I Think Not

 The knee has hobbled me once again, severely curtailing the intensity of my exercise regimen.

This worries me because I have worked so hard and lost a lot of weight - I do NOT want to pork up again (weight gain has already begun, proving once again that adjustable waistbands are an undeniably good investment for the age-challenged).

I know a guy. He works in the waste management business. His name is Vincenzo. His nickname is Vinnie knuckles.

I hired him to break my jaw but I told him I do NOT want to see it coming.

The plan is, he breaks my jaw, I get the mouth wired shut and I end up LOSING weight as I deal with the fucking knee. A liquid diet is not something I traditionally shy away from.

Extreme?

I think not.

An Alarming Imbalance

 A stew seasoned with a pinch of hope and a tablespoon of hopelessness makes for a dangerous meal indeed.

Summer So Short (Virtually Non-Existent)

 "This summer has been so short, so small. I think that like 'Alice' it ate the cake that said 'eat me', and dwindled and dwindled until it was so tiny that it ran out through the cracks under the door."

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Friendly's

The appointment with Dr. Mobility was at 9:15 last Monday morning - I didn't have to be at work until 11:30.

So before I went to meditate at the cemetery I treated myself to breakfast at Friendly's. Yeah, Friendly's.

Normally I would do Tucker's because Tucker's absolutely rocks, but I knew that if I did I wouldn't get to work until 2:30. Tucker's is very busy. So I did Friendly's.

Turned out to be a perfect decision. 

Got there at 10:00 - there was not one other human being in the place. It was like a scene from a Quentin Tarantino movie.

As I walked up there were people leaving - average age 110. Also I lied - when I walked in there was one guy in the place, but he was leaving. He was 111 and leaning on his walker. Moving very slowly, very carefully. Tiny, tentative steps. It was sobering to watch him and contemplate my future, especially considering the fucking knee.

16 booths in the joint, 6 tables, and I was completely alone. Paradise.

One waitress. I didn't catch her name but it had to be Madge or Glo or Blanche. I asked her how she was doing and she said "Oh, you know - kinda crazy - I am all alone." Are you kidding me? Did 130 people rush out the door just before I got there? But that's ok - I can cut her all kinds of slack. Everybody works hard, everybody has gripes.

She brought me coffee. I should have honored the Tarantino connection and said "Good coffee" but I missed the opportunity. I ordered a meat lovers omelet, hash browns, toast, side of sausage. Yeah, baby - I walked in determined to treat myself and I did. And I ate every fucking bite. And it was good.

Madge didn't talk much. I loved it. The ususal courtesies, those required by polite society, but no more than that. I came in alone, I was happy to be completely alone,and I did not want the moment ruined by polite chit chat.

Many thoughts crossed my mind. Much like the Scarecrow "I could think of things I never thunk before and then I'll sit and think some more." Truthfully no original thoughts invaded my brain, nor original emotions my heart.

But I did think. Maybe ponder is a better word. A little bit of this, a whole lot of that.

I want to tell you I made a couple of major decisions that will change the remaining course of my life. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Hopefully I at least laid the groundwork.

But, if not, at least I did have a great breakfast, which I got to enjoy in solitude. Madge brought the check and I tipped her 76%. No lie. It wasn't hard or impressive - it wasn't much of a check. 

And, after all, she was alone.

Whatever Else Happens

 Friday morning. Reading in a silent house. Just finished a cup of Italian roast. Patsy is stretched out between my legs, full out, complete body extension. Emmy Lou is curled up at my feet, the back of her head touching the back of Patsy's head. It is raining at a moderate clip and has been since I awoke at 6:42. Somehow the sound of the rain and the absence of sun makes the morning even more peaceful. My soul is breathing freely.

Whatever else happens today does not matter.

Ominous

 ............until there was nothing

Everyone Else

 Just watched an episode of The Bear.

Someone wrote on the whiteboard in the kitchen:

"Fuck my life to death"

That is a perfect expression of anger. I am going to adopt it.

And probably use it at work.

Brief aside: The episode I just watched had a great deal of sensitivity to it. 

Whenever I come across that - in a book, a movie, or tv - I get pre-tear tears. You know, like I feel like I could cry but I don't. Because it is not allowed.

This comes from my HUNGER for sensitivity.

I only get that from my family. And I don't spend enough time with them.

Everyone else is just wasting my time.

