I have had some coffee, and I am going to elaborate on things in a more detailed way. However, I am not going to do so in language that will befit High Tea at the gardens or the kindergarten class. This is the inner working of my brain after all, and there is nothing in there that is not violent, loud and very, very angry. So, if nothing else, it should be an enjoyable read with vulgarities and violence peppered about like it was steak au poivre at some snooty fucking steak house in a snooty part of town where people look down at you, and your skin color is a thing they pay attention to more than your money.

You remember the paper airplanes, right? Manic and everywhere, millions of them?

See, they are always there, they are just not still whizzing the fuck around threatening to take me away to some weird thought train where I wonder how my family says it is related to Daniel Boone and lived in Ireland the last few hundred years. They are always there, settled on the runways, parked in the hangars, but most of them are nose down in the dirt or completely inverted and ready to launch straight up into the anarchist maelstrom at any given second if I am not either careful, or if I am too cautious and don’t get everything up in the air once in a while.

So, I watched a video in which the husband of the couple had massive health issues, including multiple heart attacks and dying for a bit before they got things under control. Now, seeing as he was telling the story, he doesn’t appear to be suffering from apparent long-term memory or cognitive issues, but that is beside the point anyway. At the end of the video, wrapping it all up and trying very hard, and failing, not to cry, he simply said he would have hated it if he had not accomplished the things he wanted to, or gone to the places he wanted to go to, or to love his beautiful wife they way she deserved to be loved.

Click.

When I lost Naomi, the very same day, I knew that I had forever lost the chance to do a nearly infinite series of things because I couldn’t, and in some cases wouldn’t, do them without her. Trips and adventure that would only make sense if you knew the two of us almost entirely. As the years have moved on, my brain has made peace with this in its way and made sure that those plans are, if possible, ready to be retrofitted and I can share in them with someone else AND in the spirit of how Naomi and I would do it.

I am not sitting here asking for your fucking pity or a click because I has a sad. I am saying all of this because you need to do the things. Live your lives. Make the jumps into the fucking unknown.

Here I am, almost forty years old, three kids, single dad, all of the most stereotypical lonely middle age shit you can think of and all I want to do is tell you that I want you to go and fuck and play and party and laugh and drink. I want you to make bad decisions and, yes, get hurt by the wrong people because that is what living is all about is learning and evolving from what we were into what we are going into next.

I have been married, divorced, and widowed. I have been a dad in all the ways, including the tragic ones that tighten my chest. You know I have snorted flour sacks worth of drugs, gone to prison, done violence and received it. You would think that is my life, right? No, I am not anywhere near done telling my story, living my story, BEING my motherfucking story.

Books to write, videos to make, podcasts to be in, laughs to be had, babies to snuggle, friends to hug, people to fuck, many breaths to take twixt here and the Darkness that Swallows All Things. I am not done. I am going to take Dylan’s advice and remember that “Old age should burn and rave at close of day.”

Where does writing a piss-ant little blog come into all of this? Something that I will inevitably delete and start later as an “improved” version?

IT IS THE CHRONICLE.

My life will always be an open book and where better to but the pages of a free book that a place where the world can look upon it and gasp at its joyous wonder or incredulous idiocy?

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