So, in an attempt to remember where all the stuff came from, I'm going to try to remember everything new that has to have a place in my already-full house this year. Needless to say, this year I was VERY blessed by my families, both here in NC and in IN. Thank you one and all for the gifts, and for the numerous - and quite possibly innumerable - hours that I will spend enjoying them!
*Steven R. Lawhead's Scarlet
*Les Stroud's Survive
*C.S. Lewis' space trilogy
*Little Big Planet for PS3
*PSP 3000 with Ratchet & Clank, National Treasure 2, and echochrome
*Playstation Network giftcard
*Lowe's giftcard
*LEGO 7094 King's Castle Siege
*2 sets of thermals for duck hunting
*Replica ancient Chinese sword
*BluRay The Dark Knight
*BluRay Prince Caspian
*BluRay Planet Earth series
*JBL portable iPod docking station
*Disciple's newest CD, Southern Hospitality
*a decorative bowl that is currently full of discounted holiday candy
*a DeWalt accessory kit
On a side note, this past week should be the longest lapse in postings from me, mostly because I know I should write more, but also because I know how it feels to try to keep up with a blog and have the author forget to write in it. I should probably have something else up by the end of the week.
P.S.: Thanks, Paschal, for the heads-up on the "My One Word" coming up. That'll give me time to pray about it and "decide" before Sunday.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Oh Holy WHAT?!?
I just sent this out to my SG members, and I knew I had to send it out to the rest of the world. Apparently, this guy thought he was as good as a member of the Gaither Vocal Band. See if you agree.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_xSbiGWzuQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_xSbiGWzuQ
Friday, December 19, 2008
Proof
Just in time for all of you guys to visit family for the holidays, here's the SG pics I got last Sunday. It's proof that, yes, we are all in this together, and that we can indeed all get a night off once a year!
*Note: I think the camera was tilted a little: Pascal's tall, but he's not that much taller than Stewart and Elios.*
This way, you can not only explain to everyone back home why you're crazy, you can show them!
*Note: I think the camera was tilted a little: Pascal's tall, but he's not that much taller than Stewart and Elios.*
This way, you can not only explain to everyone back home why you're crazy, you can show them!
Timing
"It'll all happen in God's time."
That's the saying we've all heard time and time again, and when it spontaneously barged into my mind today, I was forced to ask: What time isn't God's? Didn't He invent it, for crying out loud?! Which led me to my next question: If it's all God's timing, then why do we fail to recognize it as such? Why are we allowed to feel that we have some sort of control over when something will happen?
I'm not talking about the little things. I'm not talking about when dinner will be ready, or when the next episode of Mythbusters will be on. I'm talking about the biggies, like having kids, buying a house, or getting the perfect job after "investing" years of time and (our parents') money on school. The whole idea of our own timing being off has astounded me today, and my thoughts keep going back to it.
I guess this is coming about because I have a considerable lack of patience when it comes to getting the things I want, feel I deserve, or even feel I need. "God, I thought we talked about this! Remember, back in high school, I'd stay up late at night, drafting blueprints and floor plans for that big house I always knew I'd have by now? Or, remember the way I planned to be a radiologist, and how afterwards You, in your infinite grace, finally openned my eyes to the fact that I was meant to do something different? Why, again, can't I make the radiologist's salary doing what You've led me to do? What happened to the 30-acre estate next to the lake, with the dog in the yard, wearing a rambunctuos kid around its neck like an awkward collar while another looked on, shouting, 'I'm gonna tell Mom!'"
Then God looks down, smiles, and whomps me upside my inpatient head: "Hey, dummy! Look around you! You have an awesome life that you never planned, you just had to sit back and let it happen!"
Total Job moment.
"Hey, I'm not done!" God keeps going. "I'm going to continue to bless you whenever I feel like it, and, no, there's nothing you can do about it! Know why? 'Cause I'm God, that's why! And some of those blessings won't look like blessings at all, because I'm not done with them when you first see them. I don't have to tell you why, or show you how it'll work out in the end, because I'm God! That whole 'time' thing was my idea, and I'll use it however I danged well please! And, furthermore, when I'm done blessing you, I'm going to bring you home to be with me. And further still, I'm going to give you - give you - all those things you thought you wanted right stinkin' now, and you're going to realize that you never really wanted them in the first place! Then, I'll look down, smile, and whomp you upside your grateful head! I'd ask if that's ok with you, but I don't have to: I'm God."
