Cleared for Takeoff

Writing a blog post to the backdrop of Nine Inch Nails "Pretty Hate Machine" probably isn't conducive for finding my happy place.

But I'm not going to lie.

I'm not in a happy place right now.  I mean, sure, overall my life is pretty fucking good--all things considered.

But I feel like I'm on a ledge. As I'm walking, I can see the nice safe pastures to my right....the sunny-day goal ahead. The bliss that awaits if I stay the course. And then...in my periphery I see the chasm. It's a post-apocalyptic night mare of choices I didn't take in my life.

"Just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be..."

Preach it Trent.

I know this isn't comfortable for a lot of you. Everyone has been trying to cheer me up about the impending surgery. Trying to tell me that things are going to work out.

And...dude.  Trust me. I know.

That part of it is common sense. At least it is to me. You see...of course it is going to work out the way it needs to. Everything does. Now...the trick is to understand the phrase the way it needs to. Sometimes that doesn't necessarily jive with how we think this life is actually going to turn out.

Hence the chasm of 'see what you missed, fucktard?'

Here's what you need to know about me.

I'm not happy.

Not all the time.

But I'm also not sad.

If that makes any sense.

You see...I figured out quite a long time back in my life that I have a well of darkness in the forest of my soul. That well is boarded over. Someone said that the darkness was bad. So they tried to cover it. And keep people like me from drinking from the well.

But I learned something.  When I'm 'happy'...clinically happy....that sterile, saccharin sunshine and rainbows happiness that has fueled a millions dollar self-help industry....when I'm that guy, then I don't create.

From 1994-2000, I wrote 1400+poems/songs/lyrics. From 2001-2012....less than a handful. I think medication played a large part of that. I don't take anything now. And I'm writing on the blog quite a bit.

And more importantly..I'm actually journalling again. And I'm working on the actual books buried in me.

Yeah. Go me.

But fuck man...I need some of this darkness that makes people uncomfortable. And it really does. When I'm quiet, introspective Todd, it freaks people the fuck out. I'd apologize for that, but I need to be still. I need to recharge. I need to wade through this muck.  I have to be able to pick and choose what I need from it.

It's not something that everyone can understand. And to be fair, I'm not sure that sober-Todd will read this tomorrow and have any fucking idea what I was talking about. But I suspect he will. Because he lives this most days.

There's a passage I wrote somewhere...sometime ago...and I'm going to paraphrase it and expand on it so you know why I'm not always so quick to jump on the Happy Time Express...

If there were only light, we would have no definition.  If you look at the paintings of the great masters....the photographs of the true artists....the great stories....

All have shadows. Prominent patches where there is no light.

That's the only way you can see what is truly there.

So...please believe me when I tell you...I'll make it through this patch. I know that. I've been here before. You just didn't notice

But trust me...I'm dipping in the well of this darkness to help build the definition of what's going to be happening next in my life.

Thank you for your love and support....it is, at times, truly a life line

Alright...I think my grown up root beer needs some attention.

Goodnight Trent.

Goodnight friends.



Routine Bullshit

So...here's the thing.

First off. Thank you. I know you're just trying to help.

I know they do these kinds of neck surgeries all the fucking time. And that they've done literally thousands of them.

I get that.

But dig....they don't do it all the fucking time--on me. And they  haven't done literally thousands of these operations to me.

It will be the second time in my life that someone has slit my throat on purpose.

Oh. Right. Perhaps I should give you some background as to why I don't give a flying fuck how routine an operation is.

In 1997, I had open heart surgery. It was NOT routine. The thing they were fixing was. But the operation was new technology. Instead of splitting my chest open and cracking my ribs, they had a new method called the keyhole method. They slit under my right breast. They went around behind my rib cage and did what they needed to do. I was assured that the surgeon performing this had done this literally hundreds of times and that he was pioneering this method. I was convinced.

Only there were complications.

Because NOTHING about intentionally slicing someone open is fucking routine.

The complications involved pumping 5L of fluid from one lung....nearly dying of pneumonia...having another operation to rebuild my chest wall...and being minutes away from actually losing a lung.

So...while I do appreciate that you want to talk me off the ledge, you have to know that this isn't some irrational bullshit I've come up with about going under the knife. It was a combined 15 days over 3 trips to the hospital in the Fall/Winter of 1997.

