The single-best piece of email I ever received came from subscriber to and fan of this blog named Liza Jean. She sent it back in the mid-2000s when I wrote much more taudry and R-rated prose. The message read, in part:
So this is going to sound really strange — but last night I had a sexual-esque dream about you. It was the end of the world, but it was like King Kong style, just me and a hundred thousand Asians running around screaming. (Which was the only indication that it was the end of the world.) I run into this apartment building, knock on this door, you open it and are glad to see me, like we’re old pals or some shit. You sit down on a recliner and I immediately straddle you and we start making out. Then I can, um, feel your arousal … and I wake up. I’ll be honest, when I woke up, I was like, WTF??? But I had a good feeling, like it wasn’t a nightmare.
The side-splitting comedy of her “only indication” line aside, I feel compelled to request that all the ladies in the room please re-read her last line. If only Liza Jean were to tell this story at the Bowles Addition lunch table at Pikeville High School in 1988, my life would have turned out a lot different, frequency of STDs notwithstanding.
And heretofore let it be known to women near and far: When life gets you down, hope is exhausted and it seems like the end of the world, nightmares become dreams by straddling Jason Falls.
December 21, 2012 Comments Off
Good call, Mayans.
Here we sit, on Dec. 21, still waiting for your big bang. Of course, some of us came to the realization when news first broke of the Mayan Apocalypse that you were right … only you had the wrong year. The last Mayan stronghold was captured by Spain in 1697.
Alas, the world will have to trudge on, looking for some other end-of-days scenario to get lathered up about. Guess it’s high time we had another Heaven’s Gate or something. (Sans the carnage, of course.)
It’s not surprising that many of us fell victim, even if whimsically so, to Destination Thinking. It’s probably the primary reason we have stress and strife in our lives and world. Destination Thinking leaves you hollow.
For instance, let’s think about the holiday season. You get worked up, excited about Christmas (or Hanukah or whatever you celebrate), your anticipation builds then the family gets together and you have your 2-3 hours of peace before mom yells at someone for having their head in the cell phone and dad turns on the television to ignore everyone and the family fragments out to go visit other friends and it’s all over.
What now? You’ve arrived at your Destination and it not only didn’t turn out as awesome as you’d hoped (or perhaps it did), but there’s a tomorrow after.
Destination Thinking prevents us from enjoying the journey. Journey Thinking gives us a better opportunity to enjoy the present, embrace the destination, then move on with whatever comes next. Because there’s always something that comes next.
Think about your own history. You couldn’t wait to be 16. Then you couldn’t wait to graduate. Then you couldn’t wait to go to college. Then you couldn’t wait to turn 21. Then you couldn’t wait to graduate again. Then you couldn’t wait to get a job. Then you couldn’t wait to get married …
But here you are, years later and none of those Destinations seem all that important now. Yes, they bring back some fond memories, but none of them will pay your mortgage or paint the fence or pick your uncle up at the airport.
It’s the same with our health. “I’ll be so much better when I lose 10 pounds.” Then you lapse off your Destination Thinking and put the 10 pounds back on. Journey Thinking helps you transition to a new lifestyle so the 10 pounds is never an issue again.
And next week, just about everyone will fall victim to Destination Thinking. We’ll all set New Year’s Resolutions that put a milestone out there for us to reach. We’re prescribing a destination, rather than a journey. Instead of resolving to lose X pounds, why not resolve to make every day healthier? Instead of resolving to save Y dollars, why not resolve to make every day more fiscally responsible?
Change the here and now, not the months from now. Enjoy the journey.
Because then you can watch the destinations pass right on by.
December 21, 2012 Comments Off
Friday sucked. Children died. Senseless violence prevailed. And the cacophony of our ever-connected lives roared to cringe-worthy decibles. As a friend pointed out in a Facebook post, we went from a nation unified in grief to a bunch of assholes pointing fingers and laying blame in about an hour and a half.
Is this the world we want?
None of us can make sense of school shootings, particularly this one. Kindergarten kids? But as we came down from our heart-wrenching highs, learning the news, then hearing from a tearful President, the political bullshit took over. “Whose fault was it?” “Outlaw guns!” “You suck!” “Your Momma!”
Have you seen the movie Idiocracy?
Is this the world we want?
The explanations and justifications that went through my head Friday evening ranged from gun control to affirmative action and everywhere in between. We’ve become a nation of coddled, placated, slobs with excuses made for us around every corner. No one is accountable because shrinks and talk show hosts and movies want to point the finger at childhood or substances or abuse or neglect.
Guns don’t kill people — people kill people. True, but how many people would have died Friday if all the dude had was a knife? Guns kill a lot of people so fast you can’t stop it. And you still want to throw that lame-ass line around?
I’m not here to pontificate or say my thoughts on this are chapter and verse. I’m just as angry, hurt, scared and frustrated as everyone else. I don’t have answers, only questions. And the one that I keep asking is continually answered in the wrong goddamn way.
Is this the world we want?
December 15, 2012 4 Comments
You join Facebook for one of two reasons. If you’re older than 40, you join to see pictures of your kids or grandkids and stay connected to family members who condescendingly respond to your frustrations you weren’t in the loop with, “I posted it on Facebook?!”
If you’re younger than 40, you probably joined Facebook for the other reason: To stalk your ex.
That was why I joined Facebook in September of 2006. Honestly, that was the reason I joined MySpace before and Classmates.com before that. I wanted to find my Her.
Every man, and I suppose some women, have their “Her.” It’s the one woman from your youth that could walk into the room right now — even 20-25 years later — and take your breath away. Puppy love, first crush, first kiss or more … whatever the reason, we all have our Her.
I told that story to an audience in Chicago once and a middle-aged lady came up to me after and reassured me, “We all have our ‘Him’ too.”
Since September of 2006, about once every couple of months, I did a search on Facebook to see if Her joined. Yes, I could certainly pick up the phone and call Her’s mother or a mutual friend to see how Her is doing. Or, if I wanted to be an adult, I could just track down Her number.
But that’s not the point. We all need to be a kid again sometimes. This is my way.
About two months ago I was watching television. My phone vibrated. I looked down to see a Facebook notification pop through. It was Her. Her friended me on Facebook.
For the first time I could identify with 13-year-old girls screaming for Justin Bieber.
Keep in mind, I’m almost 40, happily married, two children …
So as innocently as I could, I accepted the request then sent her a note. I didn’t mean it to be a statement of expectation or disrespect to my wonderful wife. It was well-intended, but also honest.
I wrote, “After 22 years, you can still take my breath away.”
Two weeks later, we had lunch. Her is doing well.
And I no longer have much reason for Facebook.
December 7, 2012 4 Comments
You know that romantic first song at a wedding, sung by a wonderful vocalist and infinitely more touching than the original version because the bride and groom are holding hands, starting at each other in front of God and family, getting misty-eyed before they pronounce their vows? It was in the middle of this wonderful moment for my brother and his new bride Sunday when her two-year-old daughter and flower girl, Lexi, tugged on her mother’s gorgeous, white gown and whispered, “Mommy, I gotta poop!”
Fortunately, the matter wasn’t urgent and Lexi was discrete enough in her innocence so that only the nuptials, maid-of-honor, minister and I (the best man) heard her. The ceremony continued and my baby brother, Morgan, is now a married man, pooping step-daughter and all.
Milestone events and holidays are rather troublesome for my family. We’re from Southern West Virginia and Eastern Kentucky, so there’s always an element of redneckery that pops up. I’ve been to weddings for both family and friends that included many features most civilized people would consider, well, not. Those include:
- An outdoor wedding in which the bride entered the rented funeral tent (which even said “Newcomb Funeral Home” in bright blue letters on the eaves) from a double-wide trailer
- An uncle who wore boots, jeans, a faux-tuxedo T-shirt and sat in the congregation during the ceremony with an open Budweiser
- A reception that included Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill as the featured “wine”
- An indoor reception that included, as the featured activity besides dancing, cornhole
Of course, that doesn’t include the countless line dances, ex-girlfriends who show up to fight, 20-year-old dudes hitting on 40-year-old married women and one wedding in which two guests included one of the couple’s probation officers AND the judge that sentenced them to prison.
Despite my pleas to the contrary, Appalachia does partially earn its reputation.
My brother’s wedding added a few chuckles to my list of Stuff I Can’t Believe Happened, but was mostly a beautiful affair from the rehearsal dinner (which my mother organized and knocked out of the park) to the wedding and reception (held in the same venue — an added bonus for convenience and hunger’s sake). My brother was incredibly happy, as was his bride and both of our families. And that’s what matters.
At the reception, I was sitting with my O’Briant-McCoy cousins — the clan from Logan, W.Va. — when Cousin Mark asked me how I was going to summarize Morgan’s wedding on my silly little blog. As I drove home that night I gave it some thought.
My brother and sister (twins, 11 years younger than me) have all grown up, as have my cousins. We all have lives and jobs and kids and such. Our parents get on our nerves, but we understand why and how to deal with them now because we have children of our own. We’ve been stuck with each other long enough to know that no matter how shitty we act or what stupid things we do, we’re still family and we forgive each other and love each other, no matter what.
So on Sunday, I sat with my wife and children, mom and step-dad, sister, nieces and nephews, cousins, aunts, uncles and family friends and watched my little brother get married. I thought about our grandmother and great-grandmother and how they, like the rest of us, would be so proud of Morgan and what he’s overcome over the years to straighten his act up and find someone he can love and who loves him.
And I said a little prayer to thank God for my family.
And that Lexi finally got to poop.
December 4, 2012 1 Comment
Sitting at a symposium at MIT this week, I had a notion that might better define the difference between post-secondary public and private education. (For those of you who don’t know what that means, I think this post might help you figure out where to send your children – or yourself – to college.)
The difference in public college education and private college education is that private colleges make their students think. Public colleges make their students work.
Neither is right or wrong. Both have benefits. But as I listened to insanely smart people discuss my world — the media, marketing and such — I realized my education under-serves me. My ability to tackle topics from an academic, philosophical stand point is much weaker than my privately educated brethren.
This is a weakness in one regard — I want to be impressive and thought provoking to the intellectuals in my circles. But it is a strength in others — I’m known for distilling complexities down to the simple and offering a pragmatic view of the world, not one from the pipe and ascot perspective.
My undergraduate education at Morehead State University was one largely guided by me. While the occasional professor challenged new discovery, I could have easily coasted through and gotten my B.A. without regard to the A-B-C-D parts, and been none the less advantaged.
But when I have deep conversations with my friends who learned at Centre, MIT, Tufts and similar institutions, I realize they’ve been stimulated to think more deeply about things, to understand the broad range of factors behind one subject or another and to synthesize philosophy and activity into one, complete understanding.
The day-to-day activity of a communications profession was taught to me in my college classes. But that day-to-day activity could be taught to anyone of any educational background in a manner of hours or days. It is the teaching of the thought and consideration behind an industry or profession that public institutions fail to deliver.
Certainly, there are exceptions. But if you should find yourself choosing between public and private education for yourself or others, know that public will teach you how to work. Private will teach you how to think.
And I find that to be a premium worth the investment.
November 9, 2012 6 Comments
If the media projections hold, Mr. Obama, you have been re-elected our President. I am proud to say I’ve voted for you twice now and am happy for your win. But as a registered Democrat and (more appropriately) a liberal, I’d like to ask you to consider this not a victory in the sense that you’re finished, but an opportunity to work twice as hard to show us all that you are, indeed, OUR President.
You see, there is no longer pressure to be elected again. Now you have a race against the clock. You have four years to deliver on your original campaign promises, to continue to push this country out of its economic funk, to rectify a tediously imperfect health care situation, to continue tackling the nation’s deficit, to continue to protect people of all walks of life from terrorism and multitudes of other responsibilities. And if you don’t deliver on most of these, tonight’s victory will be a lost cause. You will prove your skeptics right and you will forever be labeled as a president who failed — only it will be more true than the calls of it from those who don’t like you now.
Mr. President, we who voted for you didn’t just vote against the other guy. We voted for you because we believe in the Barack Obama of 2008, not 2012. We believe in someone who can unify our country again, despite the spiteful media, despite the fringe forces working against you out of principle, if not rationale. We wanted to give you the chance to turn away from the “the goal is re-election” to become the President whose goal is to leave the nation in better shape than you found it.
We don’t want you to be a Democratic President. We want you to be their President, too. We want you to compromise and make a better country for all of us. We want to protect small businesses and non-profits, but we also want those who earn and achieve to be able to do so. We can be capitalists while also helping those in need. We just need someone to show us better how to do so.
We want a strong defense and military, too. But we want it to be efficient and not wasteful. We don’t want big government, but we do want social and economic programs to help those that need and deserve it. We want to explore green technologies, but we don’t want to turn our backs on proven and rich resources (like coal), either.
