Am I really that old?????

Today on my lunch hour I went and got a haircut. I went to one of those cookie cutter places; Super Clips or Great Cuts, or Super Great Clip Cuts, hell I don't really know, but it was quick and easy, and lets face it, it's not like I'm wow-in' 'em on the runway here. I'm a pretty simple #6 buzz in the back and sides and a little longer on the front/top. My "bangs" which start about at the top of my head get a little flip up. Easy Peasy. In and out in 10-15 minutes tops.

So I sit down and the girl, who couldn't have been any older than 22-23 years old begins to cut my hair. She makes a bit of small talk and asks me a few questions. Things like, trim up your sideburns, square or round in the back, is that short enough on the sides, blah blah blah. All good things to ask a guy whom you've never met and your working for a tip.

But then she asked me a question that I can't forget......


"Do you want me to trim your eyebrows"?

Trim my eyebrows? What the FUCK? How fucking old do you think I am? What do you mean trim my fucking eyebrows. I'll fucking punch you in your millennial face if you ever ask me that again. Fuck You, trim my eyebrows.

I sat there. Staring into the mirror, watching this young lady who was more interested in the conversation across the room than she was in cutting my hair, my mind flashed to the old town barber shop with the old men sitting around talking talking about yesterday's gone by. The old timer in the chair who's fallen asleep while Ed the barber snips away as what little hair he has left.

I thought today's youth she has no idea,..... I can't believe she.....then it hit me. Wait a minute......do I need my eyebrows trimmed? 

And that's the bitch about getting old. We don't even know it happened until somebody, other than our kids, calls us pops, or old man. Or asks us if we want our eyebrows trimmed.

I politely declined her offer to trim my eyebrows and we finished up shortly there after.  In the end I thought she cut it just a tad to short in the front, but I tipped her nicely anyway. On the way back to work I couldn't help but to check out her work in the rear view mirror, and I might have plucked a couple wild eyebrow hairs before heading back inside.

Motivation for making your bed

At some point during the day, week, or month, you’re going to run into someone you don’t know. A complete stranger. You see them at the store, at the gas station, or at dinner. And they’re going to remember you. And they will, at that very moment, hate you. You will be forever embedded in their mind as that asshole at the store, gas station, or dinner.  

I know it seems unreal. I mean, I never think of myself as an asshole to strangers. Family yes, strangers no way. I’m polite. I’m generally kind or pleasant. I’m not rude for no reason. But now this person, because of some unfortunate event, thinks I am. 

Yesterday was my day.

I don’t make excuses, but there was a disturbance in my force yesterday. Things were just not normal for me. Long story short, as we walked in to the restaurant for lunch my mind was somewhere else, and that’s when it happened. That’s when I became somebody’s "Asshole".

An old Navy Seal once said that if you want to change the world you start off by making your bed. Making your bed each morning gives you a feeling of accomplishment to start your day. Then it snowballs. One accomplishment leads to another which leads to another and another. And in order to change the world we have to accomplish tasks, and change lives. We start with simple things, sometimes mundane tasks but done correctly, repeatedly,  will change lives. Your life, along with others. 

I followed my family inside the restaurant. The line was backed up to the entryway and standing room was limited. As I squeezed in I noticed a dog inside the restaurant; service dog. It didn’t bother me, I just took notice. I step aside trying to make room as an elderly woman pushing a walker came toward me. Now in hind sight I should have gone back out the door and held it open for the lady, but again I wasn’t exactly focused at the time. I was thinking about the events from earlier in the morning, the dog, and the restaurant in general.  

A young lady quickly works her way past the old lady with the walker, shouts, “I got it, Thanks, and opens the door”. It was directed at me. She didn’t call my name say hey mister  or you there. But it was a shot at me, and It was at this very moment that I knew… I was her Asshole.

