(We did cover that last week.)

Because otherwise you just spend your whole life alternating between painful involvement and painful isolation/alienation.

Shut up. You don't know my life.

Posted at at May 28, 2017 on Sunday, May 28, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

A Spoon in the Road

I was twelve years old the first time I heard her voice.

I was very sick and the family physician thought it was probably HIV because of what had happened in the reformatory.

That wasn't very good news back in those days. I was being sent off to detention for falling asleep in class every day, though I had no recollection of doing so.

It was when a student accidentally slammed her desk into mine, pinching my hand, failing to rouse me, that my teachers began to wonder what what was wrong with me.

I had lymph nodes the size of golf balls.

I could barely stay awake.

I was scared and cried every now and then but you have two choices to make in that situation I guess: Keep doing what you were doing or just go give up and die.

I painted the upstairs hallway because I didn't know if I'd be around to finish it.

I remember being in bed one afternoon. Crying. Upset. Whatever.

Then I heard a voice, clear as can be, telling me not to be afraid. Everything was going to be okay.

I was startled and yet reassured.

Oh, almost as an afterthought: It was "only" Hodgkins Lymphoma.

She came back the last time I used.

"The world's going to end today, you know that, right?"

I stared out my front window, wondering if they were finally going to drop the bomb today or something.

"If you get high today, you'll die."

I did it anyway.

I seized and stroked out in my truck.

I heard her one last time:




What is that supposed to mean?

Always in the darkest hour.

One of those things that are bestowed on you after you've clocked in at a certain threshold of grief and/or trauma.

If there was ever a pairing of body and soul that could endure the fire they've walked through, I guess I was born with it because I managed to shake off the LAPD and several EMTs in that condition.

I eluded the authorities one last time.

I didn't want to go to the hospital.

I was just going to go home and die.

I had a good run.

Enough was enough.

Time to go home.

It was a beautiful day out.

Picture perfect.

I was surprised that I woke up again.

I couldn't get up for five days.

I was so exhausted I could barely get to the toilet and back.

There was no food in the house.

There was no one to bring any.

I didn't eat for a week.

I managed to get up eventually and retrieve my car from the impound lot.

I fell down and hurt my hip.

After that I went to Cedars-Sinai.

They kept me for 7 or 8 days.

Pulmonary embolisms in both lungs.

I was discharged on a Sunday.

Posted at at May 28, 2017 on by |   | Filed under:

My hearts on fire

I was just talking about shroooming with an old friend a million years and a million miles ago. Here's one of the tracks off of that Redemption album:

I ran into him on 18th street in San Francisco this morning and gave him a gigantic bear hug.

I'm so happy I could cry, that made my morning.

I stopped for an early meeting on the way home. 

I was hoping nobody would know me, but I looked around the room and quickly realized that I'd already been passed around this group like the Seventh Tradition.


The first person is supposed to pick a topic.

Instead he rambled on and on.

A few shares later someone said they'd forgotten what the topic was.

I said "Mark" under my breath.

I heard a few familiar old chuckles.

Ahhhh admit it, you're as happy to see me as I am you.

Posted at at May 28, 2017 on by |   | Filed under:


I had about 7 months clean but I was living in a dope house in Chicago. I had nowhere else to go.

Putting on my suit and tie and my fake smile, showing up for work at the hospital and acting like all this shit wasn't going on at home until I could save up enough for first months rent and a security deposit somewhere.

I'd had enough of selling U-Verse from door to door in Austin. I accepted a job offer with IBM over in North Carolina for 50k and I was on my way there in the Volvo.

But I was somewhere in downstate Illinois or Indiana for the night when I had a dream that I was in North Carolina and someone walked into the room with a gun and killed me and everyone else in it.

I couldn't shake this feeling off the next day. I turned the car around and I never went to North Carolina.

A few days later I got a phone call from a CTO I used to work for. He'd been tasked with straightening up a hospital chain in northwestern Indiana. Everything was in flames and he needed me to poke some sticks in the hornets nest and fix some problems. Was I available? Sure.

Nobody at the hospital liked me. I made a lot of changes to the environment that stabilized things and I also pissed off all of the incumbent IT people.

There was a congo line of idiots practically lined up in the hallway to go in and complain to the CTO that I had visible tattoos in violation of their dress code or whatever the fuck they were offended about that day.

