All in Time Due ((Part 10))

Before I even get started, let me note that some of this reads a bit like fiction. Well, that;s because my life is and has been a bit like a fictive work. And, at times, this sucks. At other times, of course, you get stories like the following. Also, since some of this involves sensitive matters of the body, mind, & spirit, I’m choosing (at the outset and before I begin proofing) to actually make some of this sound MORE like fiction, if only to hide certain parts of myself for now. If you read ANY part of this and think: well, that’s odd. Why’s he’s talking about, for example, dragons? That would be because I still very much wish to keep at least some semblance of a reputation. And speaking of reputations, I find it weird that, in my heart, I have ALWAYS sought to do the right thing, I find myself having to worry about my reputation. Perhaps this is the very nature of smear campaigns. And being targeted. And bad people, about like flies. Which life grants, all in time due.

HE SAID THE NAME OF THE SERIES

I FEEL LIKE THAT ONE TIME THEY MENTIONED THE NAME OF THE MOVIE

IN THE MOVIE

AND/OR THE SONG

MY LIFE, IS THE SONG

It was hot. And also California. But, and this is not without reason, the following should be prefaced, AS IT WAS BEFORE. It WILL NOT sound(s) real. None of this will sound real. But. But, it did. It DID happened. I met a REAL life MEDICINE man, and we hung out. Went to Mexico. Went to LA, twice. I’ve been everywhere, and, still to this day, this experience reigns SUPREME. Like a pizza with too many fucking toppings. Keep your toppings, and therefore embellishments, to yourself, dude. Let’s call this champagne Jesus of a man, Bodhi. Because that WAS his name. I thought at first to protect his identity, like Hunter S. Thompson did to, like, everyone. This is the American Dream. And so I cannot do the same. I MUST name him. He always talked about that, and so it’s where I got my itch for writing. It’s how I STARTED writing, in a place between Tampa and Mobile, thoughts in those vast stretches of stank ass trees, the ones along the. I AM NOT going to finish that sentence. This is a protest. And I am being targeted again. This time, I mean targeted for cool. Like, at some point, I’ll HAVE TO type things, will HAVE TO publish stories, more music, maybe sneakers, and some other strange literature-based endeavors. Either way, there’s this character, in my life, by the name:

BODHI, IN AN IMAGE

LOOKING _WAY_ SHORTER THAN WE IMAGINE HIM TO BE

AND THIS IS OK

It was hot. I was driving along, just fine, in Joshua Tree. I had stayed outside of the park the night before in the BUM LOT. Excuse me, I shouldn’t say that. But, because I AM a bum, I can make that joke. Maybe I can’t. Say BUM. But, Isn’t Seinfeld supposed to make things write and wrong? Fuck. Grabs GIANT MEXICAN BEER, acquired earlier today, based SOLELY on the IMPROMPTU reviews of a nice, and possibly fancy, Mexican, standing in line before me. BTW, I DID NOT misspell the word “deficit” in Part 5. I’ll be honest, that was ACTUAL DISTRACTION. The very same you’ll experience here. This could mean typos or the wwhole thing altogether. I will not suppose to know, anything. I do, however, know that it was California, and therefore Joshua Tree. Is that right? Yes. And Bodhi.

Here he was, on one of those informational pull-offs, loading a bindle, the contents of his home-truck strewn all weird and shit. These were the kinds of things that only eccentrics and dangerous people do. No one else. No normal person even knows how to be this weird. I see it in their eyes when I do similar things these days. They are rabid, with judgment, and sex. And maybe even mosquitoes. Should I name a kid Zika? Do I even have a kid to name? I HOPE not. Cans, a quick boil, some grains. Ceremonial Native American ARTIFACTS. Even his voice sounded like that. He WAS a Medicine Man. I could tell this so fast that I bet I had met him in a former life, perhaps as a cricket. Just two raw ass crickets all up in the place, slammin’ weird-phrases. Doing tricks, and doing tricks. If I stop writing now, I’m screwed. I’ve let the cat into the bag, and it sucks. So, I continue.

