Farewell

To our loyal readers (all 10 of you):

As you all surely noticed our wonderful blog, sofrigginillegal, has fallen into disuse. While I hate to let go, it is clear to me that the blahg represented an inevitably finite period of both my life and the life of my co-contributor. Thus, there are no more plans to my knowledge for any further posts.

As I pathetically claw my way out of the thick mental fog of an oppressive open-bar-induced hangover and rifle nostalgically through old posts, old elaborately constructed grammatical jokes, and example after example of old, poorly-aimed and entirely unfounded defamation, I can't help but get a warm, fuzzy feeling in my heart. These have indeed been good times. Whether it was Tim's tribute to things he learned from Harry Potter, a post so brilliantly original that should J.K. Rowling ever discover it she will likely giggle with pleasure before promptly calling her lawyers, or me ranting incoherently about some dumb thing or another, I do hope we managed to bring some level of hilarity to new and interesting subjects. Whether it was Tim's angry diatribe against literary critics and their distasteful profession or me ranting again about...some dumb thing or another, I do hope we left you, the reader, feeling confused, disoriented, and mildly nauseated.

But having said as much, I recognize that it is time to move on. I don't want to say that we have outgrown the self-gratifying experience of posting petty and bitter rants, sprinkled with the occasional cheap laugh and/or bodily-function-inspired joke. No, I don't want to say that we've outgrown it, as that would require some conception of maturation. I believe, rather, that we have both simply moved on to different things. Tim is now on his track and I am on mine. Neither of these tracks are by any means stable, set in stone, or even wholly different from each other, but they have diverged and moved elsewhere.

Over the past year, we have both had mornings when rolling over and rubbing the sleep from our eyes we have found ourselves in bed with the naked still-sleeping body of Reality, her long hair slightly knotted and falling over the edge of the bed from the soft white pillow on which she rests her head. We have both looked past her to the condom wrapper on the floor and wondered just how in fuck we ended up here and where we put our pants. And although I, now speaking only for myself, devoted myself to forgetting the memories of these one-night-stands through burying myself in obscure readings from hundreds of years previous and more than occasionally pouring alcohol down my throat with a disturbing sort of religious zeal, they remain timelessly palpable, burned into my brain through some complex biological method which I at one point probably studied.

Reality changes you. She won't make your life for you-- that's still on your shoulders, but the breakfast she serves you once you have finally clawed your way out of the tangled morning sheets has an impressive taste to it.

I stare down at my plate of grim reminders that time is moving on quickly, and while at times you still think it's 1999, biological facts say that your life is, in the most optimistic of projections, a quarter over and no one can change that... served cold on a piece of toast.

But again, our decisions are our own. What might seem like the right one today might seem wrong tomorrow. What might seem right for one person might be wrong for another. But when reality calls, decisions are made. Thankfully for all of us, she'll call again.

So with that, I say goodbye for myself and, if he won't be offended, for Tim too. While it appears that I have taken the Barlow Toll Road and he has decided to raft down the Columbia, risking the sacred lives of his oxen. But while our paths might be different I sincerely hope that whoever happens to be reading this will someday once again be able to track down a new piece of writing by either of this blog's contributors.

So farewell wonderful blog-goers.
May we someday meet happily again in Oregon.