I’m not very good at leaving a thought alone. Sometimes I’ll sit with it for days, trying to work out why it bothers me. Writing gives me somewhere to put it. I don’t always know where I’m going when I start.
I used to be a death metal vocalist. I growled and screamed. These days I can get a complaint out without anyone having to move their drink away from a speaker. A keyboard suits me fine.
I’m lazy on principle. Call it efficiency and people admire you. Call it laziness and suddenly you have a character defect. Same fucking chair. Anything that can be done from a keyboard gets done from a keyboard. Everything else can wