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Wasting Your Life 101

You know the most interesting thing about breaking a 24-hour fast by drinking a dozen beers? I’d tell you, but for some reason I can’t remember. I’ll have to do more research into the subject, as I’ve never experienced memory loss while fasting in the past.

I guess there’s a chance the beer had something to do with it, but who can say for sure?

Even though I should rightfully be comatose after sleeping 3 hours and working another 11-hour shift, I’ve decided to suck back a quick brew at good ol’ Chuck’s Roadhouse to do a little nonsensical writing.

I do have one problem though…

I don’t have jack shit going on in my life.

No good stories, no new adventures, no scantily clad women.

Fuck, I suck.

So I’m sittin’ here at Chucky’s hopin’ for something interesting to happen.

But it seems to be the same ol’ drunks in here… staring vacantly into a television the size of a billboard pumped with steroids (or possibly Oprah’s ass after Thanksgiving weekend, whatever analogy works for you), and sucking back beer after beer after beer. Hmm, kinda reminds me of another pathic junkie I’m far too intimately acquainted with… (insert “Me” emoticon here).

Okay, here’s a twist. Some hammered fuck who looks like Gordon Lightfoot just came up to me and asked if he could buy me a beer.

Sure, why not? Who am I to deny the generosity of a human who likely doesn’t remember his middle name?

But 3 minutes later, the cocksucker decided to forgo ordering my beverage, and jumped into a cab. Fucking tease.

Not that I really need another beer. But I do need something interesting to happen. Anything, really. The 11-hour-a-day drudgery of burger flipping has left me feeling very much like all the routine-obsessed, slave douchebags I love to shred.

Meh.

Realizing I’m a slave douchebag as well, doesn’t quite perk my spirit. But it does remind me that I’m a JFA (Judgemental Fucking Asshole — a new acronym I’m trying to introduce into texting culture). No surprise there. Maybe this evening is about a little self-reflection.

Hmm. No, that’s boring as fuck. We’ll forgo stupid philosophy at the moment.

Sometimes I just don’t understand the Universe. How come a team of hot Italian models, whacked out on mushrooms, doesn’t walk into this shithole? C’mon, God, throw me a frickin’ bone here! Gimme somethin’ I can work with!

But it’s still just the drunks. And now I’m sadly one of them. Even though I might seem productive typing away at my keyboard, I’m really just another jerk-off, like them. Sad, pathetic, lonely. Throw self-pitying into the mix, too.

But at least I’m writing — still in touch with my passion, and still getting in a goofy quip here and there.

Still no hot models. WTF. My manifestation skills are woefully inadequate.

So where does this piece go?

Apparently nowhere. Should I delete all this bullshit and go find my bed, or should I consider scoping out a local meth dealer to inseminate the evening with a little insanity?

Nah. Maybe one more quick beverage, then an hour or two of weeping into my pillow, before unconsciousness takes me for the night.

The drunks are disappearing quickly. The only guy left is the old fuck who I’m pretty sure walked into this building at 11:05 AM. Christ, how is this asshole still alive? I guess it’s possible he left for a few hours to nap or something, maybe beat off to animal porn, I dunno. But he started this day sitting at the bar for countless hours, and he’s ending it the same way. I doubt he even likes football, but he hasn’t broken his hypnotic stare at the telescreen. Quel surprise.

Still no cocaine-fuelled models. What a bullshit night.

Wait a second… I think the fossil just ordered food. What a grand way to wrap up 12 hours of drinking! Hey, waitress, deep fry me some chicken arms please, I need energy to snap one off to Blondes and German Shepherds 4 when I get home.

Hm. Those two letters just made my word count 666. Perhaps that’s God’s way of saying I should hit that delete button after all. Or maybe it’s Satan’s way of saying I should press on, regardless of not having anything productive to discuss.

But let’s think of this from an artist’s perspective — any amount of time you spend working on your craft is always time well spent.

Hold on… a new twist!

Some “Where’s Waldo” looking jackass just walked out of the kitchen, asking me to buy him a beer — one of the idiot kids at Chuck’s who would serve society better by drinking a pint glass of bleach.

He either lives in a broken down van, or with his crackhead roommate — I’m not sure, I tend to tune him out when he speaks. But I don’t mind shelling out a couple bucks once in a while to degenerates living paycheque to paycheque. I’ve been down that road. I can empathize.

I won’t use his real name in this post, so let’s call him Gerrit. Hmm. That name seems a bit contrived. We’ll refer to him as Gerrit Dale. That seems way faker.

Though he could clearly see I was immersed in some kind of creative project, it didn’t stop him from interrupting, and asking a series of inane questions. Shit like:

“Hey, Mike, do you think people who dye their hair are cool?”

and

“Hey, Mike, is it normal to drink 7 pots of coffee a day?”

and

“Hey, Mike, have you ever dropped acid with a large-breasted transvestite?”

Fucking weirdo.

But being the polite person I am, I closed my laptop and engaged in the trivial dialogue, and considered the possibility Chuck’s Roadhouse was a vortex sucking in lost and pathetic souls.

My friendly gambit ultimately paid off, as the kid offered to drive me and my car home. I agreed.

Sure, why not? Who am I do deny the generosity of a human who likely can’t spell his middle name?

So I’m home now, finishing this drivel to give myself a sense of accomplishment. Why you’re actually still reading is beyond me. I guess it can’t all be comedic gold here at BonerFruit, but at least be grateful it’s free. Even though you probably feel like I’ve stolen far too many moments of your life that could have been spent watching Dancing With the Stars, or grooming cats, you should give yourself a pat on the back for finishing something you started.

Good for you.

As for me, I’ll start mailing out apology letters.

Maybe homemade Xmas cards instead. Who dares be the first to give me their mailing address?

Perhaps a smarter move if you don’t…

Megadouche Strikes Again

I’ve decided that taking a break from illustrating the final drawings for my new book isn’t a form of procrastination — it’s a symptom of passion and kick-ass productivity.

Hmm. I might have to call bullshit on that one…

But whatever. The new drawings are so completely ludicrous, offensive, and ridiculous, that I had to take a moment to share something important with you…

I fucking rock.

Yeah, megalomania ain’t the most desirable trait in a human, but considering all the shit I’ve posted on this site in the last year and a half, why hold back now?

Sitting by my lonesome, sketching images of cats, wangs, and toilets, laughing myself silly at the stupidity pencilled to dollar-store paper, I realized just how much fun the entire process of compiling this book has been. Why I was hesitant to finish my final drawings is beyond me now. Momentum is a glorious force we don’t exploit to its fullest.

BonerFruit is still a young project, but it’ll go viral one day, along with the stupid books yet to spill forth from my keyboard. How do I know this? Simple, I’m fucking awesome. I don’t seek popularity to placate my fragile ego, I do this shit ’cause I love it. And I’m totally fucking hilarious. And fucking modest. To deny the world of my idiocy would be sinful.

Well, maybe not as soul-damning as coveting my neighbour’s ass (we’re talking donkey here, not the plump mounds jammed into skin-tight yoga pants), but a crime nonetheless.

Ya gotta do what you love, and if you’re not, you’ve missed the memo on enjoying your run on planet Earth. The stupid jobs sucking up our free time aren’t stupid at all — as long as you realize they’re a means to an end, and learn to treat them with as much silliness and frivolity as the projects you deem “meaningful.”

I have a blast at my slave-job. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. And even though I’d rather be writing and sailing the world, I know the burger-flipping is just another grand experience to be embraced, not resented. Living the moment is what it’s all about. Let me rephrase that… Living each moment joyously is what it’s all about. If you’re grumbling through each second of your day, you’ll end up a whiny, miserable fuck. So I say better to roll with the bullshit with a big smile on your face than bemoan why life has treated you unfairly.

Haha, I love this. I had no idea what was gonna unfold when I started typing this stupid post, but brilliance always seems to manifest.

More megalomania, but I giveth not a fuck.

I’m awesome.

If no one else sees that, there are no shits I will be giving. My head will rest easy at night despite my genius remaining unrecognized.

We all have something cool to offer society, so I say stop trying to fit in to whatever mold you think you should conform to, and let your madness run wild. People will always talk shit about you, no matter how wonderful you are, so stop trying to impress idiotic strangers, and focus on impressing yourself.

Geez, I always end up being a preachy asshole.

But you know what?

I fucking love it.

Back to crappy sketches…

Flow is More Than a Monthly Cycle…

As much as we love to believe we’re the most advanced culture to have ever walked the Earth, the truth of the matter is we have everything about as fouled up and backwards as a drunken dyslexic trying to figure out pants and shoes.

Much of our worldly chaos stems from choosing “Science” as the popular god of the day. But it’s really nothing more than another dogmatic belief system — one adept at manipulating the feeble minds of a dedicated herd, like any good organized religion.

The strange irony is that Science has actually brought to light a preponderance of observational insight with the potential to lead us toward a grander understanding of ourselves and the Universe, but has chosen to systematically slough off or ignore the ramifications of its findings, while categorizing the rest into neat and tidy little boxes of “proven” definitions and labels.

If you want a few tips on waking up to a more joyous tomorrow, read on with Mikey here for a bit, and we’ll sort out some of the nonsense that has us wandering through life like brain-damaged primates tripping on crappy mushrooms.

Science should rightfully be the study of everything — open to unbiased consideration of any and all bizarre phenomena that occurs daily in this wacky realm.

But it isn’t. It creates “theories” and “facts” — which can never ultimately be proven under ever-changing and evolving conditions — and disregards with prejudice anything that can’t be measured with the “most-advanced” tools at hand.

That makes life somewhat unfun for people who’ve had glimpses beyond the veil. Whether talking about lucid dreaming, psychic abilities, other-worldy civilizations, or whatever else is mocked by the gods that be, our culture has been taught to ridicule an open-minded person as a conspiratorial nut-job who lacks a grip on “reality.”

Sad.

But instead of feeling shamed or frustrated trying to share ideas with others who’ve been convinced the “truths” of science are absolute and unalterable, I’ve discovered a certain degree of alienation and solitude is absolutely conducive to advancing a quest to garner greater understanding into the mysteries of existence.

Life here on Earth is really just a game of perspective. When you change your perspective, you change your world. It’s that simple. To illustrate my point, Let’s look at a couple simple experiments good ol’ science has shared with us…

Science discovered that if white light was passed through a prism, the elemental nature of its information could be diffracted. Red appeared. Orange appeared. Yellow appeared. But there’s no ultimate separation between any of them. If you’ve ever had the good fortune of seeing a rainbow, you know exactly what I mean. It’s all one stream of information in a continuous flow. Breaking down the Oneness of light into individual, separate frequencies — defining a unified entity as a machine full of individual parts — is the perfect example of why/how humans have lost their holistic understanding of the world.

This applies just as readily to the human body. Wanna know why everyone is sick, dying, and coming down with rampant diseases that didn’t exist a hundred years ago? Because we’ve been taught separation. We’ve been taught each organ within us is different from the others. Doctors are all specialists now, choosing to focus on the heart, the kidneys, the brain, whatever, without acknowledging each cell within us is connected to the other.

How do you possibly say where the heart ends, and where the kidneys begin? When do stomach cells start becoming liver cells? The human body is an interconnected, unified flow. If one “part” is sick, it means the entire organism is sick. Allopathic medicine will never be successful curing illness if it perceives the body like a sputtering car. You can’t pump drugs into a system to treat a specific body part without affecting the rest of the system.

Why do you think everyone over 70 has 15 vials of drugs in their cabinet?

This one is for my heart. I take this one for my cholesterol. This one is to reduce the flatulence I get from taking the one to treat my heart. This one prevents the swelling in my legs that occurs when I take the one to correct my cholesterol. And I’m not sure what this one is, but I take it anyway, ’cause I really trust Dr. Frankenbaum. He has a pretty smile, and always asks about my cats.

But luckily there’s no need to cure illness anymore. Selling drugs to mask whatever symptoms appear has become the protocol of the day. Western doctors are pretty much drug pushers now, funded by the industry known as Big Pharma, whose sole existence stems from profiting on the suffering of humanity.

Body parts don’t get sick, the organism gets sick. Instead of treating localized symptoms piecemeal, a new approach need be adopted. But it’s not a new approach — holistic healing has existed long before the first shaman went into a dream to glean other-dimensional insight into physical ailments.

The Einstein theorem declares that matter and energy are one. Science will tell you that light, sound, vibration, and frequency are all the same thing. When we realize we are electrical beings made of matter, interconnected with one another inside a floating snowglobe in space, breathing the same air and soaking in the same sunlight, maybe, just maybe, we might come to the realization that our individual perceptions of self are fallacy. Each action we choose to partake in will ultimately affect everything else around us, including our own well-being.

As much as I’d like to rant on, this piece is getting long, so let’s get into the nitty-gritty of how you can wake up feeling re-born tomorrow…

It’s simple.

You are not the individual you’ve defined yourself to be. You are a flow. You are a wavelength of a greater continuum that can never be defined. I’m a hypocrite for saying this, but Science has a word that I have to admit I don’t mind — equilibrium. The nature of the Universe is to self-balance. When you stop trying to control everything, it happens naturally. Become water. Let yourself flow through whatever scenario you encounter, and allow the Universe to do what is does best — pull you to a place of tranquility where you can be still.

The eddies and currents of life are not something to stress over, they are the unexpected twists that make it all fun. In the end, our meat-suits will all decay and die, so why waste another moment in grief?

The science facts of today will become the science folly of tomorrow, so you know what I say? Go grab a big bag of leaches, and enjoy the day.

If you’re not having fun, what’s the fucking point?

Professional Crastinator

I wouldn’t say procrastination is a trait humans should strive to perfect, but if awards were given out for people putting shit off till the last minute, my bookshelf would be littered with them, sitting beside the old hockey trophies and plaques engraved with words like Second Place, Participant, and Thanks For Showing Up, Loser.

I learned an important lesson yesterday about winterizing a boat engine. It goes like this — don’t wait until 9 feet of snow pours down from the heavens before you do it. Perhaps that seems like obvious advice, but lessons never really hit home with me until I actually jam a fork into the proverbial electrical outlet.

If you ever procure a new sailboat, I would advise you to not wait until the outside temperature hits a balmy minus 10 before you tie up the loose ends of draining your engine, bilge, and water tanks. Oh, and pumping out the shit tank is always a wise move as well.

Meh, so maybe I fucked up. Stripped bolts and unfamiliar plumbing left me a tad frustrated yesterday. Snow blowing into my cabin didn’t make anything more pleasant, and I really hate losing the feeling in my toes. My excuse of saying Working 55 hours a week distracted me from following through with a job that needed to be done is bullshit. I really just didn’t expect winter to hit so fast here. What the fuck is wrong with this country? Palm trees and fresh coconuts should be our birthright, not a travel reward.

Bah!

Anyhoo, writing this blog post isn’t really furthering my cause of finishing the last few drawings for my latest magnum opus. But a lesson I love to repeatedly share is you have to follow through with what inspires you in the moment. Though I’m technically procrastinating again, I’m still in a zone of productivity, ’cause I love to put stupid words to paper every chance I get.

I’m gonna keep this piece short, because I should really get back to my main task at hand. But there’s a Gandhi quote I was thinking of sharing on Daily Bread in the near future that just popped into mind:

Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.

I fucking like it.

Focus Pocus

Time for a little ranting. Nothing like a solid bitch-fest to purge one’s soul of the endless supply of emotional toxicity we all love to generate.

You know what I liked the most about not having a full-time job?

Not having a full-time fucking job.

I’m not sure how people do this shit their entire lives, but after a month of it, I’m ready to play hobo again. Routine doesn’t seem to bring out the best in me.

But I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’ve made a commitment to my new friends/bosses, and I plan to see it through till the end. And the extra cash will always come in handy sailing the oceans. Apparently Haitian hookers don’t accept coconuts for barter anymore. Bah, what a world…

It’s not so much the job that’s the problem, it’s the lack of time to work on projects I truly give a shit about. I have no qualms helping others or sacrificing my time to further the things important to them, but I’ve lost a balance necessary to keep my brain from gravitating to thoughts that the human experience is an exercise in complete fucking futility.

But whenever I find myself down, a change in perspective always seems to provide medicine to whatever mental illness is festering in my head. And that’s really what life comes down to — the way you choose to react to your situation at hand.

While pondering this “glass half-full/half-empty” philosophy, my roommate just kicked over his beer, and now we’re in an argument over whether the carpet is half-wet or half-dry. Bah!

Kidding aside, we need to remind ourselves we are always masters of our own fate — our thoughts, our choices, and our boneheaded decisions have put us exactly where we are, and it’s up to us to either be grateful for the opportunities awaiting on the horizon, or bitch and whine that life is tough, cruel, and unfair.

So many problems lie in wanting immediate gratification, and new technologies have done nothing but exacerbate our short attention spans and lack of patience.

But living is a process. Skipping “Step B” to get to “Step C” pretty much always fucks things up. Especially when working with Ikea furniture. Did I mention how much I fucking hate Allen keys?

We need to ground ourselves in whatever “step” we currently find ourselves in — embrace it, enjoy it, fully accept it, and love it. We need to remind ourselves each phase is transitory, which is the greater reason to be present to it, before it fades.  Always living for the endgame completely misses the point of playing.

Control is a complete illusion. We’ll never have whatever whims tickle our fancy appear instantly before us, and we’ll never have a guarantee that the things we take for granted will last indefinitely. Acceptance of our endlessly fragile state is the only way to ward off insanity.

So instead of going back to bed and trying to futiley escape this reality through unconsciousness, I’m getting my ass in gear to finish what needs to be finished. I’m slipping it into high-gear. Shit’s gonna get done — not because it has to, but because I want it to.

I’m excited to get my new book released, but I can’t touch that project until I finish editing another book that’s on my plate, which is going painfully slowly. But the more I immerse intentionality and purpose into it, the faster it will reach completion — like everything else in life.

My advice today? Focus on the now, and fuck the future. It’ll always be a bunch of empty promises. The path we currently saunter down is the only one that matters. Embrace your challenges of the day, and put your anxiety about the unknown twists down the road deep in your backpack. Stress serves no purpose but to ruin the only time we have — right now.

Although there’s more I could add to this post, like how much I hate 80 year-old cocksuckers ordering well-done filet mignon, I have bigger fish to fry at the moment.

How ’bout some words of wisdom from Dr. Seuss to end this spiel…

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep, because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

Peace out homies.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

10,000 things to share, but only a thousand words to do it in.

Bah!

It’s tragic our society has developed such a terrible attention span, but if I expect a blog post to get read, brevity is a must. Stupid fucking Twitter-moron programming.

I had a wonderful, happy, positive spiel to lay down last week, but everything turned south faster than you can say Colonel Sanders sucks chicken cocks by the seashore.

Lemme explain…

In typical, procrastinating Mike fashion, everything on my plate was waiting for “next week.” I needed to drop the mast on my boat, schedule a time to lift out of the water, and contact the dude who agreed to scrap it.

After a punishing 3 days of 12-hour shifts at the restaurant, I was content to laze around most of the week, and sleep in late. But at 7 AM Thursday morning, my phone rang, and I alertly scrambled through the mess on my boat to pick it up — it was Bob, AKA Scrappydoo. He said he would be in town the following week to consolidate other junk removal in the area, and if I wanted his services, it was now or never.

Yikes!

I called the marina office to arrange a lift-out time, but the day was booked, and I was scheduled to work the rest of the weekend. That was a potential problem. I’d likely have to pay off Peever, the douchebag marina overlord, to pull me out of the water on a day they don’t normally schedule liftouts. Fuck.

So I texted my buddy Scott to help me lower the mast, and he came down to the marina within a few hours. That was a bonus. At least the ball was rollin’. In the middle of the process, while I was trying to unbolt the base pin on my mast step, my phone rang. Peever was on his way down to take another boat out of the water, and if I was ready, he’d do me next. Well, lift me out of the water I should have said. He’s been doing me up the ass with dock fees the last 3 years.

Fucking sweet. Things were looking better by the moment.

After getting through another work weekend, the next thing to deal with was tearing my boat apart to give the hardware to my buddy. I worked the first day by my lonesome while Scott finished his last shift at the mine, which left us only one day to get the remaining bulk of work done.

He was tired, but he showed up ready to rock. We spent a surprisingly enjoyable 12-hour day carving up the boat that I thought would be my potential home the rest of my ocean-sailing life. The odds seemed against us, but we pulled our shit together and got ‘er done. We learned a few things that made my new boat decision seem like an even more brilliant move — such as the decaying particle-board core lining my deck. That would have been a horrible surprise if I’d followed through with my initial plans to fully renovate the boat.

I slept on Big Boner Bird that night in the other marina across the bridge, and biked down early in the morning to give Scrappydoo access to the card-controlled gate entrance.

I had a bit of time to kill, so I started writing a blog post about “Celebration Day.” Something to do with hard work, dedication, perseverance, and other bullshit that I anticipated coming to fruition after my old boat was scrapped.

Just as I started writing, Bob texted, informing me he would be arriving early. I closed my laptop and biked up to the gate to let him in. In the span of 10 minutes, my big post about celebrating a job well done turned to shit. The first thing Scrappydoo did was pull out a drill and magnet, to test my keel. The specs on my Nash 26 keel design turned out to be pure bullshit. It quickly became apparent my lead keel was, in fact, steel.

Bobby was pissed. Not only was he quick to inform me there would be no free removal of my hull, but he would be charging me a $150 service fee to show up under false pretenses.

Fuck.

If I wanted the boat removed, it would be a further 1200 bucks.

Fuck.

He left in a huff, and I went to sit down on the nearby park bench to formulate a new plan.

But I didn’t freak out. My sober-minded thoughts boiled down to Relax, Mike, a new plan will present itself…

If I waited to deal with my broken hull till next year, fucking Peever would charge me 400 bucks for winter storage. So I made a snap decision. Scrappydoo had only driven away 10 minutes earlier. He wouldn’t be far. I called him back.

“Hey Bobby, It’s Mike.”

“Hi Mike.”

“You still wanna scrap this thing? I’ll pay you.”

“Sure, be right back.”

His pissy attitude became nicey-nicey again. I biked back to the gate to let him in, and he informed me that if I paid him cash, he wouldn’t charge me taxes.

Cool.

Back at the boat, I asked if an e-transfer would be acceptable. Of course, he said.

So I watched his fucked up process for the next hour as he ran a zip cut through my keel, and realized he couldn’t use his winch to pull the hull off my trailer. He ended up deciding to run my rig to a dump an hour away — a dump that had a lift to dispose of my junker.

When he got back — safe and sound — he informed me my e-transfer went through fine, but because I chose that method of payment, taxes would be involved. I owed him money.

You must be fucking kidding me.

An e-transfer is cash, dumbass. Just as I was considering shaking his hand to thank him for his work, all I could envision was punching him in the balls.

Bah!

So now I was out 1350 to scrap a boat that I thought would cost nothing to dispose of. That put a big kibosh on the stupid “celebration” blog post.

After an evening of lamenting at Scott’s house, my final thoughts of the night resolved to positivity. The old boat was off my plate, and the new one rocked. Yeah, I was out some unexpected bucks, but when it comes down to it, I do lead a bit of a charmed life. Another sober-moment thought said, No worries, Mikey, God will balance it all out for you before long.

So, 3-days later, in a Price is Right Moment, God said:

What’s behind curtain number 2?

(Dramatic Pause)

A new car!

Haha. Not quite God’s doing, but a fun moment nonetheless. My brother, the dude with a heart of gold, just bought a new vehicle, and offered me his old one. One of his texts during the process said:

Bluebook value, 4 K. Your cost, 0 K.

How could I say no?

Although I could have bought my own machine anytime in the last 3 years, my decision not to do so always had to do with my aversion to give corrupt insurance companies a single penny out of my pockets, or pay a corrupt motherfucking government transfer taxes on a vehicle that already had taxes paid on it. What a wonderfully fucked system we live under. Praise Jesus we’re “free.”

But the Universe tends unfolds the way it should, so I was ecstatic to accept his generous gift, to see what new games were in store. My brother and mother have always been incredibly giving and supporting of me, and I always think of them when it comes to the way humans should treat one another on the planet.

Fuck, I’m getting way over my word limit here.

But that’s okay. Ramble is what this stupid site is about. Possibly egomania and self-aggrandization too, but let’s not get into that now.

At the end of the day, it all works out. I love this life. I love people, and I love the opportunities I’ve been provided to grow, evolve, and learn to appreciate all the gifts that have come my way.

Okay Mikey, shut the fuck up already. Carry on another time. Much more to discuss, but other issues press. Dick jokes on Daily Bread ain’t writin’ themselves.

Kudos to my family and friends who prop up my sorry ass. You guys rock. I humbly bow to your generosity and selfless actions.

Life is a fun ride if you embrace it with gratitude and a bit of humility. Perhaps I lack in the humility department, but I’m certain I’ll alwyas excel at self-humiliation.

New books coming out soon, including a poetry tome written by my mother, which I need to spend some serious hours editing this week.

Stick around, the good times are always ramping up.

Peace, friends, life is good.