AUTHOR OF THIS PIECE, AS A CRICKET

BODHI, AS A DIFFERENT CRICKET

TOO

The first things we talked about were far out. Far out beyond the reaches of NORMAL CONVERSATION. Things like “What ties together all religions?” and “How are we like our father(s)?” Wow. And I had known this guy only 20. But, and often, and especially for the receptives, like Austin Peterson, my friend, not the other one, LOL, things can be this way. My friends and I tend to have VERY DEEP thoughts and conversations, all the time. Austin and I, and whom ever else will go on about optimism, and the future, Alvin Toffler, and cycling. What the fffffffff. Please read that in the voice of Gail the Snail from It’s Always Sunny. Brow furrowed, very funny. My response, by the way, was that FOCUS is what ties all religions together. Think about it. Think about ANY religious text. They are telling you WHERE to focus, how to be (and therefore how to focus), and how to do (once again, how to focus). They are. These things are true.

“You think THIS is slicked-back? This is PUSH-BACK.”

They were, and still are. Once the conversation had gone on too long but also NOT too long, we made a plan to go to the Salton Sea and have a ceremony. This guy ACTUALLY DOES THIS. He’s a real fucking shaman. Emphasis, all mine. STOPPED HERE. I Think You Should Leave. Oh, and as I keep typing as if I had been doing so this whole time. Note that this is where I stopped to do things like sleeping a few hours, finishing that beer, and taking my meds. It all sounds so 40 to me now. But, I can’t be any other age, so let’s get back to work. When I stopped, Bodhi was being introduced. By me. Buy me. Who care. INSERT: s. Here I am, spilling my juices trying to move forward and cannot seem to do it. Is this writer’s block, or just a block of writer? Like that cheese wheel I saw in New Paltz that one time that was totally the biggest cheese wheel I had ever seen. Those things are BIG. And all cheese beyond the packaging, which too AND ALWAYS does its best not to get in the way.

So, I woke up this morning and got to work. Got back to the [BASKETBALL GAME], if only to write this thing the right way. You know, through context dependency, like they talked about in my psych classes. Did Bodhi take psych classes? Has he taken MY psych classes? I’ve had a lot of students, meaning one could easily slip by. Dangle. You can imagine it. I’m in a grocery store and someone says “Professor Thurman,” and we both get excited, then I RECALL remember that I don’t recall-remember them and that I’m really just excited about people who are excited about me. Oh, and I’m pretty sure this IS social media. Which has been ruined by corporations and people who don’t know when to step away from corporations. But, Bodhi was there. I was there. At that trail head/informational pull-off, in Joshua Tree. This would have been in 2016, during one of my teaching breaks as a grad student, back when life was still good for me. I do have fun now and I do meet women and other people, but things aren’t the same. If I followed a strange man, claiming to be a shaman into the woods today, only a decade later, I’d probably get ripped off, killed, AND/or bothered so badly that I want to do those things TO MYSELF.

This is the impact a single very bad person can have on your well-being. I was happy when I met Allan. Then, he made me so miserable that I went nuts. I had NEVER experienced ANYONE so unbalanced in my life, so goddamn pathetic. But, Allan is not Bodhi and this will never be Allan’s story. Canned goods. Is that a book? What does Bodhi read? Can he actually read or is he just selling the book. What a weird thing, to sell books without knowing how to read. Better yet, how stupid not to know how to read. I blame the parents. Should I not? Should I not blame Bodhi’s parents for how he was, given that he was so weird, and homeless? Oh yeah, part of how I came to live like this is in watching others do it. Bob ‘ritzi? Bodhi? That one guy who’s uncle dies and so had lots of cash to blow on bad investments? All of these people led me to where I am now. Bob is not homeless but spends a lot of time on the road, and wishes me happy birthdays, so yeah, Bob’s cool. Just like Bill Murray, which apparently some people don’t like. To wit, I just recently met a woman who didn’t like Bill Murray.

BILL MURRAY, HAVING A NAP

LOOKING OLDER THAN EVER

BECAUSE OF THE NAP

She’s dead now and I don’t talk to dead people, so yeah. Oh, and she’s not really dead but maybe is too, at least to me. Julia, from that other story. So, Bodhi, I had learned, was headed into the desert to find himself. The artifacts lead me to believe that he COULD actually find himself. As such, I followed this eccentric man into the Salton Sea. If you’re not familiar with this region, it’s historically, for better or worse, been one of the poo poo holes of Cali-fornia. More like Cali-Fornicate? LA, and most of the state too. Tahoe. I kid. These are RICH places with lots of money, to keep the grass looking nice and stuff. But, the Salton Sea area is a bona fide shit-hole. And it’s cool. I love places where no one stands to judge you for any reason at all. They have their own problems, I mine, and that’s how it goes. Kind of like the opposite of Boulder County. To wit, again, I once watched a little girl in Gold Hill wait to cross the street so that she could tell me to slow down. I was going slower than the already low speed limit. She, just 8 years old, wanted to tell people what to do. This, and I once had a shitty couple give me a jump. The jump isn’t the shitty part. It’s how they spent like 20 minutes trying to convince me that I was a worthless serial KILLER. Fuck you, guys, and fuck Colorado.

