RE: Loneliness and the sober line cook

“Now the thing that I call living is just being satisfied
With knowing I got no one left to blame”

Gordon Lightfoot, Carefree Highway (song 1974)

I knew going into becoming sober I would have to keep myself busy It’s not that I don’t do anything I do quite a lot of things, go to work mostly, ride my bike, help my wife and her mother with some of the landscaping projects around the house, play with my daughter when I have a day off. I write, or at least make an honest attempt at it.

The problem is that’s all it ever seems to be, just keeping busy. I have not had a drink in over a year and a half, and one question still persists. When do I start enjoying life again?

Don’t get me wrong the last year or so has had its moments. There has been however this overwhelming feeling of emptiness around me. I have been living in isolation for that time, what remains of my previous lifestyle, the one thing that I haven’t found a viable way out of, is my job. To make that work I have to put up with crazy schedules, always working weekends, and putting in long hours at night.  This leaves little in the way of time to schedule socializing during the day. Most cooks and other restaurant personnel take care of their need to blow off steam by frequenting bars, and night clubs, and house parties.

For a few reasons this isn’t a good option for me.

It’s not that I don’t trust myself as far as staying sober goes, I feel I have moved past that for the most part; of course I see no reason to test this on a regular basis.  No, at this point the problem seems to be that I find drunk people terribly annoying now that I am sober. To voluntarily surround myself with them more than necessary, well that seems like a good way to make my relationships with my coworkers a bit awkward.

This leaves me largely alone in a house full of sleeping people most nights. Fiddling around on the internet;  feigning interest at the comings and goings of antisocial networks and streaming bad television shows. Anything to occupy the time while wrestling with erratic sleep patterns and a short attention span.

And it all begs the question, what do sober people do for fun?

Well enough of that. I apologize for missing my regular publish time this week. I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts the past few days.

Hope you all had a happy Monday.

Around the Garden

Darkness and moonlight are our time. Eyes wide, I see you trembling in the garden.

You know I am here, you are excited.

I worry you, don’t I.

A smile.

A quick step.

We have our dance and then a kiss.

I leave you a gift, she will like you.

Photo courtesy of  my cat.

Photo courtesy of my cat.

This story inspired by a Weekly Challenge, and my cat.

RE: How big a deal is 500 anyway?



I don’t have any commentary on this, I’ve just been very sick recently and could use a good laugh. Besides I really love that scene, and I will say I think that My Blue Heaven is a hilarious movie with a great cast. The fact that it is not on Netflix instant play is a constant source of mild disappointment to me.

Another piece of good news…

Over the weekend this blog reached five hundred followers, not bad for just over five months of erratic writing attempts. Five hundred, that’s a big number (or is it? I never really thought about it before) and, come to think on it I can’t be sure I’ve ever been associated with that many people in my life, at least not that I am consciously aware of. It almost makes one wonder about the nature of human relations and how we’re all somehow connected, perhaps maybe even wax philosophic about the possibilities of a collective unconscious and speak about how we are all just really one perfect being.

Fortunately I am not one to waste my time on that type of bollocks.

Instead I’ll take the opportunity to once again thank anyone and everyone who has ever read, liked or followed me or my works. I thought I might take a few moments to highlight a few of my posts I am most proud of.

Fortunately I am not that type of self aggrandizing ass.

I am the type of self aggrandizing ass that will ask you to do it. I can not help but wonder how it is my readers have come across this blog. So, if you don’t mind, I would appreciate if you let me know what was it that got you reading? Are you a regular reader? What type of writing interests you?

I’ve mentioned before that self expression requires an audience, and I would like to get to know that audience a bit better.

Besides looking at analytics is less interesting than hearing from real people.

My plans from here is to push myself to publish more content on a regular basis, so I might be trying to write about a few new topics and stretching my style a bit, I look forward to your input .

Happy Monday.

Interdepartmental Meeting


Zoos, thought Janice, are testament to the fortitude of  human will. It is no small feat of courage to spend the day watching these magnificent beasts mope around the far corners of their little enclosures, trying to ignore all the noisy assholes with cameras, and not finish the afternoon by going home and hanging yourself.

The truly maddening part was ridding on the little tram around its circuit of reproduced continents and listening to  the prerecorded tour guide drone on about all the good research and breeding programs that the facility was involved in. Another one of mankind’s attempt to put its thumbprint on the world. Part of a long series of pompous attempts at controlling nature, this time by trying to save it.

