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...

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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.