this will be my first blog entry on this site so i'll keep it short. once i get blathering, there's no stopping the locomotive. consequently, i have the tendecy to run on in fragmented sentences. i'll call it poetic licensing or a prosaic warrant. my english teacher would later call it a C-. my mother would call it a waste of her time. my father, in his reign of high blood pressure, wouldn't label it as a fixation nor would he care if it solved the worlds many problems. aside from the excessive drinking and the projectile of incubate objects, he was a good man. a "reasonable" man of sorts. but this is not about his life, at least, not just yet. this is about the underlining truth wipped and slathered with dark, mosaic undertones. and so it has begun. the faithful truth of another man seered into this hybrid of periodical uncertainty. awaiting the meat hook realities of these impulsive days ahead.
the tragedy junkie