Their CTO would just chuckle and say that the reason he brought me on board was because he knew they were all going to be angry about the changes and that he knew I was tough enough to take it and do what needed to be done anyway.

The only thing that ever cheered me up was a co-worker from Southern California who just laughed at all the drama and said "Ha! Those people just need to get out and live a little!"

Don't ever underestimate what a kind word can do for someone.

Susan had no idea that I was struggling at home and at work. I'd go back to Wayne's place and him and Derek would be all spun out of their minds cooking meth or GHB or whatever in the kitchen. Sometimes we'd have to evacuate the apartment because of a big purple cloud from the GHB, or I'd be like "hey you guys, you do realize that lithium is very volatile-" FWOOMP as the meth lab starts on fire from the moisture in the shower.

At least porcelain, cast iron, and tile don't burn.

One night they were sweating and trying to install the air conditioner in a third story window, and I saw they were going to drop it onto the sidewalk so I dived in and grabbed it by the power cord as it fell. I damn near went out the window with it but I saved it.

I still remember the beads of sweat coming out of Wayne's forehead as we all yanked it back in the window by the cord. Wayne then stepped on a wine glass and he needed 14 stitches in his foot, and I remember thinking, god damn, this isn't normal.

Unless you're on that drug and you're living that life or in that environment, and then it's totally normal. That's just a Tuesday, right?

The worst though, was probably when Wayne came home from the hospice. He would call me every couple of days and say he wanted to go to 'one of those meetings' with me, but then he wouldn't return any more calls or texts. I was being told not to associate with people who were still using drugs, but I had a bad feeling one day and went over there anyway.

I had a key to his place. And he'd apparently decided that his dialysis implant would be the perfect place to inject some crystal. It popped out. He was covered in blood and vomit. There was a bucket next to him full of blood and vomit.

The last thing he said to me, he grabbed my wrist and made me promise not to call 911.

I nodded, well I never broke a promise but I stepped out into the hallway, and went, okay, well he didn't say I can't call his brother and sister.

"He needs a goddamned ambulance. Right fucking now. "

I stepped back inside and I wet a washcloth and started washing the blood and puke off of his torso. He was totally out of it and the lights upstairs were barely on anymore. Too little too late. He died of sepsis over at Illinois Masonic a day or two later.

I left his apartment and went straight to the Friday beginner's meeting at the Center on Halsted. I was a few minutes late. I didn't hear a word the speaker said.

I listened as people raised their hands and talked about their various problems, all of which sounded very trivial to me. I was disgusted and annoyed but I did not share what had just happened. It isn't a suffering contest.

I think I left early. I went home and decided I was going to kill myself.

I was going to fold my laundry and put it away and hang myself from the closet door.

I don't know why the laundry mattered. You're killing yourself right? Fuck the laundry anyway.

I waited for the dryer.

I took my clothes upstairs.

I folded them.

I started to contemplate how I was going to do it. 

I was leaning towards hanging or homemade chlorine gas.

It was a little after 8:00pm when my cell phone rang.

Texas number.

It was Dan from AT&T.

"Do you have a minute to talk? We want to know if you'd like to come to Austin. We're going to extend an offer."

I had nothing to lose.

I agreed.

I hung up the phone and wept.

That's how Texas happened.

I called 1 800 GOT JUNK and just had them come take everything away the next day. The old joke was that they were my favorite "moving company."

I got in my Trailblazer and I was on my way down I-55 or I-65 or something when I got the phone call that Wayne had passed away.

I pulled over to the shoulder and bawled for about an hour.

A state patrol came and knocked on the window, asked me if I was okay. When I said what had just happened he nodded and backed away slowly.

Posted at at May 25, 2017 on Thursday, May 25, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

Check, please.

Tonight's lesson was on different types of relationships and different kinds of dysfunctional relationships.

I was like uh huh. 







"What's your takeaway from tonight?"

Oh, to stop lusting after that boy in front of me.

I can't say that though.

"Uh, I'm never dating again?"

"I don't believe that."

Yeah, me either. :-/

Posted at at May 24, 2017 on Wednesday, May 24, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

Cool story, hoe.

"That's a cool story, you should put that in a book."

"Meh, he was only good for three pokes and a squirt. I don't think I could even fill a pamphlet with that story."

