And the Hits Just Keep Coming in General

My friend Gary, one of my high school friends I have breakfast with nearly every Sunday morning. His dad is dying. Not expected to make it through the week.

He’s 94, and a Navy Vet. The Pacific shitstorm. Guadalcanal, Tarawa. The Phillipine Sea.

Arnie is a good egg. A fucking smartass who always has a hilarious comment. Built a business up from nothing. Has more hot daughters, granddaughters and great granddaughters than I can could ever count.

I know everyone dies. But Arnie is just one of those guys you think will always be.

And that is just not how the world works.

I think the weather in this part of the world this time of year makes people who hold on for a long time to just let go. Dreary and damp. We know what comes next.

I am looking forward to the roadtrip in a couple of weeks. Once I cross into Texas I am going to stop at the first steakhouse I find and order the biggest porterhouse they have.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t emotionally exhausted. Between trying to write for the two courses, and the constant drum beat of fifteen pound mallets hitting me in the head every week.

Every time I write I go into the “me” character. I become fused for a few hours. When I come out, I am often rattled. Whether it is anger or despondency or confusion. It does take me a while to come to grips that the character wasn’t me. I wish I could channel this into something that is workable.

I know. I am a dumbass. I thought this phase of life would be easier. Now can people stop fucking dying? Maybe for six months or a year?

Last updated October 02, 2019