Are You There, God? It's Me, BfB...

Listen, I know you and I haven't been all that tight, and honestly, I don't see that changing. I'm all about Sunday sloth and football, and I'm cool with just trying to be a good person, do good deeds and not be too much of an asshole. All in moderation, right? So maybe I'm misdirecting this.

But seriously, Dude: can you cut the shit?

I mean, how much more can "you" throw down? Do you know all that's been going on at once these last few months? I make a royal ass out of myself as I spiral out-of-control drunk into an agonizing hell pit, get myself together and recover, and all while you're moving half of my departments out of my building to Carolina, tripling my workload and now topping your shit pie with a big scoop of fart ice cream in the form of the health issues you've bestowed upon Mrs. BfB?

I am seriously thisclose to fucking snapping. You think I'm made of tempered steel here? I mean, I am, and you know my gallows humor, sense of optimism and perspective have gotten me through all of this. And if I'm tearing you a holy new one for being such a dildo, I suppose I have to say thanks for those gifts and for the REAL gifts of my family and friends: the rock of my life.

But still...can I have a little normal? A little flatline? Get Mrs. BfB through the procedure, then lay off for a bit? Can ya?

Maybe I'll be a little more in touch if you could...
BfB