So, in short, I've been thoroughly whomped. And God still knows best. And I'll eventually learn that lesson well enough that I'll stop repeating this process of "lament, learn, forget." I just hope I learn it before God looks down, smiles, and says...
"Time's up."
That's the saying we've all heard time and time again, and when it spontaneously barged into my mind today, I was forced to ask: What time isn't God's? Didn't He invent it, for crying out loud?! Which led me to my next question: If it's all God's timing, then why do we fail to recognize it as such? Why are we allowed to feel that we have some sort of control over when something will happen?
I'm not talking about the little things. I'm not talking about when dinner will be ready, or when the next episode of Mythbusters will be on. I'm talking about the biggies, like having kids, buying a house, or getting the perfect job after "investing" years of time and (our parents') money on school. The whole idea of our own timing being off has astounded me today, and my thoughts keep going back to it.
I guess this is coming about because I have a considerable lack of patience when it comes to getting the things I want, feel I deserve, or even feel I need. "God, I thought we talked about this! Remember, back in high school, I'd stay up late at night, drafting blueprints and floor plans for that big house I always knew I'd have by now? Or, remember the way I planned to be a radiologist, and how afterwards You, in your infinite grace, finally openned my eyes to the fact that I was meant to do something different? Why, again, can't I make the radiologist's salary doing what You've led me to do? What happened to the 30-acre estate next to the lake, with the dog in the yard, wearing a rambunctuos kid around its neck like an awkward collar while another looked on, shouting, 'I'm gonna tell Mom!'"
Then God looks down, smiles, and whomps me upside my inpatient head: "Hey, dummy! Look around you! You have an awesome life that you never planned, you just had to sit back and let it happen!"
Total Job moment.
"Hey, I'm not done!" God keeps going. "I'm going to continue to bless you whenever I feel like it, and, no, there's nothing you can do about it! Know why? 'Cause I'm God, that's why! And some of those blessings won't look like blessings at all, because I'm not done with them when you first see them. I don't have to tell you why, or show you how it'll work out in the end, because I'm God! That whole 'time' thing was my idea, and I'll use it however I danged well please! And, furthermore, when I'm done blessing you, I'm going to bring you home to be with me. And further still, I'm going to give you - give you - all those things you thought you wanted right stinkin' now, and you're going to realize that you never really wanted them in the first place! Then, I'll look down, smile, and whomp you upside your grateful head! I'd ask if that's ok with you, but I don't have to: I'm God."
So, in short, I've been thoroughly whomped. And God still knows best. And I'll eventually learn that lesson well enough that I'll stop repeating this process of "lament, learn, forget." I just hope I learn it before God looks down, smiles, and says...
"Time's up."
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Never Too Late
I love my wife!
So, as an expression of that sentiment, I decided to spend a few hours doing THIS:
We decided (a decision I still believe I pushed her to make with me) a few years back that a white tree would be an awesome addition to our home. After all, our wedding colors were blue and silver. Our favorite team - the Indianapolis Colts - are blue and white. Carolina is blue and white. So why not a tree?
She's been wanting the tree up for a while now, but with all the traveling, school work, regular work, and church, we've not had the time. So, while she was still at work, I sneaked home (which is really a way of saying that work was super slow today), climbed up into the attic, and emptied it of all our festive decór. The last few pics are the result of about four hours. And I even did the yard. I love you, babe!
So, as an expression of that sentiment, I decided to spend a few hours doing THIS:
We decided (a decision I still believe I pushed her to make with me) a few years back that a white tree would be an awesome addition to our home. After all, our wedding colors were blue and silver. Our favorite team - the Indianapolis Colts - are blue and white. Carolina is blue and white. So why not a tree?
She's been wanting the tree up for a while now, but with all the traveling, school work, regular work, and church, we've not had the time. So, while she was still at work, I sneaked home (which is really a way of saying that work was super slow today), climbed up into the attic, and emptied it of all our festive decór. The last few pics are the result of about four hours. And I even did the yard. I love you, babe!
"The Neverendng Story" is a Pipedream
I hate finishing a book. Granted, there's a feeling of accomplishment that I get when it's over, and everyone loves knowing just what happens at the end: my mom, for instance, starts there. She reads the last chapter first, because if the book ends badly, she doesn't want to waste her time reading the rest of it.