It bothered me, still does just a bit. I wasn’t being rude. I didn’t slam the door in her face or try to trip the old lady as she rolled by. I simply didn’t hold the door open for her. A small mundane task that has forever put me in the “that asshole at Fazoli’s”category. 

My Transgender Child...

I have written and rewritten this post so many times it's not funny. Not because I'm afraid or embarrassed. I see it more like that surfer who's waiting on the perfect wave, or John Cusack chasing a sure thing. I  want it to be the perfect post. But maybe that doesn't exist, so here goes. I'm not gonna sugar coat it.

My oldest child is transgender, and if that offends you, well then Fuck Off. Maybe I'm supposed to say my oldest child is A transgender? I'm not really sure. Either way, if it offends you, you can still fuck off.
About a year ago they came out to their mother and I that they were transgender. It wasn't a total surprise to my wife and honestly she's handled it much better than I have. I won't lie, it's been hard for me, but one thing's for sure, I love her, or him, or them? I'm not really sure. It's complicated.

But here's the thing. I don't need you telling me how I should feel or act. Or how I should act about feelings or feel about actions. I don't need you to tell me how my child should feel or act. I don't need you to tell me how to parent my child. I don't need you to quote scripture or tell me we're all going to hell. I don't need you to pretend it doesn't exist. Or that it's just a phase.  I don't need you to whisper when talking about it. It's not a disease that you're going to get if you say it out loud. I don't need you to post shit on Facebook or Twitter about Transgender teens or Transgender parents or parents of Transgender teens or teens of Transgender parents. I don't need it. I don't need self help books, inspirational quotes, or DIY videos on how to "pray the gay away". I don't need it. I don't need your drama, your sympathy, your prayers, your good vibes, your advice or whatever YOU think I need. I don't need it.

Here's what I do need.

I do need you to love my child. Not because they are a boy or a girl. But because they are smart, and funny, and original, and hard working, and caring, and emotional, and loving, and just a kid who's trying to figure it all out in a world that wants to back them into a corner. I need you to support them. To respect them. To love them as a person. I need you to prove to them that you're with them; that you're  on their side. This. This is what I need. And if that is to much for you, well.....

Being Inspired...or not

I am not inspiring, nor am I inspired. Maybe that's part of the problem? Actually that's not entirely true. I think I was inspired recently?

You Still Writing?

An old friend posed this question to me a few days ago, "You still writing"?  I wasn't real sure what to say. I'm not sure I was ever actually "writing" even when I was "writing". Just putting jargon to a screen doesn't make me a writer any more than swimming makes you a fish. But whatever. I told him "no not really". It's not like I don't want to, I just lack the inspiration.

And Then It Hits You

The other day I logged onto Facebook to see another old friend had started a blog. I was happy. As if he had joined the club or something. I read his posts then followed his blog. He wrote about inspiring shit. Shit that helps him get through his day. Shit like, cease the moment, and be who you want to be. Shit that maybe should help me, but quite frankly doesn't. Nonetheless, I was glad he finally started writing.  

We Couldn't All be Cowboys

As long as we're on the subject of what my problems are. I think my problem is I'm a Simpleton. I'm just kidding, I'm no Simpleton, I'm chicken shit, well, and maybe lazy, but mostly chicken shit.  I'm afraid of change. I don't think you need a couch and a PhD to figure that out. For the most part I enjoy a simple life this is true But the problem with that is I get bored with it. And when it bores me I get depressed. Maybe I just need a little more adventure. Maybe I should find a traveling rodeo. After all, some of us are clowns. 

These Shoes

They say you can tell a lot about a man just by looking at his shoes. This pair of New Balance 505 have been with me for 15 years at least. They were once my everyday, do everything in shoe. I've played ball in them, wore them to work, and have had 3 kids with them. Through the years they've picked up a few holes, and lost a lace or two. Nowadays they only work around the house, sometimes spending the night outside if they've stepped in something or to dry off. They work in the garage when the oil needs changed, or out in the garden.They mow grass and take out trash and on occasion they may make an appearance to the local dollar store. Yes, they've been through it all, These Shoes. Here's to many more miles.

Sit Your Ass Down....Dad

On Sunday mornings my son plays basketball in a league. It's a recreational league that's he's played in for a couple years now. I enjoy watching him play but today's games were a little different.

He plays two game each week and today his mother couldn't be there so it was just me on the bleachers.

As I sat down and watch the boys warm up for the first game. I saw faces of other parents with boys' on my sons' team. We made small talk until the game started.

As the game wore on, I heard fathers and a couple mothers, but mostly fathers shouting. Shouting at referees, and at kids.

I heard one father in particular, that before too long I was listening to the yelling more than I was paying attention to the game.

"Why did he do that? You've gotta dribble. Pass the ball. Seriously, that's a foul. Block out, you let that kid go right around you. Don't foul".

Finally I'd had enough...

Look maybe your kid just isn't that good, I said. Maybe this isn't the NBA All-Star game. Maybe your son is just having fun playing basketball. He's gonna screw up every once in a while. He's gonna take bad shots and get beat on defense, he's 10. So why don't you just sit here, shut up, and watch the damn game. After wards tell him how proud you are of his efforts. Applaud him for hustling and playing hard when he's in the game, and when it's all over remember again, he's 10. No colleges are gonna recruit him today and I don't see any NBA scouts in this gym. He's not here to relive your glory days. Face it, maybe your son just isn't that good.

And for the second game....

I didn't say a word.

You see, after the first game, somewhere between believing my kid was great and being competitive, I realized that maybe he's just not that good. Maybe he's just a kid who likes playing ball, who's going to screw up from time to time, and won't be the best player on the court. Maybe it's really me who needs to sit down and shut up.

The boy played the second game just the same as he did the first. He hustled and played hard.He made some good plays, and he screwed up once in awhile. But at least for this game his annoying dad wasn't yelling from the bleachers.

Not Exactly What I Expected....

Very early on in my life I determined that an English Bulldog was my favorite breed of dog. All I really knew about them was that they wore spiked collars and were named Brutus or Spike. They had mean faces and didn't take any shit from nothing or nobody.  And I just knew that one day I would  have one.

Now though the years I've had a few different dogs, but not any that I "really" wanted, or that was my dog of choice. When I was little there was our family dog. She was a poodle and barked a lot. Then when I got my own place, I had an Australian Sheapard that was to large for an apartment. And a few years after the DW and I got married we rescued a black lab from the pound. All were great dogs, just not exactly the "Take No Shit " dog I wanted. 

All these years later, I finally got my Bulldog....

Not exactly what I expected, but we love them....

times two...

Not exactly the killer, Take No Shit dogs I'd expected, but we love them.......

Fuck Off...

Yesterday I was welcomed to 2017 by my fellow man, or in this case a woman, with a big fat, Fuck Off.

So I'm driving down the highway slowly going back to work after lunch, and I see a car fast approaching in my rearview mirror. I didn't think to much of it, but apparently they thought I was going to slow and they decided to pass me. And as they passed I looked over and the girl sitting in the passenger seat flips me the bird.



What the hell??

I was pissed for a couple reasons. She looked like she was in her early twenties and it was noon which can only mean one thing, she'd been day drinking. So that pissed me off because I had to go back to work and couldn't day drink. Second, the car was a POS. Muffler dragging on the ground, four bald tires that didn't match, red duct tape on the back tail light, you know the type. So I was pretty pissed that here I am a grown ass man with a wife, kids and a career, and I'm getting passed on the highway by some twenty-something who was out day drinking riding around in a piece of shit car that was going faster than my piece of shit car. And she wasn't even the one driving. I mean I could almost understand her anger if she was behind the wheel and had to get to court or out buying a pack of smokes and I was holding her up or something, but she's the passenger. Back in my day when you had shotgun you were just supposed to sit there and be cool, change the CD every once in a while, and watch for cops.

