Sunday, October 16, 2005


When I was about to turn 16, my older brother who I hadn't met yet, sent me a letter. In it he imparted to me some valuable bits of knowledge. One that stuck out was that my car is a weapon. I would take me anywhere I wanted to go, but if were to become sloppy, I could kill myself... or someone else.

I would later learn from my friends that sex is also a weapon. If played with without care or feeling, it could leave a deep and nasty scar.

Back when I was living in Austin and my friends were the only family I had, the late nights watching stars and drinking wine on the roof top of the apartment was a time when nothing else mattered but us. We could be broke, but we would be fed. We would be dead tired, but someone made sure there would be hot tea, a pillow, and a blanket. We could cry, and someone would let us.

Sometimes its best to just run over the possum in the road. The alternative obviously didn't turn out so well. While you can swerve to save its life, he was no friend of that tree, and that tree wasn't going to get out of your way.

On those long drives to and from the flat lands of the netherworld, through cow inhabited greenery, at the end of a long work day, it's good to know that there's someone on the other end of the phone to be your co-pilot until your battery runs out. It's even better to be the co-pilot, because then you can do it from the comfort of your couch.

The best chocolate comes from places with names you can't pronouce correctly. The people that give them to you want you to eat it... and not let it sit for 2 months on your desk.

There's a reason for everything. Whether I like it or not.

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