I loathe the end of a book for one precise reason: I can never go back. You see, when I read a book - and, just so we're clear, I'm talking about fiction and travel memoirs, specifically - I go there. I'm living with the characters, I eat with the narrator, I battle alongside the hero(ine), and when that's over and the story comes to an end, I have to go back. Now, I love my life. I'm blessed in oh! so many ways. But when you've become a brother to Lewis Gillies in Albion, watched him grow from an unfit Oxford scholar into the fierce champion of a Celtic king, well, there's a sort of disappointment that accompanies the final page of that last chapter.
People say, "Oh, you know you can go back! All you have to do is continue the story in your own mind, and the characters can live again, in you!" Thanks for those wise words, LeVar Burton. Next time the magic cartoon rainbow comes gliding out of the ocean's horizon, I'll do just that. But on my side of the acid trip, you can't really go back. Know why?
Sequels. No matter what you imagined would happen in that far away land, the author, oddly enough, has his own view of things. Guess who's always right! No one was so adept at screwing up my head when it came to sequels as Anne Rice. That woman could throw a plot twist in that could kill the main character. Twice. And he'd still rise from the proverbial ashes to be in yet another storyline.
The only thing worse than finishing an awesome book is finishing an awesome series. Try going back to Narnia. You can't! It's over! C.S. Lewis finished off that entire world with The Last Battle! Anything you imagine happens there after the last chapter is read is utterly false, if you really think about it. If that example fails to convince, then try imagining Harry Potter's life at college, or how his kids will behave. Almost disheartening when you even try, isn't it?
Ok, breathe easy. The cynicism stops here. I love books. I'm even getting to the point where I enjoy reading them again. I'll probably start (and finish) countless other series before Jesus comes to get me. But, just once, I'd like for an author to start an interesting new concept, one where the last chapter is yanked from the press. Let us all be right when it comes to the conclusion of the stories we've created inside of our own minds. True, the story is yours alone, but when you share it with the rest of us, our own humanity and imagination graft it into our minds, and it becomes partly ours, as well. So, until Harry Potter can be revealed to have eaten Fawkes' ashes, or evidence arises to suggest that Rhi Bran y Hud found a potion of immortality, I'm going to keep reading. I have no choice. Those hidden worlds draw me in like a moth to a... moth trap. I hate clichés. We'll cover that whole mess later.
I loathe the end of a book for one precise reason: I can never go back. You see, when I read a book - and, just so we're clear, I'm talking about fiction and travel memoirs, specifically - I go there. I'm living with the characters, I eat with the narrator, I battle alongside the hero(ine), and when that's over and the story comes to an end, I have to go back. Now, I love my life. I'm blessed in oh! so many ways. But when you've become a brother to Lewis Gillies in Albion, watched him grow from an unfit Oxford scholar into the fierce champion of a Celtic king, well, there's a sort of disappointment that accompanies the final page of that last chapter.
People say, "Oh, you know you can go back! All you have to do is continue the story in your own mind, and the characters can live again, in you!" Thanks for those wise words, LeVar Burton. Next time the magic cartoon rainbow comes gliding out of the ocean's horizon, I'll do just that. But on my side of the acid trip, you can't really go back. Know why?
Sequels. No matter what you imagined would happen in that far away land, the author, oddly enough, has his own view of things. Guess who's always right! No one was so adept at screwing up my head when it came to sequels as Anne Rice. That woman could throw a plot twist in that could kill the main character. Twice. And he'd still rise from the proverbial ashes to be in yet another storyline.
The only thing worse than finishing an awesome book is finishing an awesome series. Try going back to Narnia. You can't! It's over! C.S. Lewis finished off that entire world with The Last Battle! Anything you imagine happens there after the last chapter is read is utterly false, if you really think about it. If that example fails to convince, then try imagining Harry Potter's life at college, or how his kids will behave. Almost disheartening when you even try, isn't it?
Ok, breathe easy. The cynicism stops here. I love books. I'm even getting to the point where I enjoy reading them again. I'll probably start (and finish) countless other series before Jesus comes to get me. But, just once, I'd like for an author to start an interesting new concept, one where the last chapter is yanked from the press. Let us all be right when it comes to the conclusion of the stories we've created inside of our own minds. True, the story is yours alone, but when you share it with the rest of us, our own humanity and imagination graft it into our minds, and it becomes partly ours, as well. So, until Harry Potter can be revealed to have eaten Fawkes' ashes, or evidence arises to suggest that Rhi Bran y Hud found a potion of immortality, I'm going to keep reading. I have no choice. Those hidden worlds draw me in like a moth to a... moth trap. I hate clichés. We'll cover that whole mess later.