But, California, and the Salton Sea, great places to have a ceremony. What a nice place to try and keep down some [DRAGONS HAVING A business call] from a man living out of a truck and looking like the lead singer of Creed. Yeah, good idea. If only my department knew what the hell I was doing with my time off. They may have just promoted me. I mean, what kinds of things do YOUR superiors do? Think about it. Go high enough and they’re doing what the Roman rulers did, and it’s sick. But, it’s not crime. Because crime doesn’t pay, if you’re not rich. Otherwise, it’s precisely how you got rich. Bodhi was NOT rich. He was mostly kind and largely safe, but did live out of that truck.
The intention next, once actually getting to the place I was following this man to, was following this man to, was to pack some things into that place where a certain scene in Django Unchained was filmed, the one where Jamie Fox as Django describes his love interest to the dentist, for the very first time EVER. If you’ve not seen this film, then I have totally hidden what it is actually like.

THE SALTON SEA

AMONG AIRBORNE COLLECTIONS OF TOXIC DUSTS

and trailer parks.

And, speaking of laughter and [MONKEYS IN WHALE COSTUMES], this is what we did. I can’t remember the beginnings of our ceremony. I believe that it must’ve consisted of some phase where the people involved get more comfortable with each other. And so we did. chants, and spoke of ancestors, and what was generally bothering us. And this is to say, a lot. We were two very bothered men. He was like 7 years older than me, a bit like that major-mayor of mine that one summer. This would have been winter, that-my time with Bodhi. So, different but the same. I also didn’t do anything on any logs or back porches with Bodhi, so yeah, VERY DIFFERENT. But, please, don’t let me get too far into the weed here. This reminds me that I once made a list of weird things to do on Pearl Street with Lauren. One of them was give a street performer money. Another, something like: quote David Putty from Seinfeld. And so, I said to a random stranger: Don’t boss me! I also, for imaginary bonus points, said something like “I don’t care for that term.” You know, GREASE MONKEY. You know, some people haven’t seen Seinfeld and so will not understand. But, you also know: I DON’T CARE!

GREASY INSERTION OF AN IMAGE

BODHI AND RYAN

READS: WHERE ARE YOU?

ALSO READS: where are your children?

CAPS NOT MINE.

Is that offensive now? The mechanic IS a monkey, and DOES work with grease, but they also work with other lubricants, and tools, and wear cool jump suits, sometimes, and so they might be better called GENERAL TOOL MONKEYS. I know, it DOES NOT roll off the tongue. Even the tongue of a GREASE-MONKEY/. Wow, is MY brain’s file-path a bit aloof this morning. LET ME, GET BACK TO BODHI. Him and I, by the middle of the night, were dancing around a fire, which was to burn all the way to sun-up. We were to try and purge ourselves of our vices, and enhance the chances of acting the right way in the future. So, therapy. Native American therapy, conducted by a Scott Stapp look-alike living out of his vehicle. Does Scott live out of HIS vehicle too? Did I actually meet the lead singer of Creed? Probably not, but Bodhi WAS a musician, like me and Scott. Alright, I’ll stop being so personal with Scott. Oh, and, if you’re Lauren, please re-read this paragraph, replacing Mr. Stapp with the Scott you know. Now that’s funny.

Insider writing, inside jokes, inside writing?