But what pissed me off the most is that as they passed, and she pressed her middle finger to the dirty glass of her boyfriend/husbands POS car, she didn't even bother to look at me. Nope, she kept her eyes focused straight ahead. Didn't glance at me, didn't mouth the words MF or Fuck Off or anything. Just kept looking straight ahead. Why does that piss me off so much? Here's the thing.

If you're going to flip somebody off and tell the to Fuck Off because they are driving to slow, then own that shit. As you pass them, look 'em straight in the eye, and let them see that finger. Don't hide. Don't be embarrassed or ashamed of it. Own it. Tell them with authority that you're mad as hell and you're not gonna take it anymore.

It crossed my mind after they passed to speed up and tell this little punk what I thought about her shenanigans. The piece of shit car she was in, the day drinking, not looking at me when she flipped me off, the whole nine yard, but.... I couldn't catch 'em.

Same Pain, Different Day

Sometimes in life shit happens. I guess it's how we deal with that shit that makes us who we are. 

I'm an asshole.

Actually I'm not an asshole, I'm more of a child. A spoiled brat who wants to quit when they don't get their way. 

When I was a kid my cousin and I decided we would take turns riding our bikes around the school building with our eyes closed, relying on the other to direct us which way to turn. About 2 minutes into my ride I felt a huge thud across my chest, flipped in the air and landed flat on my back. I didn't know what hit me. When I opened my eyes, my cousin was standing over me telling me I'd ran into the monkey bars and flipped over. My body hurt. I thought a car ran over me. My bike landed in the grass 10 yards away. Days later my arms still hurt and my chest felt like someone hit me with a brick. 

This past weekend I called my oldest child by their name. The name their mother and I had given them at birth. I was quickly yelled at by said child and informed that that is no longer their name. 

It hurt me. It felt like the monkey bars all over again, like my eyes had been shut and suddenly I was clotheslined and knocked flat on my back. Three days later it still hurts. And unlike the monkey bars, I'm not sure that this pain will go away. It's not that I'm not supportive, but she was my daughter. My first born, my little girl. And now she's not.

 

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Vote For Pedro

When I was eight maybe ten, I had some birthday money that was burning a hole in my pocket. I don't remember every detail, who gave me what or how much money I had, but I remember I bought an electric race car track. I remember the box showed several different designs you could make with the tracks and it came with two cars. 

I'm not sure why I was so drawn to this track. I wasn't a big race car fan, even though we had the Indy 500, and at that time NASCAR wasn't popular here. But for some reason I had to have it. I knew what I wanted. 

I remember telling my mom how much I'd play with it and how I just had to have it. It was going to be awesome. And I remember a day or so later telling her how it was boring and the cars came off the track more times than not, and how I'd wished I'd never bought it.  

The truth is we don't know what we want. Not when we're young.  

Today I voted in the Presidential primary election, years ago I voted for the person who I thought could make my life better right now. I'm not the same person I was years ago. I would have rather voted for Pedro. 

I'm sure I've had the conversation or put to paper my thoughts and views on how life is black and white, cut and dry. I don't think that way anymore. I suppose being a parent changes that sort of thinking. I don't have time to go back and read through old posts or call up my old drinking buddies and explain that maybe I was wrong. Hell I'd never admit that anyway. 

My mom ended up returning the race car track. She never told me, I told you so, but we both knew. She told the store it didn't work. Which is true,..... it didn't work for me. It's not always black and white. 

Tracy Chapman and 3rd Grade Fight Clubs...

Give me one reason by Tracy Chapman plays on the radio. It's one of my favorite songs actually. It's one of  those songs that sneaks up on ya, and in a minute somehow makes me want to dance.

