Part 1 is here. (This is the beginning of the first entry.) As I start writing this, I need you to understand something. I am not dying. I mean, not in any conventional sense of the word. I don’t have a disease that is making this journal the final act of a desperate man, eager
Had you given up so easily while ripping your way out of your mother’s womb, you wouldn’t exist right now. You fought harder for what you wanted when you were a freaking baby. Ten or so pounds of purple faced, hawk taloned, screaming fury. It’s time to rip your way out of this bullshit womb
It’s a milestone I never believed I’d reach. I always thought that I’d be gone by now. Not sure why I felt that way, but it was the same as when I turned 30. Now, all I can think is “shit, I’ll never make it to 50. That’s way too old for stuff, way to
Perhaps I’ll be less wary after the apocalypse or rapture or whatever’s coming up after this plane’s current commercial break. People freak me out with their driving and texting and swerving and their vehicular manslaughter.
The crudely crafted noose held firm even as the bough bent with the weight and the manic throes of my dying body.
Slowly, yet effectively, purging the distractions that allow me to procrastinate with such ease.
I bought this journal today with a very specific purpose in mind. I want my boys to know who I am, who I was, and what I want(ed) to be. I will likely type out each entry so that there’s a backup, just in case, and post it on here. So many friends, Internet or
As I walked into the store I thought to myself, “I am inside you now Walmart. Soon I will burst forth from your chest and wreak havoc upon your crew.”
The blades were rusted, yet the arms that wielded them were powerful enough to make them remember their purpose.
I’ve been a prisoner so long
I don’t know how to be free