The little mock safari train rounded the final bend to the back-end of the zoo and came to a halt at the cute little rundown station right in between Asia and Australia. Just past the Komodo dragons was the Pagoda Cafe, a small plaza surrounded by an ornamental garden and complete with a large pond. Crossing the bridge she took a moment to admire the gold jumbo koi before scanning the cafe for her meeting. She gave an annoyed little sighed when she spotted him.

“I thought you’d be kidding about the pink carnation,” she said approaching the man in the white linen suit, “you look like a walking cliché.”

“I’m sitting if you hadn’t noticed, and the good thing about clichés are they’re obvious sweetie. The obvious tends to go unnoticed. I can I buy you a drink? I’m afraid the strongest thing they got here is Gatorade, but I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“I’ll be fine thank you,” Janice said taking a seat. “Please tell me why we are meeting in this god awful place.”

“You want god awful you should go to the Africa exhibit when they feed the White-backed vultures,” the old man smiled, “talk about a stench.” He took a sip from his drink and looked around casually. “Let’s just talk about our little problem. I know this isn’t your preferred venue for our little interdepartmental meeting, but this is the one place that I know our mutual friend is not”

“Any word on him?”

“Nothing yet, but he ain’t got too many places to go. So tell me Doc, what do you think happened?”

A scowl briefly ran across her face. “I am not a physician,” she snapped, “so please don’t address me as one. What I do requires more skill than those glorified barbers.”

“I’ve had a long look at your dossier, I picked you for this job myself, and I know damned well what you are. Doctor you ain’t but, there are several names for what you do as a matter of fact, and lady most of them ain’t pleasant. But that isn’t what concerns me right now. What I got on my mind is that I got an asset runnin’ loose with his memories all scrambled. You were brought on to keep that from happening, you pretty much screwed that up. Now, I’m not pissed about that,” he leaned back in his chair, “it’s a temporary setback, we’ll fix it. What I want right now is for you to tell me, in your professional opinion, how long you think we got before he gets his old brain back?”

“Untreated? I estimate a week at best,” but we’re probably looking at closer to four days.” She softened he tone but still couldn’t hide the insulted look on her face. “He’s developed some tolerance to the serums, also he was under a great deal of mental strain. I recommended a longer series of treatments but, that was obviously disregarded.”

“Your objections were noted but I don’t control of the timing on this one, there’s outside influences at work. Can you mix up a cocktail,” he asked, “that will bring his head back to where we need it?”

Janice winced at the comparison of her art to that of a bartenders “I was already planning on upping the dosage, on your suggestion. That and a few days of rest and further treatment should repair the situation. I will need some time and a few samples from our subject to create a more permanent solution.”

“Well, we can’t have him running around remembering things, that would be inconvenient as all hell. Probably get him killed to boot.” There was a ringing from under the table and the old man pulled up a large shoulder bag and dug through it for a moment. He produced an antiquated cellphone from its depths and stared at it for a moment. “Excuse me Janice,” said Mr. Davis, flipping it open “I have to take this.”

Janice nodded, pulled out her own phone and toyed with it patiently while he talked.

“Yeah? What’s that? Good, good, just take care of it, but be careful I don’t want anyone hurt, and I don’t want you seen doing it either. She’s with me now, we’re on our way.” He shut the phone and dropped it casually back into his bag.

“Good news?” she asked looking up.

“They located our boy. He used the credit card I gave him to check into a motel about two hours ago. He’s still there sleeping off his little fit. One of my other associates is going to scoop Jerry up and bring him back to his apartment sedated,” he said getting to his feet. “Get your stuff and meet me there in an hour, you can do that right.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Davis was already heading across the little carved bridge. She watched him go as he lazily plucked the carnation from his lapel and dropped  into the koi pond. Jerry was right, she thought, his boss  is kind of a jerk.

RE: The Trouble With People

“Some things may change. People, however… People stay the same.”

Mr. Wednesday

From the novel American Gods, by Neil Gaiman (2001)

As I travel through my days I have, as of late, come to expect considerably less of most people. This ha little to do with the fact that they are short-sighted, avaricious, self-centered, petty and spiteful, which by and large most of them are. Instead given an examination of my life and what I’ve wound up doing with it I am faced with the simple fact that humans are just by nature unreliable.

