Something happened to me leading up to my fortieth birthday—sounds like a mid-life crisis, doesn’t it?—where I wondered who in the actual fuck I was. So, after mirror-gazing at the bearded fat face glaring back at me and quantifying my half-way-dead life, I chose to do something about it. I crossed the countryside, climbed mountainous terrain, swam stormy seas, and spent forty days and forty nights living with a shaman who guided me into my unconscious where I inevitably spaced out only to return ‘woke’ and understanding my only purpose for being alive.
Of course, all the above is bullshit. It’s far less exciting than that. One evening, after having a beer, then a wine, I began to rant and ramble to my wife about things she’s clearly not interested in. I know this because she told me she wasn’t interested in it. She huff’d then puff’d then said, “why don’t you write this stuff down. I’m sure there are far more people who would enjoy reading it than I do listening to it.” I took another slug of wine and ignored her because I’m lazy. A few weeks later, however, I decided to do as she suggested. So in a fit of frustration and disillusionment with things as they were, I decided to write something my future Grandchildren would be proud of, but probably, in all reality, won’t be the slightest bit interested in.
I work full-time as an electrician and live somewhere pleasant by the sea in England where the cool Atlantic sea rolls in and the rich build glazed robotic homes to move the poor out. If I’m not riding my motorcycle, lifting weights, reading, playing the guitar like a handless deaf and blind mute, or spending as much time as possible with my family, then I’m writing a few things down. You may, or may not, see those words published.
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