IMAGE OF 50

PEOPLE, MAGAZINE

BULLETS, CARTRIDGES, AND GERMS

EVERYWHERE

Talk about poetry. These moments were POETRY, man. Here I am, a decade later, speaking of them like they were a dream. I am compulsively honest and so they are not. Yes, there’s that whole Platonic Socratic concept of passing falsehoods, but generally speaking, I tell the truth. This entire series, all I’ve ever written, said. Done. Wow, I’m like 2 pages in, in less than a half hour. Now, if proofing wasn’t needed, this would be fun. Am I complaining? In the MIDDLE OF A STORY? Yes. And that’s OK, because story-telling, in some ways, IS complaining. The good kind. Not the kind where a rogue idiosycrat walks into a music store THREE SEPARATE TIMES. Wait, three RELATED and VERY WELL CORRELATED times. Yes. To this day, I still hear and attempt to mimic some of Bodhi’s more memorable chants. Call it CHANTS OF BODHI. How fun. One of them is a bit of a guttural sounding something like:

BODHI-DEE-BAH-DEE-BA-DEE-BA-BODHI-DEE-BA

And, FORTUNATELY, my being a musician means I can see that he sends this whole chant in the 1^st octave of the piano, which makes the whole thing funny, but would DEFINITELY be funnier in the 7^th octave, if even POSSIBLE. Do mice give ceremonies? Do mice give ANYTHING? I once said in therapy,

“

Rodents get into that space between who you are and who you think you are.

“

This, having been said to my rather awesome therapist, was to mean: rodents like Allan, getting into that space between my acknowledged abilities and whatever the hell I was living like. People like that get into spaces like that. And while some take pride in seeing the angles, this really just means that you’re a piece of shit and that if there were enough of you, society would fail. The whole thing, society HERSELF, would eat itself. In other words, YOU ARE INHERENTLY ANTI-PROGRESS. You are DECAY. Nothing cool. Just a rodent looking to take all the time. To take the happiness of others, their stability too. Asshole. If I could rip out all these rodent, names from all of my works I would. I would take that space in the thank you section of my album and use it, instead, for anything else. Like McDonald’s. Or Space-X. I would thank the things I abhor the most before placing yet another rodent between myself and how I should feel about the same self. I have so many abilities and talents. And I should see this. Eggs. Where the fuck was I?

Oh yeah. I was going on about a chant, before ranting hard AF.

IMAGE OF MISCELLANEOUS AUTHOR MOVING ON

RODENTS IN A TRASH CAN

ALIVE BUT NO LONGER BOTHERSOME

These chants, the [NIGHT SKY IN A BOTTLE], and Bodhi’s overall cool nature meant that we were now IN it. The ceremony was GOING ON, and, as I would find out as the sun rose, was to go on, at least, until the sun rose all the way. That’s a LONG TIME considering that we STARTED at something like 9 PM. Was it 10 PM? Either way, you get the point. ALL FREAKING NIGHT. This was an AFFAIR, man. An affair with the devil, and GOD, and all things religious, and even ALL THINGS COOL. Maybe even ALL (things) IN TIME DUE. I ate a pie last night. It was small, but I did. I can remember, some time during the ceremony, as yet unnamed because I don’t know it, seeing the rocks breathe, seeing the ancestors of fire, and watching new constellations form across the Californian brisk, southern sky. These beers were GOOD! Some pounding on the ground, something about Mi Madre and Mi Padre, Mi He. A few stories about what we may have done wrong in the past, about the-certain obstacles in the way of our moving forward. For me, the whole thing felt like a good time. Eventually, when it TRULY got late, and based on my schedule at that time, I realized something profound:

“I’ve never really had to work that hard for anything.”

I had had to work very hard for things, but in general, I had avoided the most unpleasant. Well, once I had left home. My grades were impeccable, but that was due to being born bright and quick, and with a good memory cap. To wit, I once took DE with a bunch of other courses and had only like a few hours to cram for the tests. But, my memory doesn’t allow me to dump-cram like the others. It KEEPS the stuff. So, I barely studied for the final. I had learned DE in something like 10-15 hours. Of study. The point, is NOT for me to gloat, as I always defend, but to highlight that I generally DON’T have to try so hard with certain things. I learned chords on the guitar, Majors, Minors, Sevenths, Inversions, etc. in a month, in 2019. Lauren watched me do this, it all, and so can safeguard my honesty here. I learned to write songs almost as quickly. I was including exotic chords in most of my compositions and had learned the drums by practicing here and there. So, when I had to stay up ALL NIGHT, yeah, I was ready to leave. Once the convenience died, so was I.

AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH PLAYING

AS OILY MEN MET, AND SCOURED

FOR THEY WISH TO BE RICH

FOREVER

I started complaining of how hard the whole thing was, how cold I was. Bodhi, being a stand up dude-bum, you know, like Dharma Bums bums,,, lent me his excellent sleeping bag. One, to this day, I have not found any nicer form of. Imagine that, finding the perfect sleeping bag, as a society, and then building-selling ones not as nice. How stupid. Eventually, he DID snatch it back, once I didn’t acquiesce to this or that, but we generally remained in good spirits, with each other, the [DRASTIC MEASURES of our BRAIN], and the Salton Sea. He had read Hunter S. Thompson extensively too, one of my favorite authors, so we also spent a lot of time comparing ourselves to the Doc* (*of divinity, just so he could call himself Dr., sly bastard) and his Legalistic counterpart. We went on about how much like this one I was and how much like that one he was. It was a bit like two boys having a fishing trip. Especially if those boys were in their 30’s and 40’s, like we were. It was all so fun, challenging. To me, it was one of the hardest things I had ever done, to push through to the end, of something I didn’t think I could actually do. Because, once your mind is mush from poor sleep, and no sleep, and overconstellated stars, it’s usually over. Usually. But,

Not here.

STOPPED HERE.

Now, lest you think I’m going on about hard drugs, and that I am admitting to doing said hard drugs, I am not. Everything we did THAT night was legal, at least I think it was. Let’s go with was. I’m coming back to this the next day. Out of beer, but still have. Let’s call it myself. I still have me. I didn’t sleep well, and that sucks, but this is about context dependency and so bad sleep is kind of like an ingredient, in this method writing thing I’m trying to accomplish. But, back to that location I swear is the same as the one in Django Unchained by Tarantino, and everyone else involved. I ALMOST scrapped a REALLY GOOD song-son this morning. A track by the title of Let’s Go. Then, I realized that it was good and that I actually love it and so will many others. When you’re tired, leave you hair alone. Your car, your relationships, all of it. Take it slow and reflect even more slowly. The day will be tough but can become manageable. There ARE things you can do, to not end up like me.

And Bodhi. There we were, between those soft semi-stone elements, the moon somewhere over North Carolina, where Kelly was that night, if I had to guess at it. I kept consuming the [LARGELY TOO LARGE COLLECTION OF BATH TOWELS] and Bodhi kept consuming it too. The ceremony was going alright. Once again, this was one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. A true test of my potential for lazy efficiencies. Context. Need more context. What was this man wearing? Was he in full headdress? No. He was dressed, well, and ONCE AGAIN, kind of like how I imagine Scott Stapp dressing to a similar ceremony. By the way, things like these tend to be a kind of ritual-rite among CAR DWELLERS, those dwelling in their cars. And, no, I don’t mean sitting in it waiting for your next Sam Ash visit. LOL.

INSERT SAM

ASH WEDNESDAY

ADAMS FAMILY

PLAYING IN THE ‘FORE

Why do I type these distracted things? Mostly, I don’t know. But where I do know, it’s to provide nice(R) transfers between the paragraphs, when all of the batons are used up by the Olympics or some other high-need events. I don’t care. The sun was coming up and I was about to leave. Yeah, right. Once the sun begins its path to being UP, you get excited. You’ve just had an odd night with a strange man, from Joshua Tree National Park to the Salton Sea, and not just for Instagram, though they’re definitely watching you either way, and RIGHT NOW. Peek. Peek. Zuckerburger. Welcome to Zuckerburger. We know what you want. Now fuck off. We don’t care about you. We don’t smile. We just hang out with. Ah, forget it. I don’t have the energy to be political anymore. It’s all the same and all stupid as FUCK. There’s that word again. I must be angry, somewhere. Maybe inside, or is anger being EMITTED? Now THERE’S a THOUGHT! When the sun made its first appearances, I got so excited, not to leave this scene and/or this man, but to be out of something which required so much out of me. Am I a coward? Yeah, in some ways I am. I’d rather almost die than to have to live, even for a second. Call it being a ghost. The ghost of a good time. I came. I came, I saw, I remained poor AF. I lived like shit and met weirdos all the time. Something, Something, Ass Wholes. Or is it WHALES? These things seem so close, so who knows. … …

