I am a confusing being…
I know I am difficult, yet I pride myself in the simplicity that I tend to operate in.

When I was 11, we left my pops...

When I was 12, I dreamt up two plans…
1 – when the moment arrives, any child I sire will be left with no question of preference, nor would they live in a dearth of attention.
2 – when I get the words confounding my head in order, I WILL entertain the masses with what I am thinking.

To thought number 1…
I am the middle child in birth order, do your research and understand that this is a real thing.  I live in two families that are each colorstruck, and lived not light or dark enough for full inclusion on either side.  I was left to make my own way.  My baby knows not these problems.  She asks for my attention, she gets it.  She doesn't ask for my attention, she still gets it.  Suffice it to say, I take to this daddy thing seriously enough to not repeat the things that broke me growing up.

And 2…
I was never anyone’s favorite…
My twin was the thinner and more athletic, looked more like that side of the family.  I was a reader, a writer and creative spirit.  What I was into doing was “stupid,” never worth nurturing to anyone who could be bothered with even entertaining me for however long it took me to shut the fuck up.

     Are you even still reading?  Have you been reading for the last 9 year?  More importantly, have you been reading for the last 11 months?
This is important…
My mind NEVER stops.  Everything I see hear and remember is subject to use.  I understand self-deprecation.  I often START at the end of a real-life situation with “what would I have said/done?” and write from there.

Small talk irks the entire absolute FUCK out of me.
But I appreciate and absolutely need feedback.  The contrast of my need of contact and being left alone is weird.
What I want you to see is that everything I type is a piece of me.  Silliness, creativity, sadness, connoisseur-level understanding, vulnerability.  All of it.
My princess is my “out.”
She is me.  I get her and because she is me, I am sure she gets me.  We act a lot alike and her most frustrating behaviors match some of mine.  I know how much attention I did not get and at 38 see I see how age 14 might have been different.  In my dearth of a chance to get this shit right the first time through, I have ONE opportunity to fix it in my second chance with her.

     Everything you read here is me making my move on this chance.  My vulnerability, my life and my imagination.  I don’t pretend to be anything I cannot be.  Even the most fantastic story I have ever written is so out of bounds that I could be taken less than seriously.

     I think I am talented.
     No…  I KNOW I am talented.
(I might be rambling, but it is Sunday right now)

Writing is my chosen craft.  People have left my life instead of allowing this to become a directed a directed passion.
Everything, EVERYTHING I do could become committed to my creative output, and I love the “me” that this has created.
26 years after the bug hit me, I sit here and think about how writing is literally the only thing I have consistently wanted to do with my life.
Sure, I have a decent job and can mechanic a car or three, but I am always back here.

     … but I second guess myself…  I want PERFECTION every time these 108 keys meet my hands.  Last person I want to let down is me.  I pore over every sentence several times.

My love tells me she enjoys me.  As an educator and reader, I trust her take.
My mother tells me I am amazing in my practice.  Never afraid to hurt my little feelings, I KNOW she is real.
Still not enough…

The person I fear most is the fat bearded dude in my bathroom mirror every morning.  I can’t please me.
The drafted posts y’all don’t see right now speak to that.

I watch my stats…  Show me I’m not wasting my time y’all.


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