We don’t want to tax only the rich any more than they want to be taxed. But we do want to close the loopholes and exemptions so that fairness prevails. We want to protect the right to choose, but we also want to respect the sanctity of life in all of its stages. No, these issues aren’t easy to decipher or apply, but if the job were easy, more of us would want it.
In many ways, we want our cake and we want to eat it, too. We’re selfish in that way, but we are Americans. We should be, because we live in the greatest country in the world. I don’t think we feel entitled … we’ll work for it. And many of us will work for and with you to make all this happen. But we know that a true President, representative of all the people and able to lead, not politic; to represent, not present his own agenda; is one who can do this.
You once said, “Yes, We Can!” We want to believe you. And now you have a chance to show us it’s true. So, please put politics aside … you don’t need them anymore. Bridge gaps, extend compromises to meet other sides half way. We’ll understand so long as it’s in the best interests of the People … of all People. If you do this, those that stand in your way will stick out like sore thumbs and pay a hefty price for doing so. If you just continue to play games, we’ll lose our renewed faith in you, just as easy.
We want all Americans to look back on the next four years and say, “Damn. He did it. And with the generosity of spirit, mindfulness of responsibility and diplomacy of a true leader we hoped. He surprised his critics. He did as much for them as he did those who voted for him. And he did so with humility, concern and kindness.”
We want people to not say, “He was our first black President.” We want them (all of them, and us) to say, “He was one of our best Presidents.”
The opportunity is in your hands. We have presented it to you. Please don’t forget your work has just begun.
November 6, 2012 5 Comments
In the last six months, I’ve entered a new circle of hell when it comes to dealing with the stupidity of people. A recent email exchange with a friend went like this:
- Email One (From Him To Me): “We should get together for lunch, soon.”
- Email Two (From Me To Him): “Sure thing! How about Friday? Noon at The Bristol?”
- Email Three (From Him To Me): “Awesome! What time and where?
Please understand that the above words in quotation marks are the entirety of each email. This person was so stupid (or, to be fair, lazy) that he couldn’t make it six words into an email before bailing and responding.
It happened again last week when this exchanged happened with a prospective customer of one of my events:
- Email One (From Me To Her): “The link you’re looking for is right here: http://ar.gy/exploreportland”
- Email Two (From Her To Me): “Where can I find the info online?”
Mind you, I am a kind person. Sure, my online persona is often thick with sarcasm and smart-assery, but I am kind at heart. I hold doors for people (men and women). I say, “please,” and “thank you.” I clean up after myself in restrooms, hold elevators for those rushing to catch them, defer to others arriving to get in line at a restaurant, frequently smile and say, “hello,” to strangers just because.
But I have my limits.
When encountering people like the two mentioned above, or — to be fair — when I encounter their absentminded actions as described — the only word that comes to mind is, “Euthanasia.”
And if you think I’m talking about Japanese schoolchildren, you’re part of the problem.
Why is it that we as a society have skipped not just the details, but the basics? I realize social media and 140 characters and text messaging and the ever-growing cacophony of noise without signal leads to a natural attention-deficit reaction, but none of the above happened in more than 140 characters. So I’m worried.
In the late 1990s I worked for a guy who used to say, “I don’t like people.” His life’s ambition was to make enough money to buy a ranch in Montana and move there. Apparently there are no people there. Who knew?
But at this rate, I’m thinking of joining him.
November 1, 2012 1 Comment
For the life of me, I’ve never understood why anyone could put coffee in their mouth. It tastes like an ashtray. (Don’t ask how I know. College was wonderful.)
In fact, the only way coffee can taste even remotely tolerable — it isn’t feasible for it to be “good” — is if you load it down with sugar, milk, hazelnut or some other such additive that takes the edge off the ash. Yes, I realize that coffee drinkers don’t actually drink it for taste, but for the caffeine, this exacerbates their ignorance. You can get caffeine from a lot of places that don’t taste like ass.
Whomever first ground up a coffee bean, poured hot water over it and convinced someone else to drink it should be given the marketer of the millineum award now and the award should be immediately retired.
But I do recognize that there are a fair number of people who do not like the taste of beer. They say it tastes like piss. (How they know, they never say. I’m not sure I want to know.) Then there are those who say they can’t stand the taste of whisky. “It burns!” they scream as they spit it across the room. Sissies. They clearly don’t understand that you don’t just swallow it down … you let it settle on your tongue a bit, swash it around in your mouth, then slowly swallow so you can enjoy the hints of flavor.
