I feel like people become their true selves on the weekend—we tend to do things we don’t have the courage or time to do during the week. Some people sleep in. Others watch a whole lot of television.

Me?

I don’t wear deoderant.

I don’t shave.

And I eat too much.

Meet the true me: stinky, scruffy, and stout.

I get all sorts of crazy spam comments on this blog—discount flights to meet Korean porn stars, money order pharmaceuticals for reducing blood pressure, clothing insurance plans, reptile friendly hotels. Oh, and then there’s the “Rich 16-Year-Old’s New Millionaire System.”

Most the time the spam comments are just URLs or complete gibberish. But every now and then the spammers fake like a real person to attract clicks.

A pharmacy tech spammer recently left this comment on “because knowing (or not knowing) the afterlife is half the battle:”

Keep posting stuff like this i really like it

Thanks spam-person. I will.

The spam-manager of a dating forum posted the following in response to “because knowing you’ve reached your last sliver of soap is half the battle:”

A metaphor is like a simile.

Umm. Not really.

Another pharmaceutical spammer had this to say:

Genial fill someone in on and this post helped me alot in my college assignement. Say thank you you for your information.

You should probably just quit college now. Save your parents some money.

And, in response to “because knowing that you’ve breathed mariah carey’s air (even though you might fail the bar) is half the battle,” an online gambling spammer commented:

You lost me, buddy. I mean, I suppose I get what youre saying. I get where youre coming from. But you just seem to have forgotten that there are people out there who can see this issue for what it really is and may not agree with you. You seem to alienate a whole bunch of people who might have been fans of your blog.

It was a very divisive post. Didn’t mean to offend.

I know spammers are just looking for happy-clickers, but come on! At least read the post and come up with something relevant to say. Maybe then I’ll consider clicking on your link for web-order cigarettes.

Another Shark Week has come to a close.

Loved.

Every.

Minute.

Today, as I sat at church, I noticed my neck felt sore. I thought maybe I slept on it weird, but then someone started talking about Proposition 8 and I realized that the soreness resulted from this weird clenching I do with my shoulders when I’m dealing with tense situations. A weird clenching that exhausted my neck muscles during last night’s viewing of “Day of the Shark III.”

Earlier in the week, I caught “Shark Attack Survival Guide.” Does the Discovery Channel think they’re inspiring confidence in people?

Not that I felt otherwise before, but after watching the episode I realized there’s no way that I’m surviving a shark attack. Too much to think about—grabbing the dorsal fin rather than the tail, getting into a defensive position near the hull of a boat or underwater structure, using an empty water bottle as makeshift goggles, making weapons out of coral or fishing poles. Kinda a lot to handle. I’d rather just panic and die.

I mean, I couldn’t even survive watching a shark attack on television without having to take pain killers. I know there’s no way I’d get out of participating in a shark attack with anything less than a oneway ticket to the afterlife.

Did you know that because the body structure of a shark is mostly made of cartilage, a shark could never survive out of water because its organs would be crushed?

Wimps.

I save turtles.

The first time I pulled up on a turtle crossing the road, I thought that someone’s pet had escaped its pen. But that was during my first week living in Florida, and I had yet to realize that turtles are to the roads of the sweltering south what deer are to the of the highways of the wild west: roadkill.

Have you ever seen a turtle that’s been run over? It’s as disgusting as you’d imagine. And twice as sad. Jumping out of the car to prevent turtle pancakes just feels like the right thing to do.

I heard a story about an old man who tossed starfish back into the ocean in the morning so the starfish wouldn’t die from exposure once the sun came up. Some teenager (or business man?) (or news reporter?) scoffed at the old man’s efforts and commented, “There are miles and miles of beaches, with starfish all along the way! You can’t possibly make a difference!”

The old man replied, tossing another starfish into the ocean, “Made a difference to that one.”

Uh, STARFISH DON’T CARE!

And neither do turtles. In fact, the turtles seem more annoyed than appreciative, which, in turn, annoys me. The turtles flail their reptilian limbs. The bold ones try to bite. Some will even hiss.

I can’t help it though—I see a turtle in the road and instinctively turn on my hazards. The amount of traffic is no concern. The other cars can honk all they want. I’m saving a turtle.

To the dozen or so turtles I’ve saved out there: it might not have mattered to you, but it mattered to me. I know that sometimes you’ve just got to do what feels right, regardless of whether other people, turtles, or starfish give a hoot.

I don’t know what it is about skulls and crossbones that I love so much. I just love ‘em. One year my friends made me an amazing birthday cupcake:

Perhaps it’s a fixation somewhat similar to Hamlet’s—a fixation on the inevitability of death, and the associated truths and spiritual insights captured by consideration of life beyond.

Or maybe it’s because skulls and crossbones are wicked awesome.

Seriously. If I were to ever get a tattoo on, say, my right shoulder blade or left forearm, the tattoo would either be my family coat of arms or a skull and crossbones. Or maybe the Olympic rings (depending how things go for me in 2012).

Until I get the gumption for a tattoo, I’ll just enjoy my new glassware.