Nice guys do finish last...

What is it about me that drives people to walk all over me?  Do I have sucker written on my forehead?  Is this really what I'm meant for?  To show women that there are still nice guys out there, but it's just not me.  I should have learned by now not to try too hard, because it's inevitably going to end in disappointment.  It's the story of my life.  Seriously... I put in a monumental effort to compensate for my gruesome appearance, and for what?  So I can continually "just be friends"?

I'm not sure what I did to deserve being continually shit on, but it's getting a little out of hand.  I thought I'd found something that might make me happy for the first time in a year and half, but that's what I get for getting my hopes up I suppose.  Maybe it's time to stop being the nice guy.  I'm getting sick of losing out to other men.  

Clearly there's something wrong with me.

What am I doing with my life?

Yes... this is a cliche question, but the more I think about it the more I wonder... Am I doing what I'm meant to?  Since someone was not considerate enough to provide me with a user manual or a troubleshooting guide, I'm left to my own devices in respect to this.  So what am I supposed to do?  I simply can't get on board with the idea that I'm meant to spend the next 12 years bitching about having to fix something that an individual with much more education than I has broken.  Yet, there are very few jobs I can think of that might fit my skill set.  So, what is it I'm supposed to be doing?  I gave up on the musician pipe dream long ago, since I'm not especially talented in that department.  I'm also starting to think that the President thing may not work out either.  Regardless of what that thing may be, I know I'm wasting time every day.

I could be working on a degree, although I have no idea what it should be in.  There's always my Airframe and Power plant License, which would essentially pigeonhole me into maintaining aircraft.  The pay is good, but the work is tedious, dirty and frustrating.  Do I really want to be a mechanic for the rest of my life?  Not particularly.  Doing it for a living has taken most of the fun out of it for me.  I used to get amped up while I was pulling out an engine for a fresh rebuild or tearing a suspension apart... but now, it seems like I'm back at work.  Hmmm.

I could be fixing my house.  Well, I am... sort of.  I could be doing more, but finding the motivation is almost as rare as finding the money.  A lot has been done so far, but there's a good deal more work to do.  Flooring, kitchen remodel, yard work, painting.  I should really get crackalating on it. 

I could be loving my significant other, whoever and wherever she may be.  This is on my mind every day that I come home to no one.  This is quite possibly the longest that I've gone without being in a relationship since I started dating when I was 13.  Okay, fine... 16.  I'm a late bloomer... Shut up.  Still, it's not getting any easier.  But she's out there, and I know that each day that passes is one less with her.  Alas, this is something I have no control over. 

I guess I just hate knowing that each passing day could be my last, and with each that does I know I've not done all I could do... I've wasted it.  Afghanistan is looming around the corner, and I don't have much to show for my life except a beautiful little boy.  I guess I need to get off my ass and make things happen.  Fuck.  Being a grown up sucks.

My Old Roommate or The Wacky Adventures of Shannon....

So I used to live with a very effeminate fellow named Shannon.  I wish I could say that wasn't his real name, but it was... and it was hilarious.  Now, he could quite easily be described as a typical metrosexual... I might even go so far as to say he was most likely a fancy gentleman.  He was also a class A douche-bag.  Now, all man loving proclivities aside, Shannon got into the craziest situations which I will now tell you ALL about, and I will pepper it with questionable images of this individual.  Put your fun hats on!

Bask in the Gayness

"Andrea"
Shannon, albeit a decent looking fellow, was quite fond of internet dating.  I don't know why he was trolling for women as he clearly favored gentlemen, but who am I to judge.  The first incident I can remember is a girl named Andrea who lived in Northern Virginia.  She apparently attended a Christian University as well, which should have been a red flag right away... or not.  Who knows?  Anyway, he had arranged for her to come visit for a weekend.  So, she called to let him know she was leaving early on in the afternoon.  Many hours later, Shannon started becoming concerned as she had not called or arrived after what should have been roughly a 4 hour trip.

So, being the rational individual that he was, be began calling the Virginia State Police and any hospital that would talk to him along 95.  This too persisted for several hours to no avail.  At some point, a friend of this Andrea (if that is her real name) called Shannon to tell him she'd been in a bad accident along 95 and had to be airlifted to... wait for it... Boston.  Airlifted to Boston?!  Seriously?  That's the story as it was told to me immediately after being told to him.  But wait!  There's more!

Somewhere along the lines of this planning, Shannon had managed to get this girls grandmothers phone number.  Don't ask me how or why, because I don't know.  I DO know that he called her several hours later to offer condolences, and he was promptly greeted by... Surprise!  "But Andrea's been here all day... would you like to talk to her?"

Ha!  What followed was an amazing web of lies about how the accident had happened, and she HAD been airlifted to Boston, fixed up, and immediately airlifted back and discharged to continue about her day.  I sat in amazement as he demanded that she send him pictures of her injuries and hospital report...  and I thought I was a freak.  Amazing.

 Shannon's signature GQ pose.

"Heather"
I think her name was Heather.  It might have been Heath.  I don't know.  In any case, this awesomeness occurred shortly after we had moved into a large rented house.  Shannon, my best friend Scott and I all shared this particular domicile.  Well, this girl was from South Carolina or Georgia or something.  Moving on...  Shannon decided it would be an amazing and romantic idea to mow... MOW... this girls name into our backyard.  So he let the grass get pretty high, and then mowed her name into it.  He seriously did it.  And not only did he do it, he set the mower too low and it killed the grass.  So for the whole summer, we got to see "Heather" in the backyard.

So anyway, being unable to contain his excitement he took pictures of his masterpiece and emailed it to this girl.  I don't know what the reaction was, but she still agreed to make the trip up to see him.  Fast Forward to the big day... this girl calls and tells Shannon she's close but she's a little lost, and fires off a couple local street names for him to come find her.  He left in search of this girl, and returns alone two hours later the apparent victim of "fun with google maps".  Good times were had by all!  Well, except for Shannon. 

Is an explanation even necessary here?

"Random Raleigh Girl"
There was a point where he had met some girl... like, a real girl... at a bar or some shit like that.  Well, he'd arranged to come see her the following weekend, and even got an address to come pick her up.  Saturday rolls around... Scott and I are doing something out front, most likely working on a car.  Shannon emerges from the house in an all black suit with a dozen roses.  There's no way he can fail!  Or can he...

About 3 hours later, he returns with roses in hand.  His dates address had turned out to be an empty warehouse.  Coincidence?  I think not.  His disappointment was quite palpable as he did what I refer to as the "reverse walk of shame" alone back into the house.

 No one thought this was funny.

"The Hair"
One day, Shannon and I are driving somewhere.  Where?  Inconsequential.  What's important is that I'm driving, and he is the passenger.  As were driving, I couldn't help but notice that something looks off.  I can't tell what it is, but there's something just not right about him.  Then I see it.  He has no hair on his legs.  I mean none.  This is what followed...

Me:  "DUDE!  What the fuck happened to your leg hair?"
Shannon:  "I shaved it off"
Me:  "You sha...what?  Seriously?  What the fuck?
Shannon:  "Uh, yeah.  I'm a runner."
Me:  "You're kidding, right?  A runner?"
Shannon:  "Yeah."
Me:  "Where's the hair on your arms?  Same place?"
Shannon:  "I'm a runner."
Me:  "You're a hairless freak."

Nothing screams straight like a cosmo.

Stay tuned for more wacky adventures!

Things about me....

Some tidbits about me you might not know, and will undoubtedly want to un-know. Readysetgo!

- I hate Joe Francis. Like, I really hate him. You've no doubt heard about him and some of his more recent litigious exploits, but he's most "famous" (read: infamous) for creating the Girls Gone Wild debacle.

Don't get it twisted, playa. I'm not jealous of him... Not even close. Any idiot with a camera and a couple of wine coolers can get a naïve, unsuspecting 18 year old to take her top off. Not difficult. No sir. There are literally a plethora of reasons for one to hate this individual, but I have a very specific reason. You see, when I used to work the grave yard shift a good portion of my night was spent watching tv. More specifically, I spent an exorbitant amount of time watching cartoons.

Did you know that at 4 am, comedy central stops playing regular programming and begins airing infomercials? Did you also know that, coincidentally, Girls Gone Wild infomercials play at around the same time. Actually, they play at the exact same time. Now, I'm rational enough to realize that it's not Joe Francis' fault that stations stop airing programming that late/early. It's clearly not a smart financial move to air shows that no one's going to watch. Instead, they'll accept money to air infomercials that peddle smut and crap.

No, it's not his fault that they air GGW infomercials at 4am... but it is his fault for being born and subsequently creating that monstrosity.  Burn in Hell, Joe Francis.  Burn in Hell.  Moving on. 

- I've never broken a bone... that I know of. I typically accidentally hurt myself. A lot. I also don't like to go to the hospital. It's quite possible that I may have some small fractures that have gone untreated. I'm fairly confident that one of my knuckles is horribly damaged, but again... once it stops hurting, it's healed in my mind.  Don't judge me. I'm a penis equipped human, and thus have the "tough it out, walk it off" instinct ingrained into my dna. Rubbing dirt on it helps.

- I wrestled in high school. Yep. Varsity, 145 lbs. Yes, I actually weighed 145 lbs at one point. I also had a 6 pack you could wash your unmentionables on... but that was then. I wasn't half bad either. I pinned some weiner kid in 37 seconds once, which was my best pin by far. Also, I was completely miserable. It was a pretty sure bet that at any given tournament I was going to have to lose a few pounds, as I hovered pretty consistently between 148 and 150 lbs.


How'd I drop this weight, you ask? Why, the good old fashioned way... sweating it out. I'd don the old sweatsuit and just run for extended periods of time. I'd always make the weight, but it was completely grueling. I remember one tourney in particular where I dropped four pounds in 2 to 3 hours. Looking back, I have no idea what I was thinking. Not to mention that I had to be very vigilant about what I ate. Pizza and burgers were like a wet dream for me at this point in my life, and soda was quickly becoming a fading memory for me. And for what? Nothing. Nobody thought I was cool or tough. I was just ripped and hungry. Plus, I felt kind of gay sometimes...


This is also where I sustained the ligament damage in my right arm, and began developing the knee problems that I still deal with today. I never had balls in my face though, and I wouldn't tell you if I had. Stupid Wrasslin'. Be smart kids... just do drugs instead.

 I guess what I'm trying to say is... I should have gone to college. 

It's late...

4 am as I'm writing these. very. words. to be exact. I'm very tired and I often say too much when this happens, but I'm just taking a few seconds to throw this up here. I wish I had the cognitive capacity right now to make this funny and enjoyable, but they can't all be winners.

What I'm getting at is I just had the best weekend I've had in over a year and a half... perhaps longer. And when I say best, I mean by far the best. There's nothing I'd rather have done, and I wouldn't have traded this weekend for anything. Spirits are way up, along with hope. Gayfag smiley :).

That is all.

The worst picture I've ever taken...

Now, before you gaze upon this picture, keep in mind that I love my son more than anything in the world. That doesn't prevent me from recognizing when something is completely hilarious. Therefore, this must be shared. Ordinarily, Dillon is completely adorable... but for this picture, there are no words. I can't tell if he's yawning, crying, or if he's beginning to transform into some half-toddler, half-wolf creature.


I do know he's not pooping. That's not his poop face. I sincerely hope to embarrass him in front of a girlfriend one day. However, I would be remiss if I didn't include a contrasting exhibit... so, please enjoy:


Yep. I've got good genes. Don't act like you're not impressed.

So...

I love long weekends. I mean I LOOOOOOVE them. Wait... I know what you're thinking... That's like saying I love air and water and sex... things we need to survive, mostly. What? Food? Food is secondary. But I mean c'mon??! Who the fuck doesn't love long weekends? The opportunities for fun are virtually endless. For example...

copyright SMBC-Comics.com

I like to think that I especially love them, much more than anyone else. Yeah, it's probably not the case... but I like to have my dream. One thing that does crush my dream is the rule at my base that you're not allowed to go more than 6 hours outside of the local area if you're not on leave. Technically, that means that you can go to D.C, Virginia, South Carolina, and very very eastern Tennessee (read: Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge).

Now, I'm not saying that I broke this rule this weekend, but I have in the past. A lot. I don't even need a long weekend to do it. For instance, a few years ago I took off on a saturday and drove down to Disney World to see my Mom and brothers (who were living in Oklahoma at the time). My mom's husband was there too, but I hate him so he has been subsequently scrubbed from the memory. I very rarely got to see them, so I took any chance I got. I made it down there, spent the night and drove back the next day. According to Google Maps: 9 hours, 30 minutes. I remember it being about 9 hours with stops.

Before that, I took a trip to New York City via Atlantic City. Google Time to Atlantic city: 9 hours, 16 minutes. To NY City: 10 hours, 17 minutes.

I once took a day trip to Atlanta to pick up an engine for a crx I was attempting to restore. Google time: 6 hours, 25 minutes.

I also used to make frequent trips to my moms in maryland. This was also around 6 and a half hours, but still past 6 hours and therefore technically unacceptable.

Now, in my loose interpretation, this 6 hour rule is all based on how fast you drive. I drive fast. Not intent to kill fast... not even usually reckless driving fast, but it happens. I can typically cut 30 minutes off a trip just by bending the law. It's nothing spectacular... but I'm gonna brag anyway. Also, I don't really have a problem with cutting off some jerk who feels like he's totally justified in doing the speed limit in the left hand lane.

Statistically speaking, I'm going to be able to get to Maryland fast than Gladys, the 90 year old woman in her Pontiac Bonneville doing 20 under in the left hand lane. Yeah, her blinker is on. I'm pretty sure the fact that she can't see over her steering wheel isn't helping, unlike the blue blockers she's sporting.

Another individual I'll beat to that 6 hour line is Ping, the 20 year old Chinese kid in the Honda Civic. Hell... he'll be lucky to get an hour away from the base without getting into an accident. Yeah, I'm stereotyping. So what?

What does all this mean?

Well, for one... it means I'm a rebel. That's right... I play by my own rules. You hear that ladies? I'm a bad boy. Need more proof? I have tattoos. Boom! I have no problem skirting this directive that goes virtually unattended and unenforced. Bold? Sure. Pioneering? Absolutely. But don't call me a hero... even though I am.

To sum this up, I'm not going to say where I went this weekend... but it involved some old friends, some alcohol, a UFC fight, and it may or may not have blown my previous treks out of the water. I know if I had made a trip like that, I wouldn't want to do it again anytime soon. Also, I'm pretty sure I accidentally ran over a frog. I feel pretty bad about that.

P.S. I'm working on not being so impulsive and forward. Blah.

At 5 am...

Everything looks black. I'm currently testing this theory every few weeks or so when I mistakenly wear a blue shirt (which is out of regulation) to work. Hey, you know what... it's a slow blog day. If you don't like it, go read lolcatz or some shit...

Anyway... on a typical morning, usually sometime between 5 and 6, I have to violently rip myself out of a deep slumber. I'm not a morning person in any sense of the word. I might go as far to say that the hours of 6, 7 and 8 are like the axis of evil to my allied sleep forces. Yeah, it's like that. Imagine if you will, a lame cow stuck in the middle of the road. It's desperately trying to get up, move, get anywhere but to no avail. On top of that, it's making the most horrible noise imaginable. That's me, struggling to get up.

As evidenced, I respectfully submit this photo taken while in transit to work.