Monday, December 15, 2008
All I Want For Christmas...
... is nothing.
Well, that's a vicious rumor. That I just made up. And plan to spread.
The truth is, there are limitless (well, perhaps that's too strong a word, but the point still carries) items and trinkets that I want, and getting them as gifts for Christmas would mean that I wouldn't have to pay for them. There just aren't many things that I need. Does anyone else feel like that?
I have the option of getting a PSP (Sony's handheld videogame system) complete with two games (Ratchet and Clank, and Echochrome) *Note: Why do I not have an option to underline in blogspot? Bold and italics, yes. Underline? DENIED!* as well as a movie (National Treasure 2). Or, my other choice is a nice, fresh pair of Oakleys. Both are desirable, but neither are exactly practical. See, I work in the construction industry. There's no room for $150 shades, or any videogames, for that matter. But, I can enjoy either one equally on the weekends.
But I don't need either one of those things. They're simply desirable. I already have plenty of things to occupy my time, like a PS3, DVDs, books a'plenty, etc. And, polarized glasses can be picked up at Wal*Mart for around 15 bucks.
So, therein lies my dilemma, and the underlying question behind this whole post: why do I feel the need to ask for things I don't need and can reasonably justify not having? Am I conforming to a social ideal that states that everyone must want something for Christmas? Or, am I simply allowing the congenital greed and modern commerciallism to attack me, finding some twisted pleasure in having to define my level of contentment?
Know what I really want for Christmas? The simplicity will drive you mad. I want to be with my family. Of coarse, by that I mean my wife, my sister, my parents, and their frail little dog. That's understandable. And that will indeed happen on Chirstmas Eve, and on through till probably Saturday.
But I also want to share Christmas with my other family: my SG. Yeah, yeah, yeah... sappy. Unpredictable, to some of you. But I don't care if it's sappy, cliche', or any of the other wonderfully appropriate words that could be used to describe it. I'm a social creature, despite any evidence from my mostly solitary adolescence.
So, if any of you are interested, email me, and I'll be more than happy to send you my list of things I don't really need. Feel free to buy any of the items listed, at your leisure, and I'll be grateful that I didn't have to ruin the budget this Christmas. And that alone will make for a very, very happy new year!
Well, that's a vicious rumor. That I just made up. And plan to spread.
The truth is, there are limitless (well, perhaps that's too strong a word, but the point still carries) items and trinkets that I want, and getting them as gifts for Christmas would mean that I wouldn't have to pay for them. There just aren't many things that I need. Does anyone else feel like that?
I have the option of getting a PSP (Sony's handheld videogame system) complete with two games (Ratchet and Clank, and Echochrome) *Note: Why do I not have an option to underline in blogspot? Bold and italics, yes. Underline? DENIED!* as well as a movie (National Treasure 2). Or, my other choice is a nice, fresh pair of Oakleys. Both are desirable, but neither are exactly practical. See, I work in the construction industry. There's no room for $150 shades, or any videogames, for that matter. But, I can enjoy either one equally on the weekends.
But I don't need either one of those things. They're simply desirable. I already have plenty of things to occupy my time, like a PS3, DVDs, books a'plenty, etc. And, polarized glasses can be picked up at Wal*Mart for around 15 bucks.
So, therein lies my dilemma, and the underlying question behind this whole post: why do I feel the need to ask for things I don't need and can reasonably justify not having? Am I conforming to a social ideal that states that everyone must want something for Christmas? Or, am I simply allowing the congenital greed and modern commerciallism to attack me, finding some twisted pleasure in having to define my level of contentment?
Know what I really want for Christmas? The simplicity will drive you mad. I want to be with my family. Of coarse, by that I mean my wife, my sister, my parents, and their frail little dog. That's understandable. And that will indeed happen on Chirstmas Eve, and on through till probably Saturday.
But I also want to share Christmas with my other family: my SG. Yeah, yeah, yeah... sappy. Unpredictable, to some of you. But I don't care if it's sappy, cliche', or any of the other wonderfully appropriate words that could be used to describe it. I'm a social creature, despite any evidence from my mostly solitary adolescence.