Essential Truth

 Anyone who does not enjoy a cocktail before going to work is just fooling themself.

Sweet Release

Started reading Dalva this morning. By Jim Harrison.

One of the books that half a page in I knew I was in a magical place - I felt it.

That happens to me a lot. Of course it does - I have a highly evolved antenna that allows me to choose authors and books that connect directly with my soul. 

And when that happens I am alone in another world - devoid of pain, anxiety, and regret.

Sweet fucking release.

Time Has Come Today

 My ultimate goal is to evolve my psyche to the point where it is a hybrid of Native American spirituality and Buddhism.

I hope I have time.

Random Reference: "Time has come today, young hearts can go their way, can't put it off another day, I don't care what others say, they say we don't listen anyway, Time has come today"

Time Has Come Today, by The Chambers Brothers

When You Are Young

My head is in a strange place this year.

Began it as the King of Positivity and Commitment.

Then my friend Nelson died in May. Unexpectedly, shockingly. A rude and eye-opening wake up call.

Yesterday I made the decision to undergo knee replacement surgery. Ultimately that is a good thing and I look forward to a positive result. But it also forces you to think about the slow deterioration of the body, which only leads to one thing.

I had time to kill after the medical appointment yesterday before reporting for the continual degradation of my soul (work). So I went to my favorite contemplation spot - the cemetery. And came across an unsettling scene.

A hearse slowly pulled in close to an open gravesite. I was about three "streets" over; I pulled up a bit to get a better view, but was in no way close or disrespectful. Interesting aside - I never hesitate to throw empty nips out the window of my car, but I never drop them on the grounds of the cemetery.

Cemetery workers were hovering in the background a discrete distance away. The funeral home employees slid the coffin out of the hearse and placed it on the metal frame that floats it above the grave. A preacher stepped up and began to pray, with only the funeral home employees in attendance and in prayer, which seeemed odd to me. Four people in total. There were five folding chairs set up with protective covers over them, but nobody else was there.

When they were done, the preacher left. One of the funeral home employees lifted the coverings off the chairs, folded them up and packed them up. They left.

The cemetery workers stepped up to do their thing. They picked up all the phony green stuff that's laid out around the gravesite and loaded it into their truck. They have a method of folding them up just like you would an American flag. It was odd to watch, given the circumstances. They lowered the coffin into the grave, then removed the metal frame, which closes up in a specific way. They loaded that into the truck.

It was all business as usual, which is severely at odds with the truth of someone's life coming to an end.

I was waiting for them to begin shovelling dirt over the coffin. I wanted to see it. For finality, I guess. But I ran out of time, much like the deceased. I had to leave for work.

It was such a lonely and desolate scene. No family, no friends. No empathy. No emotion. It is depressing enough to witness a burial, but even more so when the deceased is abandoned. Ignored, forgotten and alone.

It gave me one more thing to thing about, one more angle of perspective.

It is a lot easier to maintain a sunny disposition when you are young.

The Knee (The Fucking Knee)

Made the decision yesterday to have knee replacement surgery.

Had surgery last April to deal with a torn meniscus. It healed but was never perfect. Often stiff, cracked (like cracking your knuckles) off and on. Still, much better than it was.

Three weeks ago I was walking down the hall when the same knee blew up. Cracked loudly, instantaneous pain and bizarre discomfort. The next day I reverted to the same knee exercises I used after surgery. No results. The knee hurts and it cracks loudly and constantly. It feels alarmingly unstable and uncomfortable.

This is the second year in a row this fucking knee has derailed my commitment to exercise. I am still exercising but have had to dial it way back. As a result I have already gained back 75 of the 15 pounds I lost. If 70 years old is the new 50, then I choose to believe that obesity is the new skinny.

Saw Dr. Mobility yesterday. They took x-rays. He put them up on the screen next to the ones they took last year. I have arthritis, which he told me about last year, but it has progressed. Not pretty. In addition there is a large chunk of the miniscus that has once again broken off and is floating around in the knee.

Best bet is replacement surgery.

I don't mind, in fact I am happy to do it. Others who have gone through this tell me they are very happy with the reults. The knee had hurt for 10 years or more. If the surgery results in no pain I will be able to run my first marathon.

We went to dinner last Saturday night with Phil and Betty, friends we've known forever. The conversation turned to medical ailments, as it always does with the age-advanced. I was talking about everything that hurts. Betty made the observation that some people accumulate aches and pains and more serious ailments as they move along, while others - like Carol - get smacked in the face with serious stuff all at once.

I feel like I am slowly deteriorating at an increasing pace. Slipping into the abyss in an alarmingly subtle way. Not a comfortable thought.

But I'll focus on the positive.

If the knee becomes pain free, I plan on getting me a pogo stick to use around town as I pick up prescriptions and buy beer.

Beer could be problematic, but you cannot get stronger without challenges.

Djokovic. Alcaraz. Alcaraz. Djokovic.

Last Sunday these two guys played an epic match in the finals of the Western & Southern Open in Cincinnatio, Ohio.

Many people are calling it the most amazing best two out of three match ever played.

You didn't even know about it, did you? I don't blame you. The majors get all the attention; everything else is broadcast on the Tennis Channel, which you don't even know that you get.

It was fucking amazing.

It was 93 degrees, with a "feels like" temperature of 99 degrees. Brutal. Djokovic barely made it through the first set, which he lost 7-5. He looked like he was going to collapse. Walking uncertainly, red-faced - I thought the match was already over.

But it wasn't.

He hung on. He got better. He beat Alcaraz in a grueling contest that lasted 3 hours and 49 minutes, the longest best-of-three set final in ATP tour history. Djokovic himself said "This was one of the most exciting matches I've ever played in any tournament. It felt like a Grand Slam."

This from a man who owns 23 Grand Slam titles - a men's record.

I watched it. I made Carol watch it. She said that even with her limited knowledge of and experience with tennis, she was blown away.

Sorry you missed it.

The Difference

Professional athletes cry when they retire.

Normal people breathe a sigh of relief.

The difference?

Athletes love what they do. Normal people are content to just be alive at retirement age, hoping to get a healthy six months of freedom before the earth swallows them up.

Broken Mirrors, Broken Dreams

 "You can fool the whole world down the pathway of years,

and get pats on the back as you pass,

but your final reward will be heartaches and tears,

if you've cheated the guy in the glass."

From The Guy in the Glass by Dale Wimbrow

An Erratic Life

Ron's wife Joanne was tied to the kitchen chair, gagged and crying.

His twenty-three year old daughter Rebecca was strapped to a cheap, rusted folding chair. Gagged and crying. His eighteen year old son Robert was sitting on a barstool, hands secured behind his back, legs tied to the barstool legs, gagged and...........looking directly at Ron with burning hatred in his eyes.

Ron paced.

He didn't know what to do. He wanted to kill them all. He had a baseball bat in his hands and a gun strapped to his hip.

He wanted to kill them. They all lied. Fucking bait and switch.

Joanne tricked him. So sexy, so sweet - he had to marry her. She reeked of promise. Promise of wild abandon, promise of security, promise of a traditional loving American family. Consistency. Someone to lean on.

But she turned on him. He never understood why. He was a little erratic, but all men were erratic, weren't they? Allowed their inconsistencies and meaningless dalliances? After all, life was a bitch, goddamn it - much harder than anyone ever explains. Shitty jobs, low money, no respect. Life sucks. And all these people depending on you. Looking to you for their security.

Like Rebecca. A daughter. Ron never wanted a daughter but she stole his heart effortlessly. Until her teenage years, when she became a selfish, inconsiderate ass who not only disrespected her father but openly ridiculed him. Called him petty. Called him stupid. Called him a loser.

Ron did not deserve that.

He paced. He was trembling and sweating. Swearing loudly and talking to himself; ignoring his captives.

Robert. A son. Thank god for his son. Someone to grow up in Ron's image, to learn the lessons Ron taught, to defeat life in the way Ron never could. Except something went wrong.

He wouldn't hunt, he wouldn't fish. He hated guns. He tried sports but sucked at it. After a certain point he resented Ron, resisted Ron's approach to life and rejected it. Turned into a fucking intellectual. Wanted to become a college professor. What kind of life would that be? Fucking boring, that's what.

Ron paced quickly, the cursing got louder. Screaming at the walls, shaking his head violently, smashing his thigh with the bat. Ignoring the pain. As he had done for his whole life. Until now.

The family was afraid.

He knew he couldn't kill them. Pissed him off. Killing them would have been sweet revenge for a life turned to shit. Ron could not believe he could be so wimpy.

But he felt something for them. He assumed it was love. Hard to tell.

He could not kill them.

So he shot the dog.

Fact

My greatness is irrefutable.

Then Again..................

A couple of days ago I put my sweatpants on backwards.

It took me 15 minutes to notice it.

My Soul and Yours

 "The soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through."

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Mostly Because of The Movies

I love the desert. I have never been there and never will be there.

I have patiently explained to you that I know of this love because of the way I react to movie scenes, books, pictures, poetic descriptions - anything and everything connected with the desert.

I feel a deep longing. More than that, I feel a deep sense of peace when I view the desert. Peace.

You call me a buffoon. Or is it bassoon? Am I a buffoon or a bassoon? How's your vocabulary? What do you know about musical instruments? Actually I could be both. I could be a buffoon who plays a bassoon.

But I digress.

I recently read Fire On The Mountain. Another book by Edward Abbey. Loved it. I love this man. I shall read all of his books.

There is an afterward to the book written by Gerald Haslam, who was an author, and a professor of English at Sonoma State College.

Haslam quotes Abbey as saying "I'd always been strongly drawn by the Western landscape, mostly because of the movies." He first saw the desert Southwest from a moving freight train. He described it as "things that are free, decent, sane, clean, and true." He found his soul.

He attended the University of New Mexico, and then found part time employment as a seasonal ranger with the National Park Service. He spent a healthy chunk of a 20 year span living in the wilderness, supplementing his career as a writer with his pay as a ranger.

The only discernible difference between me and Edward Abbey was that he devoted his life to the desert while I devoted my life to whining. I am trying to clean that up. 

The point to this whole thing is that the truth can become evident from less than concrete sources. If I spent some time in the desert you'd be more inclined to give me credit for the love that I experience. Movies, pictures, books etc are no less concrete to me. My emotional response is real. Edward Abbey was initially drawn to the desert "mostly because of the movies." He knew in his heart that that was where he belonged.

There are those who tell me "If you went to Arizona you'd probably hate it." These people are fools. They believe my deeply emotional response to the desert is purely fantasy. I know it is not. I feel it.

I keep a desert scene hanging on the wall directly across from my recliner. 

It brings me great peace. 

It brings me great regret.

Come To Think Of It

Deedly dee, diddly doo..............

I am bouncing around like a blow up doll in a hurricane. Lack of focus, lack of discipline.............it's called being human. 

Let's see - I had my first "real" post-prostate cancer checkup a month ago. Anti-climactic. All signs are good - but I am still a woman. Talked to Dr. Fingerprobe about hot flashes - still getting them - I was told it could go on for another year. Thankfully dresses are cooler than pants in the summertime. Testosterone is coming back, but still a long way to go. PSA is very low, which is good.

Seems like everything in this process has gone on a lot longer than I expected. But what the hell - what's life without challenges, threats, and annoyances.

Slept in my bed Friday night for the first time since February. Figured I'd give the CPAP monster a test under battle conditions. It was a complete bust.

I have been uncomfortable in the bed for quite a while - even though we spent $250,000 on a space-age mattress a while back. Hoped that good CPAP sleep would overcome that. Nope. Back hurt, hip hurt, shoulder hurt. Very little sleep. Back to the recliner Saturday night, which I really don't mind. I am very comfortable there. Very comfortable.

No discernible improvement in sleep quality using the CPAP monster - which I have been doing coming up on a month now. I asked a friend of mine who is a CPAP devotee how long it took for him to get a good night's sleep. He said "Not long." As Scrooge's fiancee Belle said to him "Oh Ebenezer, what a safe and terrible answer." My friend's circumspect response leads me to believe it could be 2026 before I wake up refreshed.

Got an appointment in a week to see Dr. Mobility so I can get my fucking knee checked out. Again. The good doctor, not the quack who operated on me. I need answers - it is painful, unstable, annoying, and hampering my ability to play professional soccer on the U.S. Women's National Soccer team.

I am looking for another therapist. My brain is even more unstable than my knee.  I need a therapist with grit - touchy feely bounces off my psychoses like a red rubber ball. I need a doc who is willing to use his fists. I have been even more honest than usual as I shop around. Speaking of crippling self-doubt, and fear of imminent death threatening to provide a sobering coda to an essentially meaningless life.

Strangely enough I have found no takers yet.

Given all of the above, I am somehow feeling somewhat confident about finding solutions to the disasters I have orchestrated over the last 69 and 1/2 years.

Where the hell that's coming from I do not know.

I should be sitting in a bar drinking double Crown Royals with a beer back, shitting on weak and helpless patrons, laughing at vulgar jokes and singing Rolling Stones songs at the top of my lungs.

Come to think of it...................

$

The money I have is so small

It makes young Tom Thumb appear tall

I'll never be rich

Well son of a bitch

The answer of course? Alcohol.

The Grin of a Madman

Jack had the grin of a madman stretched across his face.

He was riding down Route 66 - a dream he had nurtured for his entire adult life. And he was driving a beautifully restored 1968 Mustang GT Fastback, exactly like the one Steve McQueen drove in Bullitt, right down to the color - Highland Green.

Jack could not believe his luck.

He began the trip in Chicago after hitting every iconic blues club he knew of. Like Kingston Mines on North Halsted street; Chicago's oldest continuously running blues club. He hit Buddy Guy's place too - Buddy Guy's Legends on South Wabash Avenue. He just had to breathe in that rarified air. Buddy was not around, he was touring - but Jack felt his presence, his spirit with every drink and every note. Spectacular.

His mind ran away with him as he drove. The spirit of this iconic road made Jack pensive; he thought about his life. Unspooled it in his mind, decade after decade. Some memories brought smiles, but more often than not, they dredged up pain. His life had not gone as he dreamed it would, but then nobody's does really. Life lives us more than we live life.

Jack made some memorable stops along the way to fuel his soul. Oklahoma City, Oklahoma - had himself a wail of time there. Sooner Steak. Absolutely delicious, the preparation of which is considered a delicate art form. He washed it down with a fine bottle of wine and did no more driving that night.

He thought about his wife Jaclyn. He never understood why she divorced him. She knew what she was getting right out of the gate - he was who he was, no pretense - it was as simple as that. And he never cheated on her. Never. She said she outgrew him.

Amarillo, Texas. Jack had a blast there. He always felt he could have lived in Texas - the state matched his over the top appetite for life. He took a slight detour through the Palo Duro Canyon, which absolutely blew his mind.

He thought about his kids. Barbara and Joe. I guess you could say he was estranged from them; they didn't talk much. They just kind of drifted away as adults. There was no dramatic or painful rift - just a slow separation that caused Jack more pain than he thought possible.

Jack decided to end the trip in Flagstaff, Arizona; he had no interest in going all the way through to California. Arizona was the state he really wished he had made his home in. Something about the desert. The starkness, the heat, the barren landscape that challenged you to find a way of life there. It was a test of sorts, a test of the mind and the will. Solitude of a severe nature. Solitude that Jack had always longed for.

His soul relaxed. Jack felt at one with Arizona, at home and at peace.

He checked into the hotel, cracked open a cold one from his cooler and laid his paperwork neatly across the bed. His life before him summarized in individual pieces of paper.

The repossession notice for the Mustang. Divorce papers. A notice of foreclosure on his house. A notice of severance from employment. Denial of appeal claiming unjust severance. A picture of Barbara. A picture of Joe. Both outdated.

Jack sighed and took another drag off the beer.

Pulled a gun out of the travel bag and blew his brains out.

Apparently...........

 Apparently I had a tough day yesterday.

This Is Your Life

 Today crushed me. Totally fucking destroyed me.

You have those days, right? Especially Mondays.

When you go to work and your fucking lungs collapse. Your heart bulges out in between the fingers of the tyrant who's squeezing it so violently. Blood trickles out of the corner of your mouth, your eyes bulge.

Your brain screams "What the fuck? What the fuck?"

You're so disoriented because this is not your life, not your choice, but you gotta do it, like shoving your arm into a wood chipper against your will.

You can't breathe. You can't think. You can't dream. You can't live. You can't die.

The pain consumes you, defeats you, it is so much bigger than you are.

This is your life. This is your life. The pain stops when you collapse from the torture.

But it will be back.

Ten

So here's where I am at.

When I turned fifty I recognized that the next ten years would fly by. And I would be 60. This did not please me. Then it happened. And my fucking eyes were open the whole time.

When I turned sixty I recognized that the next ten years would fly by even faster. And I would be 70. This really did not please me. In my feeble brain, 70 marked a line of demarcation. 60 wasn't old, 70 was. No matter - it's about to happen. Five months and counting. And my eyes are wide open; the ultimate nightmare.