Note the zombie like appearance.

I feel I should tell you that I don't quite recollect taking this picture, but apparently I felt it important to document the results of this cruel ritual that occurs almost every weekday morning. Moving on...

So, I stumble through a shower, shave, hair product application, deodorant, teeth brushing, etc. etc. and somehow manage to rationalize getting behind the wheel while this tired. Truthfully, some mornings I get out of my car and wonder how I got there. Anyways, I'll write all about my daily attempts to hook a vehicular manslaughter charge later.

So this morning, like many mornings, I grabbed the first shirt in the drawer and threw it on. Strangely enough, I even took a look at it in the little bit of light in my room to make sure it was black. A quick glance was apparently all the affirmation I needed, and I went about my zombie way.

Sure as shit, as soon as I get into work, Little Dave (LD) pipes up...

"Nice blue shirt, dummy!"

This continues pretty much all day...

"Why don't you get in Regs, Sargeant!"

"You know you're supposed to wear black..."

"Nice blue shirt, dummy!" (yeah, i heard that one a few times. LD likes to pick a taunt and stick with it.)

Again, more pictures are taken.


This is becoming a daily ritual. This is me, struggling to find a signal in hopes of intercepting a text from "her". That's not my Dr. Pepper...



Ok, I lied. It is.

So....

I slept in today. Yep. I managed to rouse myself from slumber at a respectable 7:30 am. What time was I supposed to be at work? 6:30. So what? No one missed me. Oh they knew I wasn't there, they just didn't miss me. I mean... realistically, I'm a worker bee. A peon. A serf, if you will. Sure, I've got the most experience on this aircraft. Let's not forget I've got the most time in service in there, and I outrank the shit out of everyone... if I was to literally drop off the face of the earth, I'm fairly certain the only problems that might be encountered in my absence would be difficulty getting into my locker. I'm strangely content with this.

So, I sauntered in to my shop at roughly quarter to nine sporting BDU's and a huge grin. Jermel, one of the trainees is sitting at the break area table, is eyeballing me...

"The fuck you so happy about? You musta gotten laid."

Now, we all know that's clearly not the case, and I'm not the type to kiss and tell... especially when they didn't happen in the first place. I made sure to relate this to him in my own special way...

"Go fuck yourself... you know that didn't happen."

Most of the sentences that come out of my mouth contain at least one swear. I promise you I'm not the minority. Truth is that I felt good. I got a full nights sleep, and I was in a good mood. I'm pretty sure that if I could come in to work at 9 everyday, I'd probably be a completely different person. But, it is what it is...

I've been in a pretty good mood lately because someone is on my mind. I'm not gonna call her out on here, because I'd rather not embarrass her. Maybe I wanna keep her guessing? Ha... that would never work. Anyway, I scurry into the small office to see if she's online. She's not. By the way, can I just say that even after a month I'm still finding being able to access facebook, myspace and youtube on government computers incredibly bewildering? Because I do. I'm quite sure I'm being spied on in some fashion, but that's okay. I've got nothing to hide. Not really, anyway.

So, yeah. On a typical day, If I'm not toiling on an aircraft doing pedantic tasks that I've done a thousand times before, I'll find myself behind the computer. One of my favorite things to do is to read wikipedia. Yep. I'll see some shit on the news, or history channel... or maybe something will just pop into my head. I'll look it up, read about it, and I'll usually link to something else that I find interesting from there. This is a vicious cycle. I have no idea how I transition from reading about the Baldwin brothers to tse-tse flies to the Darul Aman Palace in Kabul. It happens, and it's befuddling.

So, most of my computer time consists of having wikipedia open on one screen, and facebook open on the other. Usually I'm chatting with "her". If I'm not, I'm wishing I was. I'm not going to get too strange about it because I'm sure she's reading this. Hi Her! Anyway, moving on...