Perhaps they can’t taste any of the savoriness involved because their palates are screwed up from sucking down ashwater all day?
While I recognize there is a such thing as an acquired taste, I’ve decided that beer and whisky are required tastes. For those who don’t like beer or whisky — and I’m fine with allowing for one or other, not both — those people should be deported.
One day, I will be King of America. And it will pass.
October 7, 2012 2 Comments
Note: A version of the following was originally posted on an old version of this blog on July 26, 2007. I’m sharing some of my old Rocker archives because I re-read them recently and some of them made me laugh. Perhaps they will you, too.
Please know that every bit of the below is laced with satire. If I offend you, go read someone else’s blog.
Leading off the bottom of the fifth inning, I laced a sharp grounder to short. We were down 19-2 but my beer league softball teammates had their “can I go home now” faces on. I came in from the field cursing at them.
“If you aren’t here to have fun, then go home!” I screamed. “You want to see what it’s like to play with passion and enthusiasm when you’re down 17 runs — watch this, assholes!”
Halfway to first base it registers the shortstop is throwing me out. I figure two things can happen — either I’m out or he sails the throw and I can make a dash for second.
“Screw it!” I say as I round the bag. The first baseman leaps; umpire screams safe; I’m darting — in as much as a 260-pound, middle-aged man can dart — for second. Standing on the bag, I scream and clap.
“That’s how you play with heart! Now somebody drive my fat ass in!”
The next batter grounds to short. I force him to look me back, then return to the bag. One out.
Sharp liner to left center and I’m off to the races. My eyes focus squarely on the third base coach — the only competent baseball/softball mind on the team in my opinion — and he’s just watching the play.
“I’m going, I’m going!” I scream, then see his hand flinch toward the plate. Thank goodness.
Laughter dots through a sound field of screams and cheers. My teammates are suddenly alive — half with the notion that the fattest, slowest man in the league is scoring from second, the other with guffaws at the sight of me sprinting. No matter. All I wanted was a spark.
“You’re up! You’re up!” I hear from third as I resist the urge to dive and stumble across home plate.
“Not bad for a fat ass!” I yell into the other team’s dugout as I come to a stop. I’d chime in with some other insult, but I’ve only cut the lead to 16.
Two batters later, with breath finally caught, I move forward to lean against the fence. I’m cheering on my teammates with the same unbridled enthusiasm I had just an hour before. My right arm parallel to the ground, I move into the chain link.
“I’m shot! I’m shot!” my brain screeches into my ear. Instinctively, I whip my head to the right and down. No blood. “I’m shot! I’m shot!”
Calm down, dude. You’re not shot, but DAMN! What the hell is that?
Murphegdon the Magnificent, Norse God of Irony, plunges his broadsword downward into my flesh. The pierce severs my right shoulder. He is swift, this one. Darting his unsheathed iron just upward my shield, handed down seven generations of Warriors of Fallhallah. Must my perish be untimely so?
Descendants of Murphegdon would become a clan known as Murphree, then Murphee and, alas Murphy. And their juxtaposed realities would render to us a self-titled law. For it is the lone true warrior on this vagabond assortment of beer league softball players ’tis now out for the season with a separated shoulder.
“You must have hyper-extended your arm when you swung the bat,” Dr. Blum said with sterile tone.
The one time I hyper-extend a swing and it doesn’t get out of the infield? Murphy can suck it.
“The bad news is you’ll probably roll over on it during the night. The good news is, I’m giving you Vicodin.”
“Sweet! How many?”
“Don’t push it or I’ll make it Ibuprofen.”
On the way to the X-ray clinic, I decided on three lovely little pills for my initial dose. And this is where the story derails.
“Just have a seat, Mr. Falls. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”
“You could just waive. Your lobby isn’t that big.”
“I don’t have free cell minutes until 7 p.m. Please don’t call me.”
“Have a seat, sir.”
I’ve seen better scowls.
Looking closely at the P-Touch strip under the television screen, I read, “Do not turn off or change the channel.” Communists.
While there was no way to judge how long I waited for the radiologist to appear, it was long enough to decide Rachel Ray is as useful as an 8-track tape.