People are frail, and weak, and vulnerable, and riddled with faults. They have problems, and goals, outside influences and worries of their own. Generally when they disappoint you, or make you angry it ends up because they are doing what they want, what is best for them and not what you want from them. Even though most of the things they do are deliberate, chances are they aren’t doing it just to piss you off.

Harder still, is acknowledging the fact that you too are unreliable. You are just as flawed as the next guy.

It’s really easy to lose sight of that some days.


Happy Monday

It’s Kind of a Long Story

I wasn’t an avid reader in my youth. Don’t get me wrong, I liked to read books, I just wouldn’t consider myself widely read. What got me telling stories was sitting around kitchen tables playing Dungeons and Dragons.

I started off as a bit player. The older kids had a regular game and one of them couldn’t show up. I was just the annoying little dweeb that wouldn’t go home, and some how I wound up spending the rest of the day fumbling around with a half-elven magic user and bugging the crap out of the rest of the group as they tried to explain the rules. By the end of that first session I don’t think I had a handle on what I was doing, but I knew there was something there I wanted more of. I loved being given the opportunity to be part of the adventure. After a few more tries I made my first ham-handed attempt at running the game. My first story had little in the way of plot but there was a dungeon and there was a dragon, the heroes prevailed and so I guess three out of four wasn’t bad for a preteen with a fist full of dice.

It all sort of ballooned from there. I spent the larger portion of my formative years geeking out with what ever game could be found. Fantasy, western, spy thriller, science fiction, super heroes; if you can name a genre I have been an active participant in a story of that fashion. My compatriots and I got to spend any number of afternoons describing as a group the various adventures of a universe full of protagonists.

My earliest writings that I found satisfying were in a journal that I kept as a way to pass the time while I was homeless and hitchhiked my way from state to state. It was a way to keep sane, my own little piece of mental real estate. It wasn’t my first diary, but it was the first where feel I was writing creatively. Not necessarily fiction, but lets just say that my life as a vagabond looked a lot more interesting on paper.

It was also the first journal I let anyone else read.

It’s a big step to let the general public into your head space. Let them read the things you think about in the dead of night, in the middle of the woods, with no one around but the crickets chirping at you. In a way that journal was the first step towards blogging.

I was dedicated to that journal, I wrote in it everyday (except for the time it went to Jamaica and back without me) until the swampy environs of Florida caused it to molder and rot apart. It’s so hard to have nice things when you’re a vagrant.

There is only so much rough living a body can take, so it does become useful to reenter society.  The upside of networking from scratch to obtain lodgings and a source of income is very time-consuming, and my relationship with writing became a little more erratic while I reestablished myself. All the socializing this required did allow me to bring together a rag-tag group of people interested in adventure games. This kept the stories flowing, gave me a chance to develop some skills, work on technique. A well thought out game is some times a lot of paperwork, a lot of writing.

My character sketches were becoming more like narratives, my plot lines more elaborate I was getting good at it. I started penning out a story, well technically typing but you get the idea. It was a nice piece of fantasy fiction. It was going well I thought. Somewhere along the way I became a drunk. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure it was a preexisting condition.

I got distracted. I forgot to write one day, then I forgot another day. Sometimes I would forget for weeks at a time. Then came a day when, in a fit of inebriated shame and depression I deleted the contents of my hard drive. A few years of drinking later and I can’t say I remember many of the details of the story.

Sobriety isn’t a second chance. Sobriety does make second chances possible, that’s what I have to believe anyway. At any rate if you want something you have to pursue it. I decided some years ago that I would like to be a writer. I failed in this endeavor the first time around. Now I’m ready to try again, and that’s not the only thing I’m taking a second shot at.

I couldn’t say if I aspire to write for a living. For now that point is moot, we’re not there yet. I am at best and out of practice amateur, getting some practice in, needing to keep these ideas from boiling over in his head. At worst I am grasping at straws, just searching for focus, a way to replace the booze. Either way I suppose it’s either try writing or go crazy.

For now I settle for writing, I’ll always have crazy to fall back on.

This essay  inspired by a  Weekly Challenge.

RE: Leaving It All Behind

“You know, walk the earth, meet people… get into adventures. Like Caine from Kung Fu.”

Jules Winnfield, Pulp Fiction (1994)

It was some years ago that, despite my meager attempts to get a hold of my life, I found myself living on the streets for the second time. It had been a rough couple of years that included losing my parents, starting a business to watch it fail due to my own ineptitude and lack of experience, self-inflicted relationship problems, a string of meaningless and less than satisfying attempts at remaining employed. Needless to say I was feeling more than a bit under confident and just a little worthless. It certainly seemed that  I had little left to lose, and not much was on the horizon as far as future prospects.

