What I am is a writer.  I like to talk about what I see and have seen.  There’s plenty.  I hope to illuminate, maybe even educate, but at the end of the day, I’ll settle for pissing you off.  I’m here for a reason.  It’s not deep or profound.  The reason is I can’t help it.  I must do this.  I am compelled, whether anyone listens or not, to speak my mind.  I always have something to say.  It’s a curse and a blessing.

I’ve always been this way.  I can’t bring myself to be unhappy about it.  I don’t really try.

Either I’m wont to wax political or I tell you stories.  I do so because I can’t help it.  I am a writer.  I like words.  They are my stock in trade.  Fiduciary.  Supple.  Plenipotentiary.  Flabbergasted.  Onomatopoeia.  I’ll fire them at you for fun.  That’s one of the things I do with words.  Otherwise I strive to make a point.  To awaken you to some aspect or angle you hadn’t considered.  I really like doing that.  Sometimes I search high and low for that angle, that perspective.

If I just can’t find it, I come at you full bore with something I hate that you might not understand.  I get myself in a lather and blow smoke in your face while I pound and complain.  I do this because I have to.  Because I can’t help it.

All humans are foolish.  Humility is the best we can present, despite it being insincere the majority of the time.  I’m no exception.  I really want you to read my shit.  I’m a writer.  I want to talk to you.  Communicate with you.  Reach you.  Touch your heart and your mind.

I am a writer.  I can’t help it.

Just like any other pedestrian, my humility is fragile.  Like any other egotistical pontificator, I’m confident I have something to say you’ve never heard before, or at least in a way you’ve never heard before.  It’s just as likely I’m completely wrong.  I can’t help it.  I’m a writer.

I hate any organized religion and I love to hate politics.  I love to talk about both until I run out of breath and big interesting words.  I sincerely hope, in that pursuit, to entertain you.  I do endeavor, with as much honesty as I can muster, to tell you the truth as I see it.  I am not here to fuck around.

What I am, is a writer.

Bear with me, I’m working up to it.

What I want to tell you.

As of Monday, August four, I’ll be off the grid.  I’m going to ground because I have to make money.  Whims are no longer subject to me.  I am subject to them.  Off I go, back to ground, to make them my bitch again soon.  I don’t imagine it will be longer than a week or so.  For me to get back to you.  Back on the grid.  Not to make whimsy my own.  That will take a little longer.

The whole idea is for me to control circumstances once again.

Fly a biplane into the yonder blue.  Away we go.  Yep, A biplane.  A Sopwith Camel.

My two girls will be in cages in the back of my newly registered, no insurance, expired drivers license, most likely with a bench warrant vulnerable ass…..car.  I got new tags though.

I’m off.  Bear with me.  I’ll be back just as soon as I can.  To startle you.  To entertain you.

No worries, I’ll be back soon.

I am a writer.

Drinks for my friends.

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