After confirming that no conversation was in my near future, I decided to do some work. Sounds crazy right? Well, it's not that I don't like to work. Quite the contrary. I love working, but I have to be able to do it and finish it. I have a hard time dealing with halfway. Also, these are things I've done hundreds of times. I don't need the training, but the newbies do. But for some reason I said fuck it, and went out to overhaul a brake. Don't believe me? Check it...



Yep. That grotesque looking individual is indeed me, which is I. I stepped out of the office to a very loud "what the fuck are you doing out here??". Disbelief seems to be the default reaction now. I pretended to ignore them, and as I started pulling brake parts off the shelf, I smugly replied "At least one of these brakes has to be built right". Laughter ensued, and it wasn't with me. Fuckers.

So, I actually endured quite a lot of heckling. Dave actually took a picture to document it. Dick. So yes, I did some work today. Big fuckin deal. Quality assurance stopped by and took a picture of me working also, which is twice in as many weeks. I'm pretty sure they're building some sort of case against me for when I'm inevitably courts marshaled. Whatevs.

All in all, it was a pretty decent day. No one died as a result of my actions, which is always a plus. I hate when that happens. Her got some good news, which I'm pretty sure made her hella happy, which made me hella happy. There were spatterings of disappointment, which were my fault completely. Good things come to those who wait.

So, I'm gonna wrap this rant up. Stay Black, America.

Did I ever tell you about...

My stance on President Obama? Oh... I didn't?



Let's keep it that way.

The worst year of my life...

WARNING: This is not a funny blog. Anything found to be humorous is unintentional. Hopefully this will provide some insight as to why I am the man I am, and why I'll never be the one I was.

February 12, 2009: I was standing in the pax terminal on base, saying goodbye to my wife and son for the first time since he'd been born. He was 16 months old, and I was so jealous of him. He had no idea what was going on, and what was coming in the next four months. Of course, in a way... I didn't either.

My wife and I had decided months before that deploying in February was the best option we had. We wanted to buy a home... a real home. We were sick of living in tiny apartments and duplexes. We needed to consolidate some bills, and waiting would have resulted in being forced to go during the summer... or worse yet, in the fall. Had I gone in Fall, I would have missed her birthday, his birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. No thanks.

We packed our house into storage, and the plan was for Katie and Dillon to stay with her parents in California while I was deployed. This saved us a ton of money in rent, utilities, etc. etc. I even had our car shipped out there for her to drive while she was there. Fast forward to a week before deployment. I didn't want to go. I was trying to mentally prepare myself to leave my little boy, but it wasn't working. Nothing was working. Just the thought of it was heart-wrenching. But inevitably, the day came.

I held him for as long as I could, as though it was the last time I'd ever see him. It was not completely out of the question that it could have been either... I was going to support the war effort. Anything is possible out there. I kissed them both goodbye at least a dozen times. Hiding my tears from my fellow deployers was completely futile while plodding out to the rotator. They understood, I think.

I managed to not think about it and sleep until we got to germany. We were on the ground there for a few hours, and I tried to call home a few times. I didn't realize it cost $20 each time I attempted to call, regardless of whether anyone answered or not. Scratch 180 some odd dollars there. Whatever. It's just money. Skip to the desert.

At this point, I don't really remember specifics of arrival. I remember that arrival and inprocessing was bewildering, as usual. I know that the base had changed quite significantly since I'd last been there 6 years prior. I was staying in a real room, as opposed to a tent. I still had to walk quite a ways to the bathroom. The big change was that we were now working 12 hour days, 6 days on and 1 day off. My previous deployments had been 3 days on, 1 day off. However, the extra day on made the time pass a bit faster.

I would try to call almost every day to say I love you to my wife and son. I cried a lot, although I never showed it. I worked out, and looked for houses on the internet to pass the time. Luckily, they cut our trip a month short. We were now scheduled to come home in May instead of April. It all seems like a blur now, but i was counting the days until I was on the way home.