It was in this state of emotional desperation I decided that perhaps the life of the aimless wanderer might be a good career option.

With little more than the clothes on my back, my journal, a purse full of random odds and ends, and the company of strangers I set off on a road trip to nowhere. It seemed like the thing to do.

It was an action packed trip full of easy to find good times, decent drugs,  mediocre people, and crappy music festivals. Most of these things I don’t recall with much clarity, for precisely what that were. I am left however with the shape of them in my mind so I am largely able to embellish the details if called upon to do so. No really, I can totally make it sound like a great adventure provided I basically lie about it.

What I remember distinctly about this point of my life is how miserable I was and how much I missed the friends and what was left of the life that I had left behind. I traveled across half the country, including Ohio twice. I traveled through downtown Cleveland in the middle of the night, hiked fourty miles in a day, spent half of a very cold autumn camping in a forest far from familiar faces. The thing that I wanted to leave behind the most in all of my depression and confusion was myself. 

No matter where you go there you are, or so the saying goes.

It took a lot of time to get my head out of my ass and screwed back on straight. I’m glad I did.

The other thing I missed was flush toilets. Seriously, I am not cut out for the rugged life.

Happy Monday

Eyes and the Mirror


He stared through the smoke and noise at the blurred reflection in the mirror on the wall, the short distance between where he sat and where he looked seemed to shrink and grow as he thought, as he tried to remember. There was something in that gap, there had to be something.


He was working in the Public Defender’s office, as an investigator. There were only a few options for someone with a C.J. degree that had decided at the last-minute that being a cop wasn’t for him. Instead of putting the bad guys in jail, something that didn’t seem to work anyway, he decided to help keep innocent people out of it. That didn’t really seem work out all that well either. He split most of his work day reviewing files, looking for evidence that wasn’t there or had been obviously mishandled, and interviewing witnesses that couldn’t tell him much or had obviously been coerced; any of them with solid information either wound up changing their stories or sometimes addresses. He was starting to think the whole thing was rigged to begin with. He just hadn’t figured out by who.

“Figure that one out and you’ll be rich, or probably just dead,” someone had once said. Who was it that told him? When?

It was another case. Another file, just like the all the others. A piece of bad evidence that had led him out here to talk to yet another of those squirrely witnesses. Out here in the cold and damp of a stormy night. Out here to the slums where the immigrants were pigeon holed in crappy bug infested apartments, located on crappy crime ridden streets; maybe after a generations or two of penance for the sin of not being from around here they’d be allowed to live somewhere where the smell could be described without resorting to the word malevolent. He hated being down here, especially at night.

Tonight, the moon was a cartoonish sliver hanging in the sky. A jagged cut just barely visible through the billowing smoke plumes of the entirely too close, yet legally distant industrial park. He was never sure what they made there, but they were at it twenty-four seven; from the look of the surrounding neighborhood he thought, maybe they manufactured more immigrants. The people who braved the rain skulked along the poorly lit streets nearly invisible as he drove up towards what he assumed would turn out to be some god forsaken sweatshop.

When he arrived he showed his credentials and was let through the gate by a guard with a cheap uniform and a bad accent. He he found where was told to park, got out of his car opened his umbrella against the rain and walked across the lot towards building four. This was where the witness should be on break, according to the phone conversation they had a few hours ago. It didn’t matter much to him if she showed or not, he wasn’t paid for overtime and the sooner he got this over with the sooner he could get home where it was warm.

He reached the building and rummaged through his pockets. He had written the witnesses name down in his notebook, which he managed to leave in the car. He stood there, staring at the door, debating whether to go back for it when something struck him.

A searing pain in his arm followed by another in his chest. It was a heart attack, had to be. He looked there wasn’t any blood on him. He gasped for air, his lungs filled with fire, he fell to his knees. He clawed at the air, at the two green lights. The lights peered at him. A face, he couldn’t quite make out. Some thing sharp and wicked reached out and touched his forehead. He could barely make out his own face in a window contorted with pain. Lights flashed, his vision blurred. Something exploded.


“Jerry… hello… Jerry…” Janice waved her hands in his face, the motion breaking the mirrors spell.

