When I Die

Long Time No See

Six years. How the hell did we get there? Get through? Oh brother. I feel like a distant uncle who saw pictures of his nephews when they were toddlers. And now he comes to visit them, only to find cocksure adults. And I go, lord, it's been a while. Six years, huh. Sure, there's a mail in my box telling me so. I've been here for six bloody years.

Except, I haven't really been here for the past three. And I know this only because of the date below the last few entries. I never left, not really, but... I did. Y'know why? People leave. People go away. I did. But a lot of people I knew did before I did; each departure leaving me one less reason to come here everyday.

Oh, that, and Ash. You can go fawn about how women can tear a good man away from his people now. It's true. No arguments from me. Except: I had a hell of a time.

Sure, I came here from time to time, checking on the few who remained (hello, jay); sure I edited a few entries. Sure I thought about writing in here a couple of times, except, I kept putting it off and now there's a bloody bunker full of things that need to be said but Yours Truly won't. Call it the don't-know-where-to-begin syndrome.

So, to begin with, yes, I'm fine. I'm alive. I'm all right. Mostly. Shit happens. Good and bad. I've had my share in the past three years. Ash still happens everyday, and that's the best of that good shit. Sure we've done damn near everything I never thought we would. Fight, make up, break up, shake up, break promises, make promises, shoot pies in the sky, show off, and on and on and on.

For a while her hair was black. For a while my hair was gone. For a while we didn't see each other much. Then the condom manufacturers thanked us. For a long time. So it goes.

Still haven't seen Max. Still haven't quite made my peace with Dad. Or Mom. Or... let's say I hold bitter grudges.

But all in all, things are fine. Maybe this entry is an epilogue to what happened before. Say true, the storyteller in YT knows very well that the last entry was about as good as endings get, and maybe that's one more reason why this journal lay stagnant for so long. So, as epilogues must go: things are fine. Sequels are possible.

Do drop in a word--I'd love to hear from the old gang.

And RIP, Kurt Vonnegut.

Tricksy.