For some reason, I imagine my dad dancing to this song. I picture him with his long six foot plus frame on a dance floor, his legs and feet stepping in time as Tracy belts out "baby I've got your number"

Don't ask me why I picture my dad dancing. Maybe it's because this song feels like a song dad's should dance to. Maybe it's because I've danced to this song in front of my kids before.

This morning I woke up with the memories of a third grade fight I was involved in many years ago.Standing in the center of a circle of onlookers. I don't remember why I was in the center, or what I was fighting about, but I remember as things got started the boy across from me began swinging his arms. Not in a, I'm gonna take out any mother fucker who messes with me kind of way, but rather in an eyes closed, standing swimming motion hoping he hits something.

Sometimes our minds make us feel like Ed Norton in fight club.

We close our eyes, swing our arms with all we've got, and hope we hit something.

That Was Fun...

Sometimes I watch my children and remember what it was like to be on that side of life. Each one of them at different ages it's as if I'm peaking through a window watching myself.

Today I'm reminded of a time and life that no longer exists. Of my first apartment. A rough neighborhood. A dog I wasn't supposed to have, and a young man.

Life was simple back then. No t.v. No Internet. Just me, working for the weekends. A six foot Led Zeppelin poster graced my living room with the words of Stairway to Heaven printed across it. Words we lived by back then. It wasn't classy, but it was my place. No roommates, no parents. Just me.

Somewhere in the memories, I can still hear the whistle of the train out back that would wake us up at 1 am. Twenty plus years later, I wonder how many young kids have heard that same whistle.

Groucho Marx once said, When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, Damn that was fun.

I don't miss that life. It no longer exists for a reason. But damn, that was fun...

Today's Depression

I don't pretend to know what serious depression is. I won't lie and say that I do. But that's not to say I don't fight my own demons. 

One of those days. 

Sometimes the darkness outweighs the sunshine; today is one of those days. It's a combination of things really that's caused it today. 

If I was talking to one of my kids about being depressed I might say something like life is what you make it, or something like, this too shall pass. But my psycho babble bullshit doesn't work on me, I know to much. Hell, it probably doesn't wok on them either truth be told. 

It's lunchtime and I shove a double cheeseburger and fries down my throat, I'll regret it later, but for now it helps. Today, my body aches and my mind is exhausted. The physical aches and pains remind me of just how far I've traveled in this lifetime. The exhaustion lets the depression in. 

I'm trying to not make this transition about me. Because it's not. But I'm selfish. I'm scared. And I'm an asshole.

 

I'm selfish because I sat there holding her in my arms years ago envisioning her life and how it would unfold, and it's not going that way. It's not going the way I wanted it to. 

I'm scared because of the unknown. Because I know people. Both outsiders and family don't or won't understand. 

 

I'm an asshole because I'm scared and selfish. 

Life is Hard...

Life is hard

She sits and stares at the floor as she speaks to me. She mumbles and struggles a bit to find the answers to the questions. She doesn't know that I already know the answers. 

The words that come out of my mouth are not words that would have come out 13 years ago, hell not even last year. But life is different now, hers and mine. Besides, this is my child, and things just aren't the same as they used to be. 

Plans Change

Mike Tyson once said, "Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face". This is so true. Life moves fast and you have to be able to adapt. 

I won't lie, my eyes welled up yesterday as I thought about all the shit lately, and who I am, and who my daughter thinks I am. I'd fight to the death for her, no matter what. That's what parents do. Good parents anyway. I know she doubts it though. That's what teenagers do.

Being Scared is Scary.

As we continue our talk I can't help but think there's a part of her that has to be scared too, yet as the conversation drags on she gains momentum and speaks clearer and with more puropse. Her mother helps with this. She's more comfortable speaking to her mother than to me. I don't lie. I tell her I'm scared. Scared of what the future holds for all of us, but I will fight for and with her.
 

No more simplicity

Lately I've been tinkering with this blog, feeling like it needs something new. A new title or a new look? Turns out what it needs more than anything is content. 

