There are days (most days) when I feel like something is about to go horribly wrong for me. Maybe a root canal, maybe an alien abduction. Maybe an alien abduction during a root canal. Then, there are days (NOT most days) when nothing could phase me. I could witness seventeen murders and have to talk to a baby Hitler clone and I’d still go home smiling.
A few days ago, I looked in the mirror and decided I hated myself. And, no, I don’t hate myself like, “I’d like to die now, please & thank you.” I just looked at myself for a few awkwardly erotic moments and decided I really didn’t like me. I wasn’t happy with how I looked. I wasn’t happy with the things I said. I wasn’t happy with who I was as a person.
And maybe you’re saying to yourself, “Well, why doesn’t Silas just fix it?” Well, fuck, that’s a great idea, basically non-existent readers. And I did. Or, at least, I tried. I didn’t fail, per se, but I certainly didn’t succeed.
Because it’s not over. I haven’t reached the point I one day hope to, but I’m not stagnant. I’m moving forward, little by little, inch by inch, and I plan on continuing to move forward for as long as I’m breathing. And, hopefully, by the time I’m eighty-nine and hardly able to walk, they’ll give me a wheelchair capable of Mach 3 so I can zip by you assholes.
I’ll keep moving until I’m dead. And, to be honest, when I’m dead, I’d like to be attached to the underside of a Star Destroyer (those exist).
I’m sorry that this has absolutely nothing to do with absolutely anything, but I don’t really have to pander to anyone, because I have one reader.
Hey, Reid. Ya’ dick.
Alright, I’m out. Until next time —