Jerry looked at her, up and down in the neon light several times. His vision began to clear but his head was throbbing, the incessant beat of the music in the club wasn’t helping much. It had all started with that case, that night at the industrial park. What industrial park? Where was it? What case? What city had that been? When had that been? The more he thought about it the harder it was to remember.

Janice straightened her short skirt and took up the stool next to him at the bar. “You were lost in there for a minute there,” she motioned at the mirror across from them, “you see what you were looking for, babe?”

“How long have we known each other Jan?” He stirred his martini, the swizzle had three olives on it, he always got them with extra olives when he was meeting up with Janice. He pinched the bridge of his nose his head, slowly started to feel normal.

“Seems like forever to me,” she said teasing her hair in the mirror.

“Yeah, forever, seem about right. Seems exactly right. We’ve known each other for as long as I can remember, been chasing each other around bars and bedrooms the whole time.” Jerry closed his eyes in a long blink and ran his hand through his hair. “Funny thing is, I can’t remember meeting you Jan.”

“What are you talking about Jerry?” She reached over and took the olive laden spear from his hand and ispected professionally. “That’s just silly, you’re pulling my leg.”

“I don’t see it. I can picture a time when I didn’t know you, and then there’s now when I know you. What I can’t see is the moment when that changed. I can’t picture finding out your name, or introducing myself. That’s not all that’s missing either.”

She carefully plucked the olives from the swizzle, and placed one carefully in her mouth. She chewed it thoughtfully for a moment and then swallowed. “I think you’ve been working too hard, and you and I need to go somewhere quiet where you can relax.”

Jerry stared at his drink as she plopped the remaining olives back into it. “Yeah, working too hard. You know I don’t remember telling you what it is I do for a living.”

“Well,” she said standing up, “I’m going to powder my nose. You go ahead and finish your drink and then we can go back to your place and you can tell me about yourself all over again.” She  brushed his shoulder with her hand and walked off towards the lady’s room.

Jerry watched her go and smiled. He might be losing his mind but at least she’d stand by him, at least for tonight. He turned toward his drink and there, floating in it were the olives. Staring at him like eyes, almost glowing in the bar’s neons.


Janice adjusted her make up in the mirror, and patted her hair to make sure it was still all in its proper place. She was worried about Jerry; she’d seen him in a bad state before, but never like this. No matter, she’d get him alone and she was sure she’d be able to make him feel right as rain by morning.

She winked at her reflection, dropped her lipstick into her purse and took a deep breath. Putting on a new smile, Janice sauntered back out towards the bar.

She got there in time to see the bartender cleaning up a broken martini glass, nearby two olives sat in a pool of liquor. She ran outside and looked up and down the empty street. Jerry was nowhere to be seen.

She reached into her purse, slowly took out her phone, and dialed.

“We may have a small problem,” she said before the person on the other end said hello. “We should meet and discuss it in person.”


It’s Called a Purse!

A lot of men, and a small number of women, I know get a bit hung up if you define any part of there style or accessories with what is perceived as a feminine term. In fact if you use the word accesory towards any of some men’s possesions your already hitting a sore spot. Specifically now I want to discuss something I feel very strongly about.

I don’t care who you are or how masculine your image is. If you have a bag slung on your shoulder it’s a purse. It could be made from the skin of an alligator you slew with nothing but your bare hands and a fountain pen, and have six-inch steel spikes protruding from it. It’s a freaking purse. Nothing to be ashamed of, lots of men carry purses these days, not many of them are willing to admit that their, shoulder bag/ briefcase/ satchel/ messenger bag/ rucksack/ whatever they want to call it, is in fact a purse, but they’re carrying one.

It’s fine, there is no judgement here. Acknowledging your love of purses is the first step.

I have a purse. I have pretty much owned at least one purse at any given time for the past, oh I don’t know, twenty-five years or so. I have even, once, sewn my own purse together out of an old pair of corduroy pants. Quite often I have found myself to be the owner of multiple purses at once, various shapes, sizes and colors of purses, though usually I opt for something roomy, with lots of compartments for organizing my gear. As a matter of preference I usually opt for a dark, solid colored purse. black is almost always a good choice, it matches nearly everything and most stains aren’t very noticeable.

Speaking of stains, I like purses that are easy to keep clean. Canvas or nylon are always good for that and are quite durable to boot. I’ve owned a few leather purses in my day and once they get stained, or worse torn or punctured, you might as well just throw them out at that point. Now vinyl, vinyl is a bit better than leather. Same sexy feeling to the word, nice glossy look, much easier to clean; vinyl is still a pain in the ass to mend, but at least you know nothing had to be slaughtered for its manufacture when it finally comes time to give it the old heave-ho. For what it’s worth I think canvas is the best way to go. Natural fiber, durable, easy to clean, easy to dye so it is available in a wide variety of colors, very easy to waterproof.