So, if any of you are interested, email me, and I'll be more than happy to send you my list of things I don't really need. Feel free to buy any of the items listed, at your leisure, and I'll be grateful that I didn't have to ruin the budget this Christmas. And that alone will make for a very, very happy new year!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Names That Didn't Make the Cut
I don't mind starting a blog. Really, I don't. The writing, the typing, none of that is especially difficult or hard to produce: I simply start typing and edit it later. Kinda like how I wish I could talk, speaking first and editing it if it comes out wrong.
No, what I dislike about the whole "process" of starting something new is the naming of the thing. Think about it: it's the first thing people will see, the first thing they'll form an opinion about, and the last thing they'll remember... unless it's a dumb title. Cliche' or grand, embellished or trite, all that stuff.
So, here's a list of things I tossed out. If you'll remember, I like words. Correction, I adore words. Especially tricks with them. So, on anagram.com (or whatever it's called. I google it every time I want to find it. I should really have it bookmarked), I entered all sorts of stuff trying to find an awesome anagram to be my title. Here's the list... that I threw out:
B and K Small Group = Bog Mallards Punk, Brusk Napalm Gold
*The first one actually fits the whole "I claim to be a duck hunter" theme I've been living.
I Love Kara = Okra Alive, A Live Okra
*Okra is a skinny, spiky vegetable that grows on a skinny, woody stem. Too much like me.
Victor Brandon Shaw = Thin Bravado Crowns, Crowd Both Nirvanas, Vibrant Candor Show,
Vibrant Nacho Sword, Nacho Vibrant Words, Vibrant Shadow Corn, A Vibrant Chord Sown
*These were just bad. Except "Vibrant Nacho Sword." That one is awesome. But not a title.
My Father's Son = A Forest's Hymn, Hefty Ransoms, Ear's Soft Hymn, Hymns of Tears
*These were all really good. Except the last two. Too sensual to be a title. Of my blog.
A Killer Wit = Wet Ilk Lair
*I don't... even know what that is. How'd that even get on my list?
So, anagrams are a wash. I almost named this thing "My Father's Son," but it's too ambiguous. Is it spiritual? Is it reverential? Is it sarcastic? Is my dad going to be mad? Am I reading too much into this? Is it really worth asking so many questions about it? Why am I still asking questions?
There. Welcome to my world. Currently, the title is "Write Now." Lovely little pun. Short and cliche'. I mean sweet. And cliche'. It's also a command to tell me to get off my butt and write something every few days or so. "Write NOW, me! Turn off the PS3, start the 10 minute start-up cycle on the desktop, and go create something worth writing! Or, at the very least, worth reading." Thank you for contributing to my madness.
No, what I dislike about the whole "process" of starting something new is the naming of the thing. Think about it: it's the first thing people will see, the first thing they'll form an opinion about, and the last thing they'll remember... unless it's a dumb title. Cliche' or grand, embellished or trite, all that stuff.
So, here's a list of things I tossed out. If you'll remember, I like words. Correction, I adore words. Especially tricks with them. So, on anagram.com (or whatever it's called. I google it every time I want to find it. I should really have it bookmarked), I entered all sorts of stuff trying to find an awesome anagram to be my title. Here's the list... that I threw out:
B and K Small Group = Bog Mallards Punk, Brusk Napalm Gold
*The first one actually fits the whole "I claim to be a duck hunter" theme I've been living.
I Love Kara = Okra Alive, A Live Okra
*Okra is a skinny, spiky vegetable that grows on a skinny, woody stem. Too much like me.
Victor Brandon Shaw = Thin Bravado Crowns, Crowd Both Nirvanas, Vibrant Candor Show,
Vibrant Nacho Sword, Nacho Vibrant Words, Vibrant Shadow Corn, A Vibrant Chord Sown
*These were just bad. Except "Vibrant Nacho Sword." That one is awesome. But not a title.
My Father's Son = A Forest's Hymn, Hefty Ransoms, Ear's Soft Hymn, Hymns of Tears
*These were all really good. Except the last two. Too sensual to be a title. Of my blog.
A Killer Wit = Wet Ilk Lair
*I don't... even know what that is. How'd that even get on my list?
So, anagrams are a wash. I almost named this thing "My Father's Son," but it's too ambiguous. Is it spiritual? Is it reverential? Is it sarcastic? Is my dad going to be mad? Am I reading too much into this? Is it really worth asking so many questions about it? Why am I still asking questions?
