So much stuff. What's the goddamned point?
Stuff everywhere. Stuff, stuff, stuff.
I've got to get more stuff to store the other stuff. Why? It doesn't even make sense.
Half the stuff goes unused while a quarter of it gets some action, but the other quarter you forgot about because it's stuffed in a drawer somewhere.
Why do I have so much stuff?
Right now I don't give a fuck about this stuff. Right now my spleen and liver are enlarged and I've got another hernia somewhere in my gut. It's suspected that I have this rare, genetic blood disease called Porphyria—which type, I'm not sure yet. My doctor isn't sure. But I need to fly down to Miami, Florida to be diagnosed (or hopefully ruled out, although that will just put us in another arena of test, test, tests) and start treatment.
There's no cure for Porphyria.
The sun will always hurt my flesh, I'll always have abdominal pain, I'll always have to stay away from stresses and triggers—whether good or bad. It's a death sentence that you may never die from. It'll sure make you want to die, though.
But I can't. I won't.
I'm not going to miss the best parts of my children's lives like my mother did. I'm going to be there at their hopefully indoor weddings, if they choose to get married, of course.
I'm going to be in the waiting room, respecting their privacy when their children are born, if they choose to have families, that is.
I'm going to be decked out in ultraviolet protective clothing with an obnoxiously large umbrella to block out the sun at their graduations.
I'm going to be there, even if it kills me.
We don't yet know what's actually happening inside my body, but when we do, I'll do everything I can to live and live as well as possible.
I don't want to die. Especially not like this.
He didn't sign up for this, but he's still here.
A Pill For A Pill Leaves The Whole World Drugged
I think I like not knowing.
What do I want to do with this?
Hmm… Good question.
I don't want to get my hopes too high, but it's something to look forward to.
'How's your business going?'
'Fine.' I hate it.
My fingers are crossed, but I'm not sure if that's enough anymore.
They always end up letting you down.
It always happens in droves.
She caught me with the knife when I was sixteen, maybe seventeen.
There's no winning with blame.
Every time I think I'm getting better at this whole life thing, I do something wrong and set it back.
I like getting older.
There's something about with age and experience comes wisdom that's exhilarating.
I'll see this one through, I tell myself. I'll finish it.
After this, I'll put it to bed. After this, I'll move forward.
Something I learned as a visual artist and writer is that some of the best healing comes from expression.
There's something surreal about standing in front of a crowd of strangers—writers who all want the same thing.
At the end of the Writers In Paradise sessions, everyone got a chance to present a refined version of their submitted work, or a new story they were working on.
I was the only teenager at Writers in Paradise with Dennis Lehane, Sterling Watson and other well-known authors back in 2006.