I can’t draw worth a damn. But that doesn’t stop me from trying.
Dealing with things like a tumor can be, after the shock wears off, quite variable. One can retreat and shrink, or one can grab this thing by the throat and fuck it to death. There is no one correct way, of course. It may be variable, but it is also very personal. For now, for me, I am taking the latter path. We’ll see how that goes…
1. As I wrestle with my new friend, Mr Noggin von Neoplasm, I thought it behooved me to try to articulate some kind of wisdom for my oldest son (who is now at an age where he understands such things). I boiled down all the life lessons I could think of to three main rules which can be applied to any situation he may encounter:
If these rules are applied rigorously, he will always win.
2. When typing, I often get “tings” when attempting to type “things”. I like “tings” better, and am going to try to work it into conversation more often.
One hopes that one hasn’t quite reached half-time yet, but there has been a distinctly ‘mid-life crisis’ flavor to proceedings of late. The half-century hasn’t arrived yet, but the fates have seen fit to serve up a tumor of sorts dans le cerveau, as the French say. I look at it as simply an obstacle to overcome, and one that will surely be overcome, but it places into sharp contrast one’s mortality. There is so much yet to do. That’s the real lament, isn’t it? That we will somehow, rather unfairly, run out of time. Not so. ‘Burn up, don’t burn out’ would seem good advice. Pair that with Captain Picard’s command, “Make it so”, and we’ll be fine…
It is Tuesday, right?
Phobias are irrational fears. I have a perfectly rational and healthy dislike of spiders. Can’t stand ‘em. Snakes aren’t too popular either (there are several poisonous species around here, and sometimes they like to visit inside the house). Lizards are okay.
It’s a “first-world” problem to be sure, but the closest I come to violence in public is waiting in a long queue at Starbucks only to discover that the patron in front of me has no idea what she wants, no idea what the options are, and wants to pay with a $100 bill.
It should be a law that when you arrive at the counter you must know what you want to order.
I told you it was a “first-world” problem.
I am a baffled observer of the world around us; a satirist, poet, editor and researcher; a food pornographer; an ambitious but average drummer with a penchant for tabloid headlines, from H-Town, Texas, of course. Life-long dream: swim with the sharks.
These are my collected ramblings; an online compendium of utter nonsense, comprising art, culture, poetry, photography, technology and the newsworthy, arcane and inane.
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