Monday, August 10, 2015

I never know where to start . . . .


I never know just where to start . . . so I'm jumping in again . . . . don't I always say that.   I don't aspire to be one of those bloggers who makes a million dollars imparting my knowledge on mankind, so it doesn't matter where I start or finish.  This is about me.  My selfish minute to pound away at the keyboard and just purge my mind of shit.  Shit, shit and more shit.  

I stopped blogging.  For a long while.  It appeared to me that I attracted the wrong audience and given my readers, I couldn't be myself.   Then, an a-ha moment.  I don't want readers.   I never really wanted readers.  I wanted what I just said.  So I took this thing and put it together in a word document.  And I just typed.   Someday, I'll have to insert that into the missing years.  

But not now.  Now, I'm starting somewhere and picking up nowhere . . . . 

The end. 

And a new beginning . . . . 


I never thought I would hear myself say . . .

"Son, two things you don't do into the wind . . . spit and piss."

This, as our car is barreling up Austin Bluffs, he spit into the wind, the wind caught it and splattered chunky hunks of phlegm and slobber across his little sister's face.  

Sigh.

The things you say to a son . . . .