There. Welcome to my world. Currently, the title is "Write Now." Lovely little pun. Short and cliche'. I mean sweet. And cliche'. It's also a command to tell me to get off my butt and write something every few days or so. "Write NOW, me! Turn off the PS3, start the 10 minute start-up cycle on the desktop, and go create something worth writing! Or, at the very least, worth reading." Thank you for contributing to my madness.
First Things
I'm sarcastic by nature. Or maybe it's by nurture. Either way, growing up the way I did (i.e. short, skinny, and with a big mouth), it came naturally, either as some sort of defense mechanism, or as a means to strike back at the sophomores in high school who always looked down on me. Yes, I'm aware that that last statement can be taken literally.
Regardless of how the sarcasm surfaced, the sense of humor closely followed. I was told later on in life (by my wife) that I get my sense of humor from my dad. I don't know if either of us will agree with that: he always thought I played around too much; I thought I was hilarious. One of us was probably wrong. Probably.
So. That covers sarcasm and humor. Why I love puns so much is anyone's guess. I think it comes from a love of words. And that stemmed from growing up in rural Bladen County, where the nearest people my own age were miles away. I read alot. I wrote alot. I loved words.
I went to school to be a doctor. I hated the constant imagination-free regurgitation of ideas and facts. Turns out that when you hate something, you eventually fail at it. Go figure.
So I "dropped out" of "pre-med school." The last set of quotes is because I have no idea if that's a correct term. I mean, isn't anything before med school pre-med? Including not going at all? Whatever. I digress. Back to more about me.
I fell back on what I knew best: words. I became an English major. English Lit, precisely. Graduated UNCW with honors. And a minor in Creative Writing (CRW to all you out there who didn't know that those three letters in the course catalog could get you a degree). Then I applied to grad school and was subsequently shut down.
I guess that's when I stopped writing. Maybe subconsciously I harbored some spite towards a skill that failed me. Maybe logically I cut it out of my life because it was unproductive and, therefore, unnecessary. The strange thing was, I cut out reading, too. Not that I'm illiterate now; far from it, actually. But the words stuck with me. The puns, the humor, the technicality of it all (I love syntax and grammar. Hate me for it, I don't care), all of that stuck with me, even if I involuntarily tried to shrug it off.
Years later, my friends started telling me to get back on the horse. Not explicitly, mind you, but with little nudges and hints (a few demands) that I should start blogging. And that's this. This is that. The beginning. Maybe I'll do better than most bloggers whose works I've been secretly sampling (they're not in my links list, if you're thinking of looking) and actually push out a post of substance at least once a week.
Oh yeah, also: I love my wife. More on that later.
Regardless of how the sarcasm surfaced, the sense of humor closely followed. I was told later on in life (by my wife) that I get my sense of humor from my dad. I don't know if either of us will agree with that: he always thought I played around too much; I thought I was hilarious. One of us was probably wrong. Probably.
So. That covers sarcasm and humor. Why I love puns so much is anyone's guess. I think it comes from a love of words. And that stemmed from growing up in rural Bladen County, where the nearest people my own age were miles away. I read alot. I wrote alot. I loved words.
I went to school to be a doctor. I hated the constant imagination-free regurgitation of ideas and facts. Turns out that when you hate something, you eventually fail at it. Go figure.
So I "dropped out" of "pre-med school." The last set of quotes is because I have no idea if that's a correct term. I mean, isn't anything before med school pre-med? Including not going at all? Whatever. I digress. Back to more about me.
I fell back on what I knew best: words. I became an English major. English Lit, precisely. Graduated UNCW with honors. And a minor in Creative Writing (CRW to all you out there who didn't know that those three letters in the course catalog could get you a degree). Then I applied to grad school and was subsequently shut down.
I guess that's when I stopped writing. Maybe subconsciously I harbored some spite towards a skill that failed me. Maybe logically I cut it out of my life because it was unproductive and, therefore, unnecessary. The strange thing was, I cut out reading, too. Not that I'm illiterate now; far from it, actually. But the words stuck with me. The puns, the humor, the technicality of it all (I love syntax and grammar. Hate me for it, I don't care), all of that stuck with me, even if I involuntarily tried to shrug it off.
Years later, my friends started telling me to get back on the horse. Not explicitly, mind you, but with little nudges and hints (a few demands) that I should start blogging. And that's this. This is that. The beginning. Maybe I'll do better than most bloggers whose works I've been secretly sampling (they're not in my links list, if you're thinking of looking) and actually push out a post of substance at least once a week.
Oh yeah, also: I love my wife. More on that later.
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