I am afraid. I feel trapped. I feel very close to hopeless. Because the next ten years are it. No fucking chance that I'll be jumping on trampolines at the age of 80. So if I ever want to have fun, if I ever want to "succeed", if I ever want to feel good about myself - it has to happen in the next ten years. Period. After that I'll be eating applesauce, drooling, wearing a diaper, and riding one of those fucking motorized chairs up and down the stairs.

My body is already starting to fail me in a big way.

Everything hurts. Which reminds me of a t-shirt I have to buy from one of my favorite websites - the shirt says: "Everything hurts and I'm dying." I thinks it's funny, you think it's morbid - doesn't matter - it is true.

Anyway, everything hurts. Knees, back, fingers, hips. I can't run anymore. Shit, I can't even walk fast. Climbing stairs is climbing Everest. When I sit too long I am suddenly 110 years old. The first few steps I take after getting up make me look like the old man character Tim Conway played on the Carol Burnett show.

I'm stooped over taking tiny decrepit old man steps at a pace a caterpiller could outpace. And now that my knee is fucked up again I got me a bit of a limp, so I list to port.

I get out of breath easily. And I am only 7 months and 5 days into my seventieth year on this planet.You get the point. What the hell kind of shape will I be in in 2033?

I don't even want to think about it.

What's worse is the psychological aspect. Christ, man - I have been sleepwalking through someone else's life. Filled with hatred and remorse. Disbelief. But when death comes it's coming after my life. The one I never lived.

It's a tough deal. My entire life has boiled down to the next ten. If I even fucking live that long. There's been a lot of evidence swirling around me recently providing incontrovertible truth that it is all a fucking crap shoot. It could be over before I reach the end of the next sentence.

Pissed away 70 - 10 left to go. That's a losing proposition.

Apparently I did not take it all seriously enough.

Every Single Person

 Every single person I run into is a challenge. An obstacle. A threat.

And I have to find a way to deal with every single one of them.

That's a hard life.

A Mysterious State of Mind

On the night of July 31, 2023 it is obvious to me that someone dosed the CPAP machine with LSD.

I woke up feeling optimistic. It had nothing to do with sleep - I've been using CPAP monster for two weeks now and I am still fucking exhausted.

No, this had nothing to do with rest. It was a mysterious state of mind. I was defeated by July, utterly humiliated - I gave up for the last three days of the month; just fucking quit. Yet I wake up on August 1 feeling positive? And on 8/02 and again today? 

The only fly in the ointment was work. I prance into work on 8/02 and the psyche is immediately and viciously slaughtered. This job, man - so meaningless and boring beyond comprehension - it stifles me, Edith. I cannot fight back - other than to leave. Which I will.

Anyway, I cannot comprehend this positivity. It is happening outside of my levers of control. It just is. Maybe I cultivated resilience in my psyche.

In 2021 I worked on my brain with pick and axe and built up momentum and confidence and burst forth into 2022 ready to finally succeed. Then my knee failed mid-January, surgery followed, and all bets were off. Down and out. The mighty oak was felled.

Yet, once again, in 2023 I burst upon the scene locked and loaded. Exercising religiously right from the start, lost a lot of weight, feeling relatively good about myself. The knee has set me back once again - an exciting explosion of pain - but I am working on it. Making enough progress to keep me away from Dr. Mobile for now.

Earlier this year I made the comment that I am fully committed to change in 2023. I will not end the year where I started it. My life must be radically different by then. I will accept no less.

Apparently I was being truthful. My brain is working furiously to keep me on track, no matter how much poison it bathes in.

Honestly I could go back to sitting on a bar stool, consuming whiskey, listening to music and laughing my ass off. Part of me prefers that option. I enjoy it. And if things do not go well in the next five months, well, revelry could be my final lifestyle.

Or I could succeed. In some form or some fashion. Manufacture happiness and pride. Command respect. Achieve financial security.

Either way, I will not be sitting around like some fucking lump just awaiting to die.

I got better things to do.

Here's to August and sweet, mysterious inspiration.

For Christ Sake

When I woke up on July 30, it was 59 degrees.

When I woke up on July 31, it was 60 degrees.

When I woke up on August 1, it was 55 degrees. August 1.

Why would anybody choose to live in a climate like this. You'd have to be an idiot.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmm........................

July - A Reckoning

Exercised 18 times.

Gained 1 pound.