Life is changing for me. Maybe it's being defined for me. Either way things are more different than they've ever been. 

These last 12 years or so things have been relatively the same. Babies, toddlers, sippy cups, homemade cards proclaiming I'm the greatest dad of all time. 

Those days are gone

My oldest daughter is 13 now going on 22. This past year she came out to her mother and I. I won't lie it took me back and I've struggled with it. It seems with each day she hates me just a little bit more than the day before. Maybe it's just teenage girl stuff, but there's no denying things are different. 

The Gray Stuff 

Growing up I believed life was black or white, there was no gray area. I remember thinking that the gray area in life just created to many problems. Now I understand that the gray area is life. 

Is my teenager a teenager??

I scrolled through my daughters Instagram account. There were things about school, her siblings, her parents and her loves. It was her. Her emotions. Her feelings. Her thoughts. And I was hurt and angry. In that fifteen minutes that it took me to read posts and comments about how life, and school sucked, I thought, how could this be? Why does she doubt herself? Why doesn't she see what we see? She's beautiful, smart, witty, strong, independent. We've given her everything we possibly could? We provide, we support, we love. Why is my teenager uncomfortable in her own skin? Why? 

I wanted to respond to each post. But I didn't. I wanted to make smart ass comments. But I didn't. I wanted to argue. But I didn't. For the rest of my day I thought about the things she'd posted or said, and somewhere along the way the answer of "why" finally came to me. 

Because she's a teenager. 

I'm not of the old adage that boys will be boys, or in this case, teenagers will be teenagers, but I do remembered the days of me against the world. I remembered how that one girl didn't know I existed. The feelings of insecurity, loneliness, anger, and love as a teen. Sure it's a bit different now because of social media, but she's still a teenager trying to figure it all out. And to add insult to injury, she's in a new school this year. A big school. A school that already has cliques and popular kids and barriers. 

I want all my kids to be able to "find" themselves. To be who they are because that's who they want to be, not because that's who I tell them to be, and because of this I stopped following her account (her mother still does). 

Back in my day we had journals and diaries to bitch about our parents and schools. Today they have social media and blogs, but it's still the same life struggles. It's still teenagers being teenagers. 

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Parenting, Sports, and Time Travel...

The clock is yet to reach 8:30am and I just finished my third cup of coffee. I think I'm more drained today than tired. Today is one of those days that as I stumbled out of bed I told myself I didn't care if I was running late, I couldn't move any faster. I made it on time... 

Parenting is a Sport....

I feel like most of the time I'm doing parenting right. But parenting is like sports. Nobody seems to remember when you came home after a long hard day and spent an extra two or three hours working on the house or helping with homework or fixing what's broken. Those are like regular season games. Nobody really cares about that stuff. It's expected. You're expected to fix the garbage disposal. You're expected to put new brakes on the car. But when the lights come on and the little red light shines do you perform? When the weight of a franchise is resting on your shoulders are you at your best? When the tough questions come up, are you parenting right? 

This past weekend was the 4th of July. We spent a good portion of the weekend in Cincinnati. It was nice. We took in a Red's game and spent time at an aquarium. I was proud of my oldest daughter when during the National Anthem at the ballgame I saw her put her hand over her heart and genuinely show respect. It wasn't to long ago that we'd had a conversation about our country and the men and women who've served and sacrificed for us. It wasn't exactly a conversation, it was more of a dad yelling at daughter thing, but on Saturday I was proud of her. And it made me feel like, at least on this day, that I'd taken my team to the playoffs. 

Put in a full day...

It seems like I've been doing a lot of yelling lately, both out loud and in my head. Maybe if you ask my family they'll think it's no more than usual, but these past four months have been a roller coaster of emotions for me. It seems like as I get older me and roller coasters don't mix to well. 

