It’s been said that we all go through “awkward periods” while growing up. Mine was pretty much between the ages of six months and nineteen years of age. Some might say I’m still experiencing an awkward stage, and I’ve simply conditioned myself over time to believe that everything is normal. Seems legit.
First of all, I am a born writer. Not that I was spit out of my mother’s vagina with a Remington in tow. That would be gross. And impossible. Unless it was a little tiny typewriter, like baby sized. Okay, I’m getting way off course here. I write, therefore I am. Some kids are natural-born athletes. Some excel in algebra. Some are meant to be physicists. I’m sure, when God was handing out appropriate talents to all the little spirit babies floating around in the cosmic goo up there, he looked at me and said, “Little ugly baby, I want you to get your brat ass down to Earth and write the shit out of your life,” all the while pointing that waggly God finger at me like he did in that Michelangelo fresco, “or, alternatively, I can make you a smelly Vietnamese hooker. It’s your choice.”
So, looking back at it, I pretty much failed God and became a financial analyst. But still, that is a few steps up the evolutionary ladder than being a smelly Vietnamese hooker, correct?
This blog is my attempt to make penance with the old fart upstairs. Let’s be realistic here. I’m 41 and I don’t have much time left. I mean, the movie is half over and I’m surely going to spend the rest of my time here worrying about the ending. What’s the fun in that? So, I’ve decided to jot down here a few of the wonderful adventures and embarrassing memories of my childhood, as I am sure that Random House or Harper Collins won’t be beating down my door for the autobiography rights anytime soon.