So, as a child I was somewhat of a writing prodigy. Or so I was led to believe. In reality I was the only kid with such a non-existent social life that I had relatively enormous amounts of time to put into my writing. In reality I shat out mediocre short stories on paper while most kids my age shat out other, less socially handicapped and less bully provoking things with paper such as spitballs and notes with check boxes scribbled in hopes of hooking up with whichever girl had matured the most that year. Not that I didn’t pass notes. I did. I even included check boxes occassionally until I realized the “yes” box wasn’t necessary for a lad of my social standing. In fact I think the majority of my notes ended up plastered to my forehead, or at least shreds of them rolled into hurtful little humiliation balls saturated with shame and the spittle from the girls’ mouths I so yearned to connect with. Did I occassionally peel the spit wads off my face and sneak them into my mouth so I could justify saying that we had “swapped spit”? Come on now, that would be weird. Right? So anyway,  I loved to read and I loved to write. I loved the classics; Steinbeck, Dickinson, Stevenson, but above all the man who took me on adventures on the mighty Mississippi. The man who sent me back in time to roll in the grass laughing my ass off as Adam and Eve tried to knock the moon from the sky by hurling rocks. Samuel Clemmons aka Mark Twain. My writing was a lot like his. That is if you took his writing, jumbled up the words, fed them to an owl who also ate a few mice (because I’m sure owls can’t live soley on literature, no matter how great it may be) and that owl were to regurgitate little mice and twain pellets, then one were to dissect said pellets and throw the findings on paper, my writing was like his in that way. But I won’t brag anymore.  My grandmother always said that bragging is like a dog licking his gonadz and expecting a treat. I’m not quite sure what the hell that had to do with bragging but most of her stories had to do with dogs or genitalia or both. It’s people like her who motivate me to write. She was quite racist. Every year I’d cut a picture of Halle Berry out of a magazine and put it in my wallet to show Grandma as my girlfriend just to get a rise out of her. She would curse and mumble something about Poodles licking Rottweilers privates and I’d chuckle like an evil villain as I dissapeared under the dinner table to tie her orthopedic shoes together by the laces. Somehow year after year no one noticed this and every year upon getting up to change her mush filled diaper or whatever old people do after chowing down a large meal, she would fall face first into whoever was unfortunate enough to have the seat next to her. I realize this seems awful and heartless but you have to understand, she was a racist bitch. The fact that she was my elder and a full century old was no excuse for her buying KFC and grape soda in case I did bring Halle home for Christmas dinner. So a face plant and a family lecture on getting velcro shoes if she couldn’t stop tying her own laces together was justified I think. She has since passed away, God rest her soul. But in case of the second coming or a zombie apocolypse I tied her laces together in the casket. She also rests with an 8×10″ screenshot of Halle Berry in that awesome nude scene with Billy Bob Thornton, placed gently under her frail hands. The lady at Walgreens was hesitant to print the photo for me but when I explained it was a gift for my Grandmammy she happily obliged. In retrospect that was really strange. Anyway, given my love for writing, my aforementioned mediocre skills and the fact that Great Grandma Eileen was one of the more normal members of my extensive family, I figure I have a never ending well of interesting subjects from which to draw my stories. And these stories will be relayed to you through this blog. In the interest of those involved, I will change names, dates, places, and possibly facts entirely. Other than in those cases, almost every word will be true honest reflections of my life, family, friends, and imagined events.


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