Jim Valvano said in his 1993 ESPY speech that we should do 3 things every day. We should laugh. We should spend time in thought. And we should have our emotions moved to tears. He said that's a full day, if we laugh, cry, and think. I feel like these last four months I've had more full days than ever before.  

Photo Credit

Time Travel...

I spent majority of my day today traveling back in time. Not literally. Today I went through and deleted old emails from my phone. Long story short I'd reached over 10 thousand e-mails in my inbox, and it was driving me crazy. I'm a bit OCD sometimes and today was one of those days that they had to be deleted. Right. Now. Some of the emails I'd read previously, but most were junk. It was like traveling back through time as I re-read emails from nearly five years ago. Comments people had made on my blog, on Facebook, and e-mails between the DW and I. It made me think I wished I could go back and redo some of the events of the past few months. 

Why Don't Bad Guys Ever Win???

Ask me about my youth and I'll tell you of a boy who had a hard time growing up. A boy who at his core struggled with confidence and discipline. Ask me about being a teenager and I'll tell you my struggles continued, which led me down many a wrong path. 

Why don't bad guys ever win???

In my youth my struggles with discipline, parental guidance and overall authority quickly got me labeled. I wasn't exactly a bad guy but I wasn't winning either. 

My son asked the question the other day, why don't bad guys ever win? I wasn't sure how to answer him. Real life logic tells us that bad guys, truly bad guys, like bullies and politicians win all the time.

Then one day someone comes along... 

Ask me about my wife and I'll tell you that she's an amazing, beautiful woman. I'll tell you that after 13 years of marriage I'm still crazy about her.

Bad guys don't win in movies or in life because in the end they make bad decisions and wrong choices. Or maybe it's because they never meet someone that changes their life forever....

Something worth fighting for...

Ask me today if I'm a bad ass and I'll most certainly tell you yes, as I puff up my chest and speak with authority.

Today I am not wrong, and I am not weak. I am confident in the words that come out of my mouth or that are put to paper.

When I was younger I got in my fair share of scuffles in the neighborhood. I can remember on one such occasion where I didn't end up on the winning end, and I told the boy who just whipped my ass how I was going to get my older brother and he'd better not be around when we came back. Only my brother didn't come back

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I do not have the strength, confidence or the attitude of a bad ass. I do not walk around with a chip on my should pissed off at the world, just daring someone to cross my path. 

But sometimes we have to fight. We fight for our loved ones and our family. We fight for our kids; and when that happens. When the time comes that you must stand up, put up your dukes, and fight. You better be a bad ass. 

Why I quit blogging...

While I never officially announced my retirement with a press conference or contacted the local news I did in fact quit blogging.

I was awake again last night at one o'clock in the morning and today I feel like I spent the night dancing with Mr. Brownstone. 

Not that I'd know exactly what that feels like but I imagine I'm close. My head hurts, my eyes burn and my body aches. I read one of my favorite blogs I realize why I quit, and why I'm back, blogging that is. 

He's not one of my favorite blogger's because he's funny or informative or even because of the words he puts to paper. In fact half the time I have no idea what the hell he's saying, but he is who he is. 

A long time ago I wanted to be an actor. It was fun to me, being on stage being someone different. Pretending to be the local store clerk, or the sheriff in a one horse town. I enjoyed the theater. 

But somewhere along the way somebody told me I couldn't make a life of it, or that it wasn't something cool kids did. So I quit. 

And somewhere along the way this became blogging.

Photo Credit

I didn't start A Day in the Life because I wanted to tell the world about my kids or about my latest project to lose weight, or how to craft. It wasn't supposed to be about funny stories or pictures of my vacation. Because the truth is, nobody cares about that shit. 

And that's what it had become. 

I don't envision being a famous author or an Internet sensation because of this. But at some point I'd like to be a person who can be honest and put my words and thoughts down without reservation. An outlet for the daily grind that a father and husband go through. 

I quit blogging because of the cliches of blogging. I'm starting again because I want to write.