A BOOK

OF LIGHTER PAPER

ALONG THE EDGES

THE PAGES AS THICK

AS THE EXTERIOR OF A NORMAL BOOK

HARD TO COVER

And this reminds me of an insight I had the other month. That I tend to leave things alone, even if this means never calling people back, because I have a really good memory, and so can, for some reason, or at least this is what my mind believes, keep a relationship alive simply by way of remembering it. As such, I barely use my things, they, at least by me, never really take damages. Like I said, a ghost. I’m sure some of you feel this way too, like a specter of an actual person, zombie diggin’ their way through what is supposed to be the day. I guess I’ll go to the woods. At least the chicks I should be facing aren’t there. Then, I’m 50 and there ARE no chicks. They’re women, with past lovers, husbands, and ex-husbands. Once again, it’s all there. I just choose to ghost it. Because I AM a ghost. Now, before this gets any more depression, let me get back to Bodhi. Once the ceremony was ACTUALLY coming to a close, once we had chanted, danced, and complained enough, thus forcing the sun to come up a full two hours before it should (in some other location slash timezone), once I had heard all of Bodhi’s tracks and his Madre-Padre cries about no longer being a boy but also very much still being a boy, he solicited me to help him carry some things into the VERY SAME trailhead I met him at. He needed more. I’m not sure of what, but he wanted it. Did it help him? To do these things? I do things randomly and for no reason, so who knows. Maybe he too is a ghost who just does, if only to pinch the spirit an attempt on living. Once again, if only for a moment’s glimpse.

IMAGE OF VITO, A FRIEND OF MINE, DOING PUSH UPS

AT THE DMV.

So, I declined. He knew I was having a very hard time with the whole thing, the REQUIRED ELEMENTS, like staying up all night, till the sun kisses your cheekies directly and perhaps like a weird uncle. No. Now, he was eventually fine with my decline, but only after I did the embarrassing thing of offering him money, for the ceremony. I mean, I get paid when I perform musics, and he performed, quite and very much so, so it made sense to me. But, I forget from time to time that I don’t really understand anything about social matters. In this way, I could be considered HEAVILY AUTISTIC. Who else that I know is the same? Hmmm. What an interesting thing to think about. You try it too, as we grab some excellent sheets and prepare for a poly-day sleep-over.

And by this I mean I’m on Page 6 here and still haven’t mentioned the even wilder story to follow.

IMAGE OF TWO MEN

DRIVING IN A DUSTY COMPACT, SUB-

HEADED INTO MEXICO’S VAST AND RATHER VAGINAL ENTRANCE

LOOKING AS COOL AS THEY’LL PROBABLY EVER BE

Crime. Yup, that’s what I thought. As we entered Mexico, I could feel the crime, mostly coming from the U.S., with us. STOPPED HERE. The intention, I recall as I come back to this heavy on Nierra Sevada, but not the whole box, was to go exactly to Los Catorce, down in San Luis Potosi, to have another ceremony with some of Bodhi’s old Mexican friends. Wait, if I continue on about THIS Mexican Road Trip, the whole thing will get into so many pages, that I won’t be able to wipe it all off for like a week. And that wouldn’t be so cool. So, let me end here, about as randomly as my meeting, and enjoying, Bodhi. I’ll finish this story in Part 15, now that I have decided, following that whole Alien Pop fiasco, to keep the pages a bit more manageable. Remember, you’re writing to modern people and them shits don’t have ANY attention span. So, this is it. I’ll see you soon.

IMAGE OF A COWARD

ALONE IN THE WOODS

THE MAN, THE BOY, THE CLOWN

THANKS, MARIA

WITH LOVE.

PS – Bodhi, if you happen to read this, I’m sorry I had to leave you in Mexico. Things weren’t so great that night. It all felt so dangerous and stupid and like a sort of exercise in the kinds of things your parents SHOULD have taught you NOT TO DO. But mine, didn’t. I followed and was followed by a Medicine Man, into Mexico, at drastic fees and other major inconveniences and investments. So, when a strange cat, who eats fruit like it’s the fruit last on earth, last of all the foods, shows up on a motorbike, ends up being cool, but very much being the kind of person who COULD have cut us into a billion pieces. Yeah, I was scared. I ran. If you want to travel again, let’s do it. I miss you, man.

Double P, Double S: I just proofed this, with enjoyment, in something like record time. And it felt good. Still, it feels MUCH better to write. Either way, get out there and enjoy SOMETHING. Please, don’t become such a ghost. Because, it is in this way, that you should NOT be like me. Become, too.

Trip House Part 60: As I traveled to the north of this thing, again, I realized that a second proof is NOT in the cards. NO, I say to you, and my typos. NO, I say to any needs FOR perfection. I am not perfect, and this is OK. Let IT be.

And cheers.