“Mr. Falls … Mr. Falls … Jason Falls?”
“WHAT?” I yelled from the seat directly in front of this troll of a woman quizzically singing my name to an empty room.
“Oh!” it said, surprised. “We’re ready for you now.”
It was four feet, nine inches in K-Mart sneakers and a light blue frock. It turned and looked at me.
“Step around to the back and take off your shirt,” it spat through a Razorback underbite propping up a bean-can snout.
“Gettin’ freaky in the lab, are we, Helga?”
“It’s gonna take more than a lick of the lips to get me naked, sweetheart. I’m married.”
“X-ray machines don’t work through two layers of clothing, Mr. Falls. I can see you’re wearing an undershirt. Now off with the shirt and stand over there.”
The sign above the machine read, “If there is any chance you may be pregnant, please tell the technician before your X-rays are taken.”
“Uh, Mrs. Gargoyle?”
“We’ll, that’s going to be hard to keep up with, Miss Missy. I’m afraid I’ll start calling you Mississippi and there’s only one thing on earth worse than being called ‘Mississippi.’”
“Well, just call me ‘Missy’ then.”
“What is it you were going to ask, Mr. Falls?”
“Oh, you can call me Sinbad.”
“But your name isn’t Sinbad.”
“It’s not? Cool. I would like for it to be Sinbad. Call me Sinbad. I’ve sailed the seven seas.”
“Uh, sir?” she said, realizing I’d taken too many pain killers. “Can you even name the seven seas?”
“Hell, yeah … and alphabetically.”
Fine. If I have to.
“Arabian, Baltic, Black, Caspian, Mediterranean and North.”
” … and Tito.”
“Impressive. So, you were asking?”
“No, I was naming the seven seas, troll. Now shoot me.”
I turned and noticed the sign again.
“Hey Missus Hippie, there’s a problem.”
“What would that be, Mr. Falls?”
“There’s a chance I may be pregnant.”
“And why would you say that?”
“You know … morning sickness, fatigue and I haven’t had a period in I don’t know how long.”
“Have you had sex recently?” she asked, amused at the subject matter.
“With someone other than yourself?”
“I had sex all weekend.”
“With a woman?”
“Well, then we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“It was 17 women … and a ferret.”
Midget-sy sat behind her little glass wall, protected from the harmful rays. I yanked off both shirts, threw on my sun glasses and asked for some sunscreen.
This was getting annoying. How am I supposed to get a tan when I’m only on one side for 30-seconds. It’s cold in here. Wow. I’ve got AAA batteries for nipples.
“That’s it, you’re done, Mr. Falls.”
“Thanks Gargamell. How tall are, you anyway?”
“I’m five-seven, why do you ask.”
Five-seven my ass. She couldn’t put a cup on an end table without tip-toes.
“Just makin’ sure the drugs are working. In my mind, you’re 6-9.”
“Now I know you’re high.”
“Hey, now. We’re all hot in our dreams.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be hot in your dreams.”
“Why not? Ain’t nothing wrong with midget sex. How do you think we got midgets in the first place?”
Missy seemed confused. She also seemed offended. I suppose I shouldn’t have tried putting my nipples in her iPod.
“You’re doctor will call you with the results in the next 24 hours. Have a nice day.”
“Your X-rays. You came in here for X-rays of your bum shoulder.”
“Hey, who you callin’ a bum? At least I can ride roller coasters, Gnome. And X-rays? I thought this was a tanning salon. Which reminds me … why no happy ending?”
“You’re thinking massage parlor, Mr. Falls. This is a radiology clinic.”
“Clinic? Sweet. Can I get a shot?”
“Whatever. Just make sure it’s not whatever you had, Webster.”
Missy picked up the phone and called security. I tied my shirt around my head and walked out to the lobby.
“That’s him!” she said behind me. “No need for the cuffs, just escort him out. He’s harmless, but high.”
My steady pan left melted my smile. He stood before me, dark whiskers jabbing through leathered skin like an iron maiden unfinished. He drew his weapon between determined eyes. For it was Murphegdon, returned to finish his duty. And flee I did, from the castle Hosptalivar, to the shadows and chasms of the Fallhalla’d forests where I would beseech the gods of fate, revenge and pleasant smells for the requisite power to battle him to the death.
And on Tuesday I awoke, rolled over and decided it was time for more pills.
August 25, 2012 Comments Off