Today marks the 2nd anniversary of the first ever story I wrote.

I don't know why that's important, other than it gives me a reason to test out silly little confetti javascript crap on my website.

Going back and reading the Ginger Lynn story (the first story I ever wrote), I realize now a number of things:

1) I am a horrible - HORRIBLE - writer.

2) 95% of the things that I have stories about relate directly back to my mother and father - either directly, because of their involvement, or because of the seriously strange (not bad... just VERY strange) set of circumstances under which I was raised.

My mother was a single parent of three for much of my young life. My alcoholic birth father took off when i was about three, leaving her to raise my brother, my sister and I on a single salary. A single WOMAN's salary. Which today, is pretty paltry - but back in 1980, was absolutely disgusting. She worked 18 hour days to ensure that my siblings and I didn't go hungry or naked into the harrowing world that was the Atlanta public school system, where my sister and I were two of only two white children. This persisted until the birth father dude showed back up when I was about seven years old, whisked us to the magical wonderland that was Taccoa, GA, and proceeded to make life utter hell (another story for another time). One fine summer midnight nearly a year later, we absconded with whatever toys we could fit in a Glad trashbag and fled back to Decatur, GA, where my grandfather lived.

Then one day, my father (not the birth one, the REAL one) rode in on a white horse, married my mother the severely-overworked princess, and brought us safely into the confines of middle-classdom, where he proceeded to educate me on the ways of what it's like to not get away with being a little hellion 24 hours of the day. By the time i was 14, i was adopted by and working for him, learning two tradecrafts - pulling telephone cable through buildings and swearing like a sailor (One of these has persisted with me throughout the years - I'll let you guess which one).

My father was a very, VERY intense man. He wasn't used to being questioned. He sailed commercial fishing vessels from the age of 19 (when he started as a deckhand) to 35 (when he was the Master and Commander of his ship) - no order he ever gave was to be questioned.


You can imagine just how hard my life was. I spent more than my fair share of time in a room with nothing more than a lamp, bed, drawing desk and my textbooks; my nintendo, television and stereo having been yanked and placed in his closet due to various reasons of assorted depths - all of which can be summarized with "I was being a punk".

I've been on Shower restriction, Dryer restriction (but not washer, for some reason - i had to hang my clothes on a line out in the back yard because i failed to empty the dryer within the 70 minute timeframe alotted), cereal bowl restriction - you name an object, and at some point, i've made some sort of issue out of it with my dad and subsequently had my rights to use it revoked.

And all this really did was fuel my fire.

I'm not saying "hey, i'm such a rebel." Rebellion is weak, man. Rebellion is for rock bands and despotic 3rd world countries. Me... I was a small glowing mass of contempt. I absoultely decimated every single rule placed in front of me, and did so willingly, knowing exactly what was waiting for me on the other end of that narrow little tunnel of distopia. I welcomed concequence the way one welcomes a friend after not seeing them for days. If I wasn't somehow being reformed, the world was not aligned and functioning correctly. So I spent a LOT of time under the watchful eye of some sort of authority figure or another, until eventually one day I figured out that I can be me without being so damn forceful about being me - that day being the day I left school and moved out of my parents' home.

There's something about not having to constantly be remorseful about being who you are which liberates your mind and spirit.

And all of these experiences - bad, good, indifferent - have served to make me who I am today - which hasn't yet been determined to be good or bad. I don't even know if such qualifications matter, honestly - I mean, it's life, right? How do you gauge whether or not life's been good or bad? It's been life, you know?

But one thing I do know for sure: I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's. I've got a wife who loves and supports me as much as I love and support her - she's the absolute brightest star in my sky, that's for sure. I've got some amazing friends who have been through some of the most insane situations with me (Cows? Protesting a steakhouse? That's just not supposed to happen). And thanks to the modern technological miracle of the Internet, I've met some of the absolute coolest people I've ever met in my life through Mentally Incontinent and the 25cameras project.

Yeah, life's been interesting, to say the very least. And I can assure you - the stories you've read on MentallyIncontinent.com and in this journal are just the tip of the iceberg. Look foward to a whole lot more to come (woe be unto you...).

Oh - and the third thing I realized from reading over the old stories: I'm REALLY Long-winded.