The Great Thing About Facebook.

My whole life I have been, what you might call, socially awkward. Or more accurately, socially inept. Although, people rarely use those phrases. Dork, nerd, spaz, weirdo, and freak, were more common. I just have a hard time fitting in. I am aware of my failings, but am powerless to change.
   The thing is, I can almost appear normal in a one on one conversation. I don't look at your face while we talk, and I often talk about myself, or my own interests more than I should, but still, almost normal. But the more people you add to a conversation, the odder I come off. I don't know when to jump into the flow of a conversation, so I will stay uncomfortably silent for long periods of time and then blurt out meaningless factoids or unrelated opinions.
   And then came Facebook, Twitter, Google+, and the like. And my life totally changed. Now instead of only the people in my direct vicinity being aware that I am incapable of human interaction, I broadcast it to the whole world.

Sorry world. I'm not trying to be a douche. 

California Beer T-Shirt Design

That's How They Do It In The Movies.

Come in. Please sit down. No. On a chair.
Sorry, I get nervous.
People sit on chairs, not on the floor.
I know, it's just that you look mad. And I get nervous. I think I pee'd a little.
Gross! I am a little mad. Do you know why?
Spam?
What?!
Your inbox is full of spam every morning and you just can't take it anymore. That's why you are mad.
No, it's you.
I don't have a problem with spam, I have a pretty good internet filter, and I...
SHUT UP! You're my problem.
Oh no ma'am, I'm not sending you any spam, I promise.
Screw spam. I'm not thinking about spam, I'm not worried about spam, I'm not mad about spam. I'm upset with you. As an employee.
Oh.
How long have you worked here?
Uh, two months.
Do you know why I hired you?
Because I am qualified. In fact I'm over qualified.
Hmm, no. You admitted in your interview that you're afraid of water and once accidentally set yourself on fire. Terrible traits in a plumber.
My sparkling personality.
You sparkle like a turd, and you have the personality of a used teabag.
My intelligence?
You couldn't get out of the office the first day. You were trying to push on a pull door.
That happens to everybody.
Yes, but most people figure it out after several seconds. Most people don't call 911 and claim they are being held against their will.
That was embarrassing.
For both of us. You're obviously not going to guess, so I'll tell you why you I hired you. Because you begged, and begged, and pleaded, and groveled, and and you had tears rolling down your face and you were all red and blotchy and you had giant snot bubbles coming out of your nose...
In the manliest way possible.
What?!
I was groveling in the manliest way possible.
I've seen manlier kindergarten girls having a tea party. Seriously.
Some of those kids are pretty tough.
...with snot bubbles coming out of your nose, like a little baby, you got down on your knees and pleaded and said you would be a good worker and that you needed a job because you needed money for beer and that you were afraid of being homeless and on the streets because you are not a strong man and that your were afraid the other transients were going to make you their hobo wife. And I hired you because I figured anybody this desperate would be concerned with doing a good job.
I am concerned with doing a good job.
You have a funny way of showing it.
In all fairness, there wasn't really much real work to do today. It was mostly busy work. 
I understand. Every business has days like that. So what did we ask you to do?
Wash the company vehicles.
...And?
I washed the vehicles.
Is that what you call that little display?
What else would it be called? I washed the vehicles. Twice. I wasn't satisfied with how clean they came out the first time. I asked you if I could do it again. I thought you would admire the fact that I was a perfectionist.
I was impressed. And when you asked to get your car washing gear from home, during your lunch break, I agreed.
I'm more comfortable with the stuff I use to wash my own cars with.
That sounds reasonable.
So after lunch, I washed the vehicles again. They came out great! Have you seen them?
No, I haven't had a chance yet.
They're really clean.
I haven't had a chance to see them yet, because I've been on the phone with the cops, and the businesses next door, and the neighbors, and TV news crews, for the last several hours.
Do they want me to wash their cars as well?
NO! Well creepy old man Cronce did, but he's just a perv. No. They are upset about the show.
What show?
Whatever that was you were doing in the parking lot!
I was just washing cars. Is it against the law to wash cars?
It is the way you did it. Who taught you how to wash cars like that?
Every music video, TV show, and movie, for the last 30 years.
Oh my G... You are a very stupid man.
That's not what my horoscope says.
I guess that does explain why you were washing the cars while blaring Cherry Pie by Warrant and Pour Some Sugar On Me by Def Leppard. I'm still not entirely sure how you managed to move in slow motion, though.

That's just how it's done. If it's really important, play loud music and move in slow motion.
Those are just montages. Not instructional videos. Those are just images designed to make horny teenagers, hornier.
I don't know, I've watched a lot of TV and movies in my day. And I've never seen a car get washed by somebody that wasn't in a bikini.
Did it ever occur to you that, that isn't reality?
How could they show something that wasn't true? That's unpossible. 
I... You... ARGH!!! Your stupidity is so dense and so immense, that I frankly can't believe that you haven't triggered entropy, and sucked the entire universe into a black hole of your dumbness.
Huh?
Did you ever notice in the videos of the people washing the cars, that the people washing the cars in said bikinis, were in fact young, nubile, well endowed women, of the female persuasion, and not in fact bald middle aged men?
Really?
Yes. Really. Every single time. Not one middle aged guy. Not one.
Well, that's kinda sexist, don't you think? 
No it's socially accepted societal norms. Men don't wear bikinis. Women do.
So, only women can wash cars?
NO! Only women can wear bikinis!
I'm confused. Cars are getting washed, so somebody is wearing bikinis. 
GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!

I Fear I've Been Gone Too Long.

How to begin?
How about; sometimes fears are justified.
   My old house isn't selling, California is twice as expensive, I make less money than before, I'm living with in-laws, and I haven't written in four months. The jury is out on me turning into my father, and/or ruining my children. When I catch Ebola, I'll have completed the fear trifecta. (I know I listed more than three things, but octo-fecta isn't a thing. Stop being so literal.)
   I guess the only solution is to stay fantastically drunk. Although that might actually cause several of my other fears to manifest, I will be too bombed to care.

So here's to my fears, 

I'll drown 'em with beers. 

It's time to draw and write

and get on with life.

This is still not what I imagined as the personification of facing my fears, but it's closer than the last one.

I'm afraid you're stuck with me.

Terrifyingly Normal Fears.

When I was a child I was afraid of many things. I was afraid of the dark, horror movies and pretty girls. I was small and timid and life seemed so scary. I grew up and joined the Marine Corps, and I even went into combat. But for the most part I was just too stupid to feel fear. 

   Now I am a full grown man, and my fears multiply by the day. They run the gamut from the mundane to the bizarre: I fear that something awful will happen to my children. I fear that I will totally screw up my children. I fear that I won't be able to beat this stupid f*cking writers block, (did I ever even do creative stuff?) I fear that I will go crazy, but not the happy eccentric movie crazy, the eat somebody's face off crazy. I fear that one day my poor posture will reach a critical point and first my shoulders and then my spine will begin folding up on themselves, like a travel map, until I simply disappear, having halved myself out of existence. I fear that doesn't make sense. I fear that I will turn into my dead alcoholic father. And the current fear du jour is the fear of moving to California where I don't have a job and I might fail and we will lose all of out stuff and end up on the streets and we won't be able to sell our current house and I have a month and a half to get it on the market and... and... God, what I wouldn't give to be afraid of some plain ordinary C.H.U.D. right at the moment. 

Man, I Can Fight, Club.

I was in JC Penny's trying on Docker's. Some prissy model kept giving me the eye.
What?! 
He just stared at me silently. Disapprovingly. Haughtily.
Dude, if you don't stop staring at me, I am going to pop you right in your vacant, stupid, too good looking, face.
Unfazed, he continued to watch me.
If you're looking for a date, I don't swing that way.
Silent glare.
Am I not good enough to shop in your store, is that it?
Unbroken eye contact. This jerk is looking down on me.
OK. That's it pretty boy. You asked for it. 
I stalk over and square up on him. He continues to mad dog me. I reach back as far as I can, to deliver a haymaker. He's a brave one, I'll give him that, 'cause he doesn't even flinch as I hurl all my weight behind one heavy fist.
I catch him right in on a chiseled cheek bone with a rewarding THONK!
His head snaps to the side looking off in an impossible angle, but he doesn't even whimper.
You brave magnificent bastard.
The store manager shouts at me so I have to run out of the store, but my life's mission is now clear. These stoic denizens of the retail world, demand an underground fight club.

Alright, first rule of the fight club is nobody talks about the fight club. Got it? No talking. Ever.
What was that? Did you say something? No? Good. Let's get to it.
Alright, Nike and Adidas, I'll fight you both at the same time. Nobody else jump in, got it? Stay out of it Polo Golf. Yes, I see you Ms. Lululemon, I'll be fine. Maybe later we can go strike a pose, if you know what I mean.
HEY YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THOSE MANNEQUINS? I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME BACK IN HERE?!
Oh crap, the security guard. Damnit, Active Wear, you were supposed to warn us if you saw him. EVERYBODY RUN! What's wrong with you guys? RUN! 

Trip To Mars.

Congratulations are definitely in order for my latest accomplishment. I just received a letter from NASA informing me that I have been accepted for their upcoming mission to Mars. Apparently I will be on the maiden voyage that will seek to establish human life on another planet. I will travel seven months in a one man spacecraft and then land on Mars, in what I am told, is a revolutionary method that NASA scientists are almost positive will allow me to survive.

   Oddly enough, I don't really have any responsibilities once I get there, which is good because I don't really have any skills. I would've thought you would have to be an engineer or a scientist to be selected, but I guess not. I offered to take soil samples and perform experiments, but they told me not to touch anything. I'm just supposed to hang out. I guess they'll probably send me supplies or something.

   I'm told that I shouldn't expect immediate retrieval, or more accurately, don't count on ever leaving. The really weird thing is, I didn't even apply. When I questioned NASA about how my name got on the list, I was told that my wife, children, parents, boss, pastor, kindergarden teacher, cousins, grocery store clerks, former Marine Corps buddies, and… well basically everyone I've ever met, signed a petition to send me, on what kinda looks like a one way trip to Mars. It must be because I'm so awesome.