd written a blog like that today instead of this piteous drivel I've subjected you to.  You.  My one reader left standing.

"I like it," she said as she felt my hands caressing her back.  Sitting in front of the laptop reading my blog while I read far too much into every inch of her lower neck, each rise of her shoulderblades a gentle and demanding response to my hard-pressed fingertips.  "You're a pretty diligent writer..." with compliments like that who needs sex?  Answer: Me. "Why aren't you going to school?"
Man, this girl just won't let it go.  Now I've got to explain to her about how I'm a drop out.  How I'm a loser and a slacker and a failure and a  "How about that discussion of scientology now?" I say.