The Last Word

You know... I am the first person to admit that I

haven't done much with my life. Any potential I had

was burned up in a firestorm of anger and self-

loathing and left to rot in a desert of inertia and

clinical depression years ago.

The one scintilla of pride I have felt in my life is for

those accomplishments that have been so very

small as to be virtually meaningless, devoid of

genuine relevance and, for all practical purposes,

worth nothing to anyone BUT me. Others seem to

do so much more with what they've been given that

I am truly filled with admiration and envy.

I am a dried husk of a physically and psychically

damaged man with no career, no children, no wife,

no girlfriend, no prospects, no money, no fun,

sparse talent, little love, less hope and few friends.

I have taken some small comfort in my few and far

between fond memories, scattered friendships and

minor accomplishments. ... Read More

I have been petty at times and for that I apologize. I

cannot deny it and it would be foolish to do so. I

offer only this by way of explanation. I entered this

world poor in a variety of ways and continued on

listlessly but inevitably confronted by a wide variety

of obstacles. I've taken mountains of abuse

stoically only to snap at the smallest of further

indignities.

Oddly enough, I am probably proudest of the

occasional bursts of magnanimity I have been able

to offer with what little I have had to share. It's

important to me that I give especially when I have

so little because it makes me feel that much more

generous and closer to the divine spark that exists

buried under our all too selfish humanity. That is

the Indian in me. That is the best part of me. That

is the only thing I ever wish to leave as a legacy. I

have ALMOST nothing but it is mine to share with

an open heart and an open hand.

Game is for Punks

Game? Oh boys. Boys, boys, boys. Love is no

game. Beaches, fireplaces, castles, fantasy suites

at the Radisson. A guy doesn't need "game" to

make a lady melt. If all the years I've spent in high

school have taught me anything about love it's that

a girl wants more than a few pretty words or a "nice

date" with some wine coolers right before

steaming up the car windows. That way leads only

to regret.

Girls aren't to be toyed with. They are like precious

gems, one of a kind each of them with her own

unique facets and value beyond a quick notation in

your little black books: "Michelle, brunette, OK

personality, dry kisser, father avid gun collector."

To find true love, real passion, you have to be

willing to give up a little part of yourself.

Her name was Misty. My love for her burned me

from the inside out. Every second apart was an

eternity. Every moment together, though bliss, was

fleeting. An hour seemed like a minute.

Then one day, Misty asked me if I really loved her. I

said, yes. But how do I really know, she asked,

you could just be saying that.

Sure I spent money on her. I bought her gifts. We

went for long rides in my sweet 1972 Mustang. We

had picnics at Joslyn Castle and I wrote her poems

(I know, what a pansy). But none of it was proof of

my love, she said. I might just have the greatest

game that she or any other girl had ever seen ...

ever.

I realized she was right. I agonized. How can one

guy show a girl solid proof that his love is real. Isn't

love intangible? Yes, yes it is. You can't hold air in

your hands either, still a candle will go out if

deprived of air.

So using only a serated edge steak knife and the

ink from a Bic pen, I carved Misty's name into my

left forearm then rubbed the ink into my wound

creating a jagged yet perfect symbol, a tattoo,

homemade, proof of my true love.

It worked.

Now THAT'S game, fellas.