Posted at at May 24, 2017 on by |   | Filed under:

"When I stayed in to study on Saturday nights they were extremely kind to me because they thought I was so brave, working the way I did just to hide a broken heart." 

-- Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)

Posted at at May 24, 2017 on by |   | Filed under:

Not Tripping

"I have a policy against talking to guys in their first year of sobriety."

Alright. Well, I have a policy against talking to cockhungry fisting bottoms from WeHo, and yet here we are!

Posted at at May 23, 2017 on Tuesday, May 23, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

Drink Me

I tried "sober living" in Texas 8 years ago.

Some guy I knew off of LiveJournal had invited me to Texas initially, and he meant well but his houseboy was a flaming hideous cunt and pathological user who thought I was moving in on his mark (one, not interested, two, I can get a job and a place to live with my fucking legs closed, OH, and by the way bitch your album sucks) wasn't having none of me and hey, I don't stay anywhere I'm not welcome unless they're serving coffee in the basement, so after a few weeks of that I politely thanked them for their hospitality and off I went.

I was going from door to door selling AT&T U-Verse and sleeping in my Volvo when I found an ad for "sober" living on Craigslist.

The "sober house" was a little sketchy and the owner was this sleazebag named Otto who claimed to have 21 years clean though word was that he'd been drunk off his ass at several meetings that year. I would sit there listening to him on the phone spouting off different lies with different people, describing himself as the property owner, or the manager, or just as a resident depending on the conversation.

"I am the owner."

"I'll talk to the owner."

"I am the manager."

"I'll talk to the manager."

The guy was a trip.

Then one day, he reconfigured my 10x12' room to accommodate four people, installed bunk beds in the garage, and then started moving people in.

I was like, "I think it's time to go sleep in my Volvo again."

Otto refused to give my security deposit back.

He edited my lease, removed the portion about getting my security deposit back after moving out, and said "this is your new lease."

I said "That isn't how a lease works."

He wouldn't budge, so I started posting ads on Craigslist about the 8 Mexicans living in the garage.

He e-mailed me and taunted me that he didn't care what I was doing and to just go right ahead.

I had $5 to my name and no gas in my Volvo.

I spent my last $5 on a 40-ounce can of Heineken, which I took a sharpie marker and wrote "Drink me, asshole" on.

I drove to the sober house and put it in the mailbox for Otto.

Well. He did drink it.

He left me a drunk ranting voicemail that my $250 was in the mailbox and I'd better come get it before one of the other residents did.

The last I heard, everyone in the house was drinking and doing heroin after that. Just me and one other dude that got the fuck out of there sober.

I've no idea where my last $250 to my name even got me other than from there to here.

Posted at at May 23, 2017 on by |   | Filed under:


I blew up in my last session because we've taken four weeks to go over a chapter and it's a non-TSF curriculum that the "facilitator" brought back to pithy NA platitudes and cliches about praying and turning it over to your higher power.

I was like "where does it say anything about that in this chapter?" and I asked her if she was actually qualified to conduct these sessions or if she was just a 12-step plant, because I can go hear this shit at NA for free. In fact, I have been hearing this shit at NA for the last 10 years and here I am.

She emailed my therapist and said she thinks I'm loaded.

I snorted and said "See? I told you she doesn't know what the fuck she's doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Well the others are, clinicians and therapists and stuff. She's a junkie spouting NA drivel."

His eyes bugged out.

I was like, "y'all can have my piss, my hair, my blood, my breath, my fingernails, whatever."

"No, that's okay, I believe you."

I told him exactly what I'd said in group.

"Oh, she didn't say any of that in her e-mail."

"Meh. She probably can't spell platitudes."

Posted at at May 22, 2017 on Monday, May 22, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

I like to go to San Francisco, I like to go ... with my legs in the air!

I guess I'm the snake charmer or something. Another one fell asleep on my chest.

I looked around the room. 

It was cluttered and full of artwork and happy, healthy looking plants.

This one's the real deal, you know, one of those old school queens with the fierce spiritual and artistic legacy and whatnot.

How delightfully anachronistic. 

Very San Francisco.

I felt like I'd stepped into a time capsule.

He twitched and spasmed as he slept.

I frowned and wondered what happened to this one.

I can't fall asleep with strangers. 

I didn't mind. His taste in music was dope as fuck.

I laid there listening for awhile, trying not to dance in his bed.

I had a flashback of listening to the Redemption album on mushrooms with Basil, watching the silver foil highlights in the wallpaper dancing while we tripped.

There was a time and a place (back in the covered wagon days) in San Francisco when we ordered all our drugs from the Sears catalogue and then went to the End Up for three days straight ... then you'd be invited to an after after after-hours orgy in a closed furniture store after its business hours or something.

I couldn't help myself.

I started tapping my foot. I snapped a finger.

I was like, "Fuck yeah. Dope!"

I wanted to just get up and go dancing right then and there.

Then it cut into some track I managed to ID later that was basically shitposting:

"Understand that nobody has asked about Baby Judy. "


"It might have crawled out the back door for all I know?"

"Such a tiny little thing, it's easy to lose."

I started giggling.

What the fuck are we listening to, anyway?

"I've got to make sure I didn't put it in the oven with the pizza."

I cracked up laughing and woke him up.

I got dressed and on my way out I kissed him on his forehead and told him that he was my favorite trick ALL day.

He laughed.

Posted at at May 21, 2017 on Sunday, May 21, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

[Narrator]: 66 miles into Oregon, "Fuck, why did I do this?"

Me: Yay, I'm out of Commiefornia!

Also Me: Oregon and Washington aren't any better.

No woofs if you live in the Pacific Northwest, please.

"Sorry, it's just a preference." 😬

Oregon people are a little interesting. They're loud, gregarious, chatty, extroverted, they'll talk your goddamn head off, they yell across restaurants, the guy pumping your gas usually reminds you of someone from the movie Fargo. Everywhere I go I'm just like "wow, these people are obnoxious as hell and loud and full of life."

Most of them have dark features and that's sexy enough to ignore the man buns.

The coast is beautiful.

Portland is like hell on earth for someone like me and yet sometimes I wonder if I'd be a kinder person if I moved there and let them pry my shell open. Trust me, it's not optional, I've tried ignoring them, it doesn't work, they just keep chattering away. πŸ˜‚

They have like no social cues or boundaries so putting on a bitch face or a front or trying to construct a wall just doesn't work. Haha. Defense mechanism fail.

I mean seriously where else are you going to go where random people are so welcoming and conversational and cheerful and give a shit about approaching or engaging or knowing you?

Key West, kind of, but you have to get them to break the wall by either being local and recognized as a repeat customer or actually engaging them on a personal rather than a transactional level. Ask the waitress or the cashier about her day or what she likes about her life down there or something like that. You have to signal that it's ok to drop the guards.

Chicago is all about ignoring everyone around you and staring at your smartphone or wearing headphones to avoid letting any of them engage you.

It's actually kind of sad. I'm not saying I like or prefer that. 

It's just what I am acclimated to.

A big lonely city where no one knows or gives a shit who you are, and you aren't even sure who the neighbors are.

I don't even know how to handle Oregonians honestly. This isn't the first time I've been here, I've been in towns all over the state. And yeah, they're really fucking cute and really fucking gregarious.

It's an introverts nightmare. πŸ˜‚

What do you do when people are so nice to you?

The last time I was in Portland was back in November and they were rioting over Trump.

I'm old and tired and wanted no part of that. I watched most of it on the news from my hotel, cheering weakly for a guy in a mask who picked up the tear gas cannister and threw it back. I just went Portland, eh? These little beavers are like pissed off fire ants!

But I cut that trip a little short and stayed in an oceanfront resort off of the 101 seeing that it clearly wasn't a good night to be wandering around in downtown Portland. 

The lady that ran that place was more subdued and soft spoken but she had the aura and radiance of a yoga type person and she couldn't have been more hospitable or sweet. Her greeting was warm and it rolled off her tongue like honey. I felt safe and cozy and comfortable in my little coccoon that night, watching everyone riot on the news with a bowl of popcorn in my lap.

I've already raised my hell and then some. We have some folks agitating for a race war or a civil war and they may get their wish in my lifetime, God help us.

10/10 keks, though, Oregon.

Posted at at May 20, 2017 on Saturday, May 20, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

Nobody normally misses me when I'm gone.

My new drug of choice is some boy in group.

He'll lean in and I'll lean in and I could just go to sleep like that in my chair and that'd be okay with me.

He complimented my eyes on Tuesday.

I turned red and ran away.

Today he wanted to know if I was any better at taking a compliment or if I was going to run away again.

I dunno. Try me. Probably?

I was feeling less bashful today when I shared that I was overwhelmed with intense emotions and I didn't know any other way to cope with them other than to crave the steering wheel and the radio and the open highway as if it were a bag of dope.

He lit up and got a glint in his eye at that.

I think a couple people understood that one actually.


But oh man, if that's your idea of a good time? That's kinda fucking hot.

Whatever at least I'm not fiending for dope to bury all these intense and unpleasant emotions, fuck it, where are my keys?

I'm going back to Seattle as soon as this stupid fucking group is over.

"I got a war in my mind so I'll just ride."

I suspect these two facilitators hate me and probably can't wait until I relapse.

It's gotta suck to have me on your caseload.

Anyway it's mutual. Eh bien, continuons.

Before I had a chance to bolt out the door he asked me if liked whatever this was about.


He dropped something in my hand and asked me promise to return to group and give it back to him.

I grinned.

Ok, I'll miss him a little too.

Uh, I meant to say, "Maybe. Fuckers."

*Tries to mean mug you all and look hard*

Posted at at May 19, 2017 on Friday, May 19, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

Oh Well.

"In bed at 4 PM, I held my pillow and thought 'oh well' in regards to my entire life." - Tao Lin

Posted at at May 18, 2017 on Thursday, May 18, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

Thuggish Rugg

He asks, "What is thuggish rugg?"

I look down.



I pressed play and he started cracking up.


Posted at at May 14, 2017 on Sunday, May 14, 2017 by |   | Filed under:


I wasn't really paying attention when I saw two open parking meters. I was surprised to see a spot open and I proceeded to park in one of them.

I stepped out and squinted at the signs a little closer:

(Valet parking only on Friday and Saturday nights.)

One of the two people that were on the sidewalk outside of some nightclub were apparently valets and they got all haughty with me:

"Sir this is for valet parking."

I beg your fucking pardon? Maybe I want you valet my car!

I played dumb:

"Oh, shit! I'm sorry! I thought you were just vagrants or drug addicts or something out here asking for change!"

Posted at at May 13, 2017 on Saturday, May 13, 2017 by |   | Filed under:


There is an old Hasidic story of a rabbi who had a conversation with the Lord about Heaven and Hell. "I will show you Hell," said the Lord, and led the rabbi into a room containing a group of famished, desperate people sitting around a large, circular table. In the center of the table rested an enormous pot of stew, more than enough for everyone. The smell of the stew was delicious and made the rabbi's mouth water. Yet no one ate.

Each diner at the table held a very long-handled spoon -- long enough to reach the pot and scoop up a spoonful of stew, but too long to get the food into one's mouth. 

The rabbi saw that their suffering was indeed terrible and bowed his head in compassion.

"Now I will show you Heaven," said the Lord, and they entered another room, identical to the first -- same large, round table, same enormous pot of stew,  same long handled spoons. Yet there was a gaiety in the air; everyone appeared well nourished, plump, and exuberant.

The rabbi could not understand and looked to the Lord. "It is simple," said the Lord, "but it requires a certain skill. You see, the people in this room have learned to feed each other."

Posted at at May 12, 2017 on Friday, May 12, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

All or Nothing

I'd heard the backstory about the founder.

She had behavioral problems and she'd been kicked out of every group in town.

So she went off and founded this place. It helps thousands of people every month.

I knew it was her when I saw her.

She had a couple stacks of paper for a staff training exercise.

She started to explain it, and I said "these are hexidecimal color codes."

She lit up.

Each piece of paper was broken up into a grid representing a master code with the hex codes for all 256 shades of grey. In HTML and graphics, colors are represented by a hex code , with #00 00 00 being black at one end and #FF FF FF being white at the other end.

The other stacks of paper contained variations of greys in the 16K color range. (The color range can actually extend into the millions. On older computers/graphics processing hardware, they'd pruned that down to about 256 colors on your screen... over time that became 32,000 colors, then 64,000 colors and so on and so on and so on .. my Mac can display millions of colors with four or five scaled resolution options.)

What's the point of the exercise?

Survivors of abuse and trauma are prone to "black and white" thinking, that is to say, "I like you right up until the point that you do or say something that I don't like."

And then it isn't "I'm upset about this thing you said."

It's "I don't like you anymore."


I watched this sweet old lady describe the exercise.

She's adorable.

I tried to imagine some hateful support group deciding that she was garbage and should be thrown away.

I just loved how she basically said "fuck you" and created all of this.

I teared up a little.

The point of the exercise was to get the staff to "match" shades of grey in the range of millions with the 256 shades of grey in the master sheet and then explain how they are not in fact the same color.

I didn't have it in me to pull the weaponized autism card and tell her that the printer in the office is only capable of printing about 32 shades of black and that the variations come from the ink, the paper, and imperfections in the printing process. It's very imprecise, if you printed the exact same document five times and held them up side by side none of them would match each other anyway.

"Okay, you're going to explain this one to the other staff."

"Oh! Well, what if I get it wrong? It'll be like a game of telephone then you know, where we have a chain of 5 people explain the exercise and then see what the end result looks like. That'd be a fun exercise too."

To do this correctly, you'd want to take it to Kinkos on a flash drive and print the sheets out on one of their COLOR printers...

Posted at at May 11, 2017 on Thursday, May 11, 2017 by |   | Filed under:

Kamikaze, eh?

We were on Facetime and I was telling him about some of the volunteer work I do, I was talking about how some of the folks who come in are court-ordered, and they're all mad about it and bitching that it's a bunch of bullshit and they got played, and blah blah blah and I ask them if they'd rather grab a broom and sweep the 101 or, you know, you can always tell the judge fuck off I'd rather be in jail -- right?

I talked about how the "probationers" might not be addicts but they probably have other stuff going on. Legal problems, living in rough neighborhoods, just living the life... and how I was sitting there with a couple of them just kicking it and talking about life. We were cutting up small pieces of paper for a staff training exercise and they were actually enjoying what they were doing so much that I pretended that I didn't know that there was a paper slicer that could have cut all of this paper in about two minutes flat.

I guess after I told him a couple stories about what I was up to lately, he was finally comfortable enough to tell me that he was extremely suicidal the night that I'd met him and that I looked "scary" and that he was just hoping I'd come over and kill him.

"But no, you were really sweet and smart and cool and-"

I just stared at my phone in disbelief.

I guess... that says a lot... about your needs versus my needs...

Posted at at May 10, 2017 on Wednesday, May 10, 2017 by |   | Filed under:


"Do you smoke?"

I almost asked, "smoke what?"

But I don't smoke anything: Cigarettes. Weed. Crank. Take your pick, the answer's the same:


"I talked to you before and you said you were high."

"I'm sure I was. I was probably about as fucked up as a lab rat!"

"But you don't now?"

"Nope. I've got a shot heart valve. It's got a few miles left on it, but no, not if I touch that shit again."

Once we'd negotiated our way around that, we got naked and crawled into his bed. 

He curled up and put his head on my shoulder and immediately fell asleep.

That was kind of cute.

I just listened to him snore lightly for awhile.

I haven't cuddled in a long time. I didn't mind.

I remembered some of the grounding exercises we'd gone over in group: 

(Describe the room you're in.)

(I liked the pretty blue lights on his ceiling.)

(We had the exact same Harmon-Kardon Bluetooth speaker.)

That was fine. For awhile.

Until a song came on the radio. I recognized it, and I didn't all the same:

"Do you feel you're in a dream? Is it real or hardly what it seems?"

"Do you wanna remember? Will it last forever?"

"Was it what you imagined? Or did it feel like magic?"

Oh, ok. Now I could place it:

"How would you feel? How would you know? If it was truly love?"

I kissed him on the forehead.

I'm usually coming from a place of love, not necessarily with a capital "L," and not always necessarily with the kind of guys who know how to love back.

I think this one's a nice enough dude.

(And I think it's time to leave.)

$3,700 later I finally got my fucking car back. I dropped the top and I blasted the radio heading home:


Some guy in a 3-Series played leapfrog with me and we got up to about 100MPH or so.

Hey, this is kind of fun.

I wouldn't say I'm happy but I feel okay.

Just hold on to this.

There is an awful lot of "not okay" in between where you were and where you are right now, and it's like crawling across broken glass to get back here.

I finally relaxed:

(You're out of there.)

(Let's go home.)

Posted at at May 09, 2017 on Tuesday, May 9, 2017 by |   | Filed under: