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Things I believe: There are no coincidences. There are no accidents. Everything is symbolic. Everything is relative. We're all a little crazy. "The truth is out there." There *is* something greater than us, only it's probably not other than us; it's more likely deep inside us. "The universe is shaped exactly like the earth, if you go straight long enough you end up where you were." (There's a Modest Mouse quote for almost every situation.) "All you need is love." (And food, things you enjoy and, occasionally, medication) That which doesn't kill us doesn't kill us. Breathe. Anyway you can. As long as you can.


Not about to be

This isn't going to be the world's greatest novella. 

This is a story about me, how I've become an alcoholic and how, by the time I'm done writing, maybe I can be something else.

I never let go of horrid shit I've seen or imagined.  I highly recommend not loving addicts or reading their autopsies when they die. It's hard enough to lose someone close to you without knowing how many ounces of vitreous fluid they contained in each eye or how much each kidney weighed. (Or that you suspected thyroid dysfunction by their eyes but didn't know till patho came in.)

I used to want to do autopsies and even had the chance... Reading the reports, I can see the whole fucking thing. (Nightmares!) 

When someone you love is torn apart like a stuffed animal by a sadistic toddler (or, more likely, dog), it's hard to swallow. Literally. Water will make you choke. 

69 months ago, I lost one of my best friends and someone who has seen and known things no one else ever will. My older, protective, first, best (and worst) friend.

He was depressed, drank a lot and moved to harder shit. It killed him. DEAD. My grandmother had to tell me...

I remember him crying when Mom and Dad were "going to die of cancer" from smoking cigarettes. It was pot. Then, a few years later, he got kicked out for growing in the basement. We both smoked cigarettes by then. 

We had great times singing Sublime and drinking cheap vodka and rum, him playing the guitar and me singing, but it never stopped his pain. 

Then he did coke. And heroin. I saw strange pictures and "should've known". (Denial is a huge river.) 

I TRIED. IT HURTS. Now I'm fucked up and drink too much too... Mom blamed herself and went the same way, just scripts in hand. I don't blame her. He was her son. She "missed the boat".

Sometimes you just have to stop. 

He'll always be such a huge part of my soul. Maybe one day we'll "SAIL".

Miss you, Brother.