Yes canvas makes for the best purses, ready for whatever adventures your life leads you on.

I think one of the primary benefits of accepting purse ownership is it opens up the possibilities of shopping for purses. It is a fun activity and can give you something to do without actually spending any money. After all it’s free as long as your just looking, right? Thrift stores are the best places to look for good purses. The best ones are almost always buried  under a pile of bags, and assorted pieces of luggage somewhere between the shoes and the random pieces of sporting goods.

Now gentlemen, lean in for this one…

This gives you something to do when your wife, and/ or girlfriend takes you out shopping with them but, they don’t want you following them around the store with a bored expression on your face. Having something to occupy yourself while they browse for a new top or try on some jeans, will do far more to endear you to them than any amount of mindless opinions about which color dress you like better; chances are they’re just asking so you don’t feel like they are ignoring you.

I can hardly think of a better way to carry the volume of equipment that one might need on any given day. Quite frankly they don’t make pants big enough for all of the things we tote around with us these days. Fish around in there what do you find? Wallet… keys… pens, pencils, notepad. phone, sunglasses checkbook; heaven for bid perhaps some printed reading material? What’s the difference, what does it take to make it a purse? Do you need to add lipstick, a compact, and a brush before you draw the distinction?

There is no shame in calling your purse a purse. That’s what it is, and no amount of semantics is going to change that fact. So, just be proud, and be confident in who you are.

Walk softly and carry a big purse.

This bit of silliness was inspired by a Weekly Challenge.

RE: Living With Your Decisions

“You can’t say ‘if this didn’t happen then that would have happened’ because you don’t know everything that might have happened. You might think something’d be good, but for all you know it could have turned out horrible. You can’t say ‘If only I’d…’ because you could be wishing for anything. The point is you’ll never know. You’ve gone past. So there’s no use thinking about it. So I don’t.”

Granny Weatherwax,

 From the novel Lords and Ladies by, Terry Pratchett (1992)

I’m not a big person on living with regret. This is not to say that I don’t have a few but I do my best not to dwell on them. Reflection is all well and good as is learning from the past, but I won’t  sit there wondering about what ifs. That way leads to damnation, sorrow, madness and most likely binge drinking.

That simply will not do.

In my personal life I am known to unabashedly speak with all honesty about my perceptions of things, I try to do it in an entertaining way. Sometimes of the time it is well received, sometimes it is mistaken for good-natured ribbing, a lot of times in my life I have come off looking like a mean-spirited, or bitter jack ass. These are the risks I take every time I open my mouth.

Once you say something or take a course of action that is it, you own that now, forever. If it wound up hurting others then you can apologize and try to make amends for it, but it’s still out there in the world. Life has no take backs or mulligans you have to keep marching forward living with yourself.

I have had quite a few bad episodes in my life. Fall, is a series of pieces that describe the aftermath of one of those episodes. It’s still a work in progress but another installment looms on the horizon1

Once, while extremely drunk2, I proposed marriage to a woman who I had only known for two weeks. She drunkenly accepted.  Two drunken fools both too stubborn to admit that what we had just agreed to was a very ill-conceived idea based on all evidence. The next day neither of us would be the one tho say it was a mistake. We lived together, engaged for two years before we really did anything about it.

In less than two weeks we will have been married for eleven years.

 Seems a unintended consequence of being that stubborn was that we spent enough time together to actually fall in love. So admittedly sometimes potentially bad decisions can work out in our favor. We have had our share of troubles but I sincerely doubt I would be as happy without her.

As I side note I chose a quote from Terry Pratchett this week because, not only is he my favorite author, his latest installment of the Discworld series is released in the U.S. on the 18th of March. I am looking forward to it becoming the first book I’ve read in its entirety since I quit drinking3

Happy Monday.

  1. I had to stop writing it for a while because it got painful to the point that I started to shut down a bit while I was writing. Thus the last entry feels a bit dull to me. 
  2. I should find it appalling at this point that most of my personal stories involve the phrase “extremely drunk” but such is life. Things have changed. 
  3. It became such a habit of mine to read while drunk that doing so sober has been a bit tougher of a challenge than expected.