Logically I know what they are doing.

Logically I am able to process it.

Logically know that the recovery will likely not be anywhere as terrible as it's being made out in the part of my mind that likes to make shit up to scare me.

Again. I get it.

Something else you might not know. That winter in 1997. When I spent all that time in the hospital the second time; my wife never came to see me. Not one time. My daughter was also sick. I saw my mother in law quite a bit. I saw a minister who was a friend of my brother's. And I got to know the incredible family of a man dying of cancer (and finding out that his sons went to Westerville South with me).

But with few exceptions. I have never felt more alone in my life than I did those 3 weeks in December of 1997.

And yes..I know...I have an amazing network of friends who have all reached out for me.  And that's all well and good. But I'm not going to feel the solitude then.

I'm feeling it now.

At 3 in the morning. When I wake up  and roll over and there's nothing there but a wall.  I chose this. I know that better than any of you. But that doesn't make it any easier sometimes.

I guess what it comes down to is...fuck man. I'm scared.

They are cutting my neck to fuck around with my spine.

Routine my ass.

50 years ago...hell 20 years ago, this shit was science fiction.

I'm holding on to the fact that, at this very moment, I cannot honestly remember what it feels like to wake up and not be in pain.  I'm holding on to the fact that I have people who love me and are going to check in on me and not let me wallow in whatever the fuck people wallow in after having their neck cut..

Those things are helping me fight through the fear. Helping me calm down and take a breath when I wake up alone. Letting me go back to sleep.

And that's the life I'm living right now. Someday there might be a comforting hand on my shoulder, someone who brushes the sweat-matted hair from my eyes and kisses my forehead as I settle back in to slumber.

Someday maybe.

But for now there's just the routine.




I am not black.
I am not a woman.
I am not a hyphenated American.

I grew up in Westerville, OH. If you looked up a picture of white-bread America in the Funk and Wagnalls Encyclopedia, very likely a picture of Westerville would pop up.

I didn't see a black kid in my elementary school until 2nd or 3rd grade. Maybe 4th. That's almost 10 years of living without up close and personal contact with  someone of color.

I don't know the struggle. I will be the first to admit that.

I got in to rap music not because I identified with the struggles of the black man growing up on mean streets of whatever city. No. I got in to it because I thought it was amazing poetry. Naive perhaps of me to think it was just poetry. But I thought it was raw. Gritty. Heartfelt. And I had a knack for it when I wrote it myself.

There was fuck little of a rap career a kid like me from the burbs was going to have, but that didn't stop me from penning hundreds of pages of lyrics and recording nearly a third of them.

Oh..so where was I?

Oh yes. Westerville.

In the Westerville of my teenage years, there were 2 high schools. Westerville North and Westerville South. I went to South.

At the time, South was not as great in some of the sports. But we knew we would dominate.. We knew that Westerville South would dominate once more.

Some of you may already be able to see where this is going. But at the time, I assure you, I had no fucking clue.

In high school, I had a flag on my wall. It was the Rebel flag with a skeleton of a confederate solder (a la Eddy from Iron Maiden) climbing the hill and the caption was 'The South Will Rise Again.'

My dad one day, looked at the flag and said 'I fucking hope not.'

I wasn't sure what he meant at the time. At the time I had blinders. None of my friends, white or black, mentioned issues with it. It was like a theme at our school.. We were South...the rebels.

How fucking stupid.

Seriously. I look back on that now and realize that I had blinders on over my blinders. And when I say that none of my friends had issues with it. I think a part of me believed that. I didn't hear about it. I didn't hear about police picking on the black kids at my school more than the white kids. Fuck. We were teenagers. At the time we thought the Westerville PD had it in for anyone under 18.

Naive to the ways of the world doesn't even  begin to describe it.

But I realize that the naivete stemmed from the belief that people are basically good. And that given a choice, people will act from a place of love instead of a place of hate or anger.

And I would like to still think that.

But I know better.

I know that people will act, almost exclusively from a place of fear (and anger, and hate, and stupidity); especially if there is little chance that anyone will call them on their bullshit. And with the anonymity of social media, the chance for calling someone a racist prick to their face diminishes.

It was harder to be a dick to someone when we were growing up. You couldn't troll or cyber bully someone. You had to do it to their face. Face the hurt in their eyes. These days people blast hateful bile from their keyboard and then turn away from the monitor. Off to go watch Access Hollywood for the latest misdirection from the media. Blind to the real pain they're causing.

And I have to say, that it's getting harder for me to walk around with blinders on.

The people in this country make me sad.  Ever since the 24 Hour News Cycle, the citizens of this country have been fed a steady diet of fear.

I have issues with fear.

Not that I'm afraid, but that I tend to get really sad when I see someone acting from fear instead of love.

Maybe that's the blinders again.

I never knew how it felt to be hated...or looked down on. Maybe I still don't. But I do know what it feels like to carry something inside. Something that makes you feel guilty and terrible. Something that isn't even something you had any control over. And the mere mention of it would invoke a deep sense of shame and sadness. So you don't mention it. You just carry it around some more. It's not the same as being black. But it's the closest I have to understanding it.

Maybe being white in a country that accepts me as the default prohibits me from ever truly feeling that.

But it doesn't prohibit me from speaking out against it.

I'm American.

My family can trace its line back to Ireland. And another branch back to Sicily. On the road back to Ireland there is Cherokee blood.

Am I Irish-American? Sicilian-American? Native-American?  I honestly don't know.  I identify with my Irish lineage. And would like to identify more with my Cherokee heritage. To be honest, the Sicilian side intimidates me just a bit.

Most days I'm just Todd.

Caucasian if I have to check a box on a form. But really that's only because there's no box yet for 'why the fuck do you need to know this kind of thing?'

I don't know where I'm going with this. Other than to say that Love has to rule. Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood.  That's really what this is about.

If I see my brother, of any color, beaten for simply being different; I cannot sit idly by lest it be my hand that laid the first blow.

Fuck that.

It's time we figure out that if one of us loses, then none of us win.



Good Grief!!

So....I get it. I'm approaching what some might consider old. But not in my mind.

That being said, please don't take this rant as 'old guy venting about the good old days,' because it's not really that as much as it is about the something new days being filled with short cuts.

Take, for example, a new Charlie Brown movie.  I'm not a purist (although maybe I am), but growing up there were several Charlie Brown specials I knew and loved

  • A Charlie Brown Christmas
  • It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
  • Snoopy Come Home

And lesser in my mind

  • You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown
  • Race For Your Life, Charlie Brown

I know there were more. But those were the go-to's for me. The hand drawn animation was magic in my mind. Almost at though Schulz had done them all himself.

And I don't ever remember seeing the Little Red Haired Girl. She was always the object of Charlie Brown's affection. Believe it or not, I identified with Charlie. And so I would imagine the Red Haired Girl to be someone in my life at the time that I had a crush on.

Of course there was a Lucy in my life at the time. I didn't pick up on it then, but I think Lucy had a crush on Charlie Brown. It explains a lot in the shows to me. And if I identified with Charlie Brown, it explains quite a bit in my life, particularly regarding who I might have wound up attracted to.

Damn. That just got 'peel the layer of onion back' deep on me and I didn't really even mean for it to.

What prompted this stroll down memory lane was a post I saw on the book of Face regarding the new Charlie Brown movie due out in theaters in November.  I watched the trailer and was sad.

It had all the bells and whistles of a new-style (read CGI) animated movie. It looked fun, but superficial. 
The moments of the trailer I liked the best were Charlie Brown's though bubble. THOSE looked like the old specials I know and love.

I won't lie. I'll watch it. The same way I watched Red Dawn. And the same way, heaven help me, that I will most likely watch Point Break when it comes out. But fuck. It just seems cheap to me. 

Hollywood has gotten lazy. And that's really what bothers me most about this. 

There used to be (and probably still are) for how to make a good X (action, musical, comedy, drama) movie. That blueprint involved certain events happening at certain beats in the movie to drive it. A good book is like that too. And we all know that the story line is not original. There are according to some only 7 basic story lines anyway, but it is the telling of those stories that makes a classic.

Remaking the classics just seems wrong. Remaking Red Dawn. Bad move. Terrible movie. Remaking Point Break...not so much.  Please don't ever try to remake Goonies. With cell phones and GPS's, it will be a 3 minute short film. 

But Todd, you loved the new Star Trek movies. And aren't those basically the same thing? 

Yes and no. The Star Trek movies took canon and within the confines of that canon found a way to entirely reboot the series. It was nothing short of genius, in my humble opinion. The writing is smart. The acting is top notch with just enough nod to the campiness of the original series. They are by far my favorite of the Reboot Genre.

But fuck Hollywood, seriously? Repacking a movie that was a hit when the kids who watched it have kids of their own is just lazy. It feels cheap.

And maybe that's the problem for me with this new Charlie Brown Trailer. I want to like it. I want  to believe that Lucy will actually let Charlie Brown kick the football.

But deep down, I'm waiting for her to pull back at the last minute.



Typical Male

So...it would seem that I apparently am a 'typical male' in some regards. According to some friends, my not wanting to date or start my quest for the next ex-Mrs. Skaggs is indicative of the whole guy 'fear of commitment'  thing that men often get accused of.

And I can see where it might look like that. But that's actually pretty far from the reality of the situation.

To be fair, this insight came to me in the shower this morning, so it may actually bear some deeper reflection to see what holds water and what doesn't.

No. I'm not afraid to commit.

I don't have a fear of commitment.

I have a fear of loss. I have a fear of staring in to the eyes of a lover and only seeing a stranger staring back at me.  I have a fear that I will wake up one day feeling trapped and alone with no clue where my best friend went.

Commitment? Walk in the fucking park.  It's the rest of it that fucks with my head.

Jeesh Todd. Over-react much? I'm sure if you found the right woman that none of that would happen and you would live happily ever after.

And that sounds really nice. In theory. And I'd love to believe you. But history has not borne out your hypothesis.

Not once. Not twice. But more than that...four maybe? I have committed my heart and soul. Only two of those ended up in marriage, to be fair. But all of them ended.  And the loss was crushing. Crushing to my soul. And...to take the selfish spin away from it...I know it wasn't easy for the other person either. Not that I'm all that, but in the case of the marriages that ended, there was time and love invested. I mean I have to believe that there was love there on both side otherwise the loss becomes even more unbearable.

So...no. I'm not afraid to commit. I'm afraid to lose once I do. And that's really where it gets fucked up. Not that this whole thing's not fucked up to begin with. I mean, even as I type it, I can feel the angry stares of future Todd reading this and thinking, "what the fuck man? I mean sure, the no-strings sex was nice and all...but dude.  We needed someone to come over and curl up on the couch with and just be. At least some of the time."

And Future-Todd. Yeah. I get it. But fuck you. Maybe you don't remember the nights sitting the apartment after the first marriage ended. Nine Inch Nails in the headphones on repeat, curled in the fetal position, naked in the living room floor. But I do.

Or after the second marriage ended. Sitting at the kitchen table in my new apartment. In tears. Wondering how the fuck I wound up here again. I mean, at least I wasn't naked this time. And it was Linkin Park on repeat instead of NIN. But dude.


Are you fucking kidding me?

I would ask a favor. Before you casually diagnose or lump someone in to the category of 'afraid of commitment,' maybe you realize that there are people who are all-in when they love. And they are the hardest people to love back.

I know that. I know that I'm not an easy person to love. I am all-in. I will kill myself trying to get the moon for you. But I know this about me, too. I internalize the fuck out of everything. I will craft elaborate scenarios of how I completely ruined your life in my head based on whether or not you took a second helping of the Mac-n-Cheese. And that makes me difficult. For as much as I love to write....I don't communicate as well with real people. And I need space. I know this about myself. And because of those quirks, I won't put another person through that. There is an expectation with love...lovers...relationships. And I just don't know how to meet those any more.

I don't know if I ever did. Or if I was playing the role. Doing the things that Hollywood said were romantic. And it felt nice. It wasn't insincere. I was sincerely in love. I sincerely wanted to make my partner happy.  Having the nature of an empath, it's in my best interest to foster love and joy in those around me. So...the gestures...words...emotions...those were real. Those are real. But I never learned how to sustain them for very long (current record is just under 10 years...after that...it tends to go to shit).

I don't know. I know this is just babbling at the moment and may or may not make any sense. It's like cookie dough. I know at some point it's going to make a tasty cookie, but right now, it's not fully baked.  I get that.

Perhaps...what it really comes down to is this...I'm discovering myself. These past couple of years have led me back to the Todd I was before I thought I had to be somebody else.

So maybe...just maybe...the thing I'm actually afraid of losing

is me.


Smell that? It's Irony

Disclaimer: This post is bound to be fraught with irony, and has the potential to contain serious doses of hypocrisy. Well above those of the Christian Moral Majority. 

Here's the thing. Well, wait. Let me back up.

There's this thing.

Rather than call out one that has ingratiated itself so much in to our lives, that it's hardly noticeable, I'll call them by their collective name....Social Media.

Social Media is big business. Major companies hire people, teams of people, just to scour social media to address any possible complaints against their company. Once seen as revolutionary, a web address for a company on a commercial is a thing of the past. Now it's simply a universal icon for one of the major three (four if you count YouTube) social media outlets.

Yes. They are fun (are they?). But let me in on a little secret. They are free to use because you are giving Big Business more information that you could imagine.  This is the kind of information that commands top dollar.  

Don't believe me? Look at the timeline of one of the big three, Twitter, on their Wikepedia page. I'm not going to post it here, because I want you to invest a minute of your own time. On that page, you will find Twitter's founder explaining how they came up with the name Twitter. In short, it was chosen because the definition of a twitter was, 'a short burst of inconsequential information,' 

Which seems rather fitting, I'd say.

Inconsequential until you consider the fact that Twitter has partnered with IBM to essentially datamine the service for information that will be useful to business.

Forget government conspiracy...that kind of shit should scare the fuck out of you.

Who runs our government? If you're being honest with yourself, you can't really say 'elected officials.' Money runs our government. And the money comes from Big Business.

Worried about what the NSA is finding on your cell phone? Fuck that. You should really be more concerned with that slightly crazy fuck on your friend's list that tags you in their anti-government, anti-america Mel Gibson looks sane by comparison bullshit rants.

Again. I see the irony in this. I see the hypocrisy in even posting this. I mean, I did post a disclaimer.

But it hit me. I had a really great weekend. I hung out with friends. I got a new car.

And for the last 30 minutes before sitting down to pen this, I was staring at a 4.5 inch screen, scrolling up and down. And hitting 'refresh' to see what had changed in the last 20 seconds since I scrolled.

Just now, after writing about checking the feed I found myself picking up my phone  to see what new insanity might have gone in to my news feed whilst I was sitting here trying to do something creative. WTF?!?!?!

It's fucking crazy.

But it's a part of our lives. Like television. At first it was a luxury for a few. Then it became democratized. And now nearly every household in America has at least one television. I try not to watch too much TV. I have a few shows that I follow through Hulu +. Less commercials. Because that's really what it is.

The ads are forcing fear down our throats. And it's more fear than the news.

You see, the secret is this.  If you tap in to what makes a society afraid, they will willingly give up freedoms to make that fear go away.

Afraid of being fat? We'll tell you what to eat on Weight Watchers..or Jenny Craig...or NutriSystems...or whatever. Spend your money. We'll tell you what you need.

Afraid of the neighbors judging you? Buy this cleaner or that cleaner.

Afraid of your children having shitty memories of their childhoods? Take them to Disney.

Sure...it's an exaggeration. That's the point.  I have to make it seem so absurd so as to actually prompt you to think about the reality of the situation.

The reality is....Social Media is not social.
It's connected.  But it's not social.

Hmm. I stand corrected. Maybe it is, in a textbook definition social.

Perhaps I'll pick this back up later. This bears some time to rethink. Perhaps the dangers that I sense about 'social media' would best be conveyed in fictional form.


I hate it when a good rant dies too soon.



My Daughter, I Apologize

Dearest Daughter,

I owe you an apology. Sometimes spoken words fail me, so if you'll forgive me, I'll use the words that don't.

Last night you surprised me. You said something that I, quite frankly didn't think I would hear.  And my reaction, let's be honest--sucked.

I want to apologize for that. You see, I get the feeling that you think I'm somehow disappointed with you. Let me assure you, nothing could be further from the truth.

No, my sweet pumpkin girl, I am not disappointed in you. I am disappointed in me.

You see, I heard from you last night a reflection of me. Something that I would have said. And lest any one else think the sentence was so terrible--it wasn't.  As I said, it merely surprised me. Much like the first time a parent hears their child use the work 'fuck' in a sentence. There is a moment of pride that they are coming in to their own, and a moment of terror that they have in fact been paying attention to you.

And that's really where I was going with this. I have always thought (and will continue to think to my dying breath) that you are an amazing light in this world, dear girl, and that your full brightness and potential has yet to be tapped.

I have always sought to help you grow in to that light.

And yesterday I failed you.

I took the words on the surface and reacted to those.

I failed you.

I failed to see the pain, the anger, the hurt that those words represented.  It has not been so long ago that I have loved someone, my child. And when they choose another over you, it hurts. For whatever their reasoning, it hurts.

What I have learned in my short time around in this particular body, though, is that the problem...the fault...the short coming is very seldom yours. Their incapacity to fully appreciate your wonder and beauty and uniqueness is not your shortcoming--it's theirs.

I forget sometimes that you are my daughter. I forget that you are younger than I because I believe our souls are of similar age. We are so alike in many ways. I have no doubt this frustrates the hell out of your mother.

I am sorry. I am sorry that for a moment I forgot to be your father. Your protector. The one that was supposed to shelter you from the bullshit.

But you see...you tricked me. Somewhere along the way you grew in to this beautiful woman. Full of spirit and life. The playfulness of the little girl I used to sing to sleep grew in to a woman full of fire who takes no shit from anyone. To say that caught me off guard would be the mother of all understatements.

Believe me when I tell you, my heart threatens to burst with love and pride with each path you forge in your life.

And know this, with every step...every struggle...every triumph (for there will be many of each), I will be by your side, cheering you on. I will always be here for you. Day or night.

It's what dads do. Well...I guess I should say, it's what I do. I can't speak for other dads, but it's what my dad taught me (even if I was very slow to realize).

And if we have to open a can of whoop ass, I'm ok with that too.

You are the single greatest gift in my life, Jenyfer Marie.  And I love you to the moon and back.

Every day. Period.



Fighting the Urge

I fucking hate people sometimes.
I know...not very enlightened of me. And it's not the actual person I hate, per se. It's really the behavior of the person. I know some of the people that annoy me don't really mean to. They aren't bad people. They normally aren't complete fucktards of epic proportions.

They just do stupid shit without thinking of anyone but themselves.

And PLEASE don't misunderstand this post (rant?)...I am fully aware that I (more often than not) have fallen in to that very same category for somebody else.

Sometimes people think they're being funny. Or cute. Or genuinely helpful. Even when they're not.

I know that I've fallen in to most of those categories. But I've also fallen in to the "I'm going to be a sarcastic douche just to fuck with people" category as well.

The problem is, these days, how can you tell which is which?

I don't know that you can. I think our lifestyle, our culture, has made sarcasm and snark a nice second skin for most people. It's like the Emporer's New Clothes. Some of us can see that it's not really all that, but nobody wants to call anybody else on it for fear that their own bullshit get called out in to the light of day.

I sat for three days on a post about Clickbait ads which pose as articles on Facebook. Followed by a nice little rant about motorcycle drivers. And then planned to close it with a little piece on nirvana (the state of bliss, not the band). But to be honest...the clickbait thing will always be there. I don't see that going away any time soon.  And the motorcycle rant will likely always be there as long as there are stupid people doing stupid things on them (no, it's not a blanket statement to all motorcyclists, just the stupid ones). And to be perfectly honest, I have no idea what the nirvana piece of the puzzle was. So...let's consider that one tabled for now.

So back to the self-centered d-bags (did I mention I was including myself in this category? Good).

I don't know where I was going with this, other than to say I think we, as a culture, have become quite complacent in our willingness to start shit, troll, tear people down and then when someone calls us on our bullshit, we say  that we were only kidding.

You know what? Fuck it. I can't even pretend to be upset or astonished by that any more. My 'Facebook is the Anti-Social Media' rhetoric falls flat as long as I still have a Facebook account and post links to my ramblings from there.

This post is actually worse than vaguebooking. Turns out I'm annoyed at one single comment on a post I made. And I'm as much annoyed by the comment as I am by my reaction. And the truth is, it just doesn't fucking matter.

I'm not going to bother to post the link to this. If you happen to find it-brava. If not, more's the better. It was really just clearing my head with shit that should have been written in my paper journal anyway.

Stay tuned next week for "The Amway Apology."

Until then, stay golden Pony Boy.


Failing NaNo - 4 Years and Counting

I looked, Dear Readers, and noted that the last time I saw fit to let the words fall from my brain bucket and onto these virtual pages was o...