In the last few weeks, things started getting weird. Katie stopped taking my calls, or would answer very infrequently. I practically had to beg her to send me pictures of my son. I couldn't help but notice she'd scrubbed me off of her facebook and myspace pages. I didn't think about it though. My mind was completely focused on getting home, getting my house and getting my family in it.

May 13: I landed at home, and was greeted by my Aunt Lara, my stepdad and my brothers. I think my sister was there, but again... it's a blur. I called Katie to tell her I was home, and she was nonchalant about it. She had decided it would be better if I were to come out there instead of having her and Dillon fly back to NC, just to fly out there to visit again. The two people who I most wanted to see weren't there. My mom couldn't make it because, as I've found out, she has fractured her pelvis, and they've found that the cancer that she's been in remission for has returned.

May 15: Katie hasn't been answering the phone. I literally haven't heard from her since I talked to her after getting off the plane. I'm on the way to see the house I've found. I'm driving my stepdads truck because my car has broken down the day before. My phone rings... it's Katie. She's straightforward with it. She's not coming home. I've never felt a pain like this before... but I pull myself together long enough to go see the house. Then, like a little boy who got beat up on the playground, I run back to my moms and fall apart.

Nobody understands what's going on. I can't get straight answers from anyone. This person is telling me she's not happy here, that person is telling me it's my fault and I need to work to win her back... I can't eat. I can't sleep. My days become consumed with the horror of the thought of becoming that dad that only gets to see his son during the summer. I spent two weeks with them in California, only to return home many several hundred dollars lighter and even more confused than before. Time passes still...

Sometime in September: My mom has been fighting her cancer still. I don't know if I remember the dates, or the sequence of events... but along the lines she's broken a few vertebrae, and some ribs. The cancer is in her bones. She's a trooper though... she never shows her pain, and consoles me through mine. She's the strongest person I know, but I'm so wrapped up in my own self loathing. Dillon has been with me for a visit for a few weeks. Life is pretty good, and everyone is enjoying his company.

I get a phone call. These days, calls from Katie are quite dreaded as they're never good news. She says those words that crush my world... "I've been having an affair". I don't think I've ever sobbed that hard. This night, self-loathing was overtaken by anger. A lot of screaming ensues. Phone calls, tears, shouting, angry texts, explanations, begging, pleading, more shouting... they all punctuate the next few months. It seems my efforts to keep my marriage together only serve to drive it further apart. I think about killing myself a lot. More realistically, I just want to die. I can't help but think that the pain would be gone. All the suffering and tears and nausea would just disappear. I also can't help but think that I'll never get to see my boy grow up. I wouldn't be there to guide him and help become a good man. This thought keeps my finger off the trigger, keeps me from hurling myself into traffic, stepping off a building... the list goes on and on.

Sometime in December: Moms been in and out of the hospital a few times. Sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. She's been very sick. She's mostly kept doped up to control pain and nausea, but no one can figure out what's wrong with her. We finally find out that they have found some cancer spots in her brain. My stupid piece of shit stepdad decides he needs to misunderstand what the doctor is telling him, and tell the whole family that she has a few weeks to live, maybe. I want to choke the life out of him when she wakes up and tells us that it's going to be okay, he didn't understand what he was told and that radiation should take care of it.

Dillons going back to California for Christmas. There is still much animosity between Katherine and I, but we put it aside for Dillons sake. I was lucky enough to have great in-laws. They paid for me to fly out so I could be with him on Christmas. It was a great time, and tensions between Katie and I are easing... albeit slowly.

May 2010: It's been a year. Dillon is back, and staying longer because my mom has gotten sick again. It's bad this time. The cancer has spread to her liver, and the ammonia is building up in her system. It's causing her to be lethargic, and act strangely. She calls me and tells me one day that they've decided that she's done fighting, and there's nothing more that they can do. I died a little that day. My heart broke into a million pieces. My mother... my beautiful, strong mother passed away on mothers day. I've never felt more lost... alone... depressed... I don't even know how to act.

June 2010: My stepfather, a man that I've had much respect for since he married my mother, becomes a piece of shit overnight. We've found out that he's been seeing some woman for the last year and a half, and damn near a month after my mother dies he's engaged to her. What kind of sad, pathetic excuse for a man cheats on his wife, let alone when she has cancer. All of a sudden, all of my rage and hatred is focused squarely on him and him alone. His explanations and excuses fall on deaf ears, and in one fell swoop he's ostracized himself from the whole family. My anger towards the man who made me a cuckold pales in comparison to the hatred I feel towards the man who betrayed my mother. I'm not Jesus, I will not forgive.

Obviously, there's more to the story than this. In the interest of brevity, I've abridged the story quite a bit. Maybe I'll include them when I pay someone to write this into a novel that no one will want to read one day. This is not an excuse for who I am now, only a glimpse into why I am. I have hope for the future...

I love you Mom.

Perhaps I had better start at the beginning...

Hello, and good day to you. If you've stumbled across this blog, my most sincere apologies. If you so choose to remain and view the content, well that's your own fault and I accept no responsibility for any mental defects that may manifest themselves. Moving on...

First off, let me explain that I am not a blogger per se. I don't consider myself an especially good writer, nor do I have a firm grasp of the English language. I don't really know what nouns, verbs, and adjectives are, and I definitely don't know the proper way of arranging them to form a sentence. I sort of know how a sentence is supposed to sound, I know how to use punctuation and I'm quite capable of grouping several related sentences into paragraphs while simultaneously avoiding run-ons. I'm also an impeccable speller. Yeah... I'm pretty hot shit around the forums.

I write this not in the expectation that people will read it, but so that I might have a means of keeping a record of the happenings in my life. Yeah, like a diary. Shutup. Enter Backstory:

28 years ago my Mother, God rest her soul, spent an inordinate amount of time (read: 36-ish hours) in labor with something that would eventually grow up to resemble Leonardo DiCaprios retarded doppelganger, minus the smugness. Yeah, i heard that alot when I was a somewhat handsome young teenager. Now? Well, now it's just unfortunate. I struggle daily to avoid falling into a shape that some might call "rotund", and the fear of losing my hair is ever-present. I'm sure Leo has a few people he pays to worry about these things for him. I consider him a prick.

I spent my formative years being awkward, misunderstood and misguided. I struggled to be accepted, and never quite grasped the fine art of talking to girls. This is something I still strive to be mediocre at, with moderate success. I did a lot of things I'm not proud of, hung out with the wrong crowds, ingested or inhaled the wrong things, fought, betrayed friends and probably blasphemed more than a few times. Yes, there are regrets. I hurt people, disappointed my family and let myself down. Without going into too much detail, all these experiences helped to mold a confused young man into a confused older man who only strives to live a comfortable, magnanimous life. Yeah, I know none of this is funny. I'm getting there... geez.

Fast forward to present day. I've been in the Air Force for about 8 years now, and it's looking like it's going to be a career. I have an adorable 2 year old baby boy named Dillon, who is my life. I've been married, and as a result of my poor decision making skills I'm subsequently working on my first divorce. Yeah I said first... I'm hoping the next marriage will be the last, but you never know in this world. Life is unpredictable, and misfortune seems to be ubiquitous in mine. This is a story for another post though.

My adult life hasn't been all bad though. Quite the opposite, in fact. With the exception of a few brief scatterings and the last year, it's been pretty enjoyable. Yeah, I've lived in some rathole apartments, worried about where I was going to get my next meal and wondered where I'd get the money to turn the power back on. But I figured out that I can persevere through damn near anything, and I'll always land on my feet. I can honestly say that joining the Air Force is one of the best decisions I've ever made, second to having my son. I've been to alot of great places that I otherwise would have never seen, including Ireland, Scotland, Crete, Germany, Crete and some assorted middle eastern countries. I keep it hidden, but I'm actually pretty proud to be in the Air Force. Yadda Yadda Yadda.

So, that's me in a nutshell. You're now a little bit dumber for having read this.