Filed under 'getting old.'

I puchased a paper shredder last weekend. Spending $25 buckaroos (I got a model that has a collapsable waste basket for easy storage - and it can shred up to 8 pages at a time) on a shredder. How adult. Why did I feel the need to spend $25 on a shredder? Because I worry. I worry about goofy shit. Identity theft is the boogeyman in this worry story. I purchased a paper shredder because the media has convinced me that there are hundreds of people out there ready to rifle thru my garbage (be forewarned there may be a shitty diaper or two in said garbage) in order to obtain my social security number and or other valuable and confidential info. I'm not sure who I am in the bigger picture, and if that isn't bad enough, someone may be out in the alley going through my garbage trying to steal my identity. POINT PLEASE. The act of buying a paper shredder isn't the 'old' indicator in this story. No. Paper shredder is a sensible purchase, being cautious, blah blah blah. The thing that screams OLD is that I was excited about buying the paper shredder. In fact, the first thing I did when I came home with this purchase was to hook it up and to start shredding confidential medical records that have amassed the past two years (they have my social security number on them.)

To quote a favorite songs...
But now I'm old, hell I'm well past twent-five -
And I can't seem to fall in love no matter how I try.

I've actually managed to fall in love with a nice lady who puts up with the above goofiness. Everyone think a nice thought and beam it esp style to my lovely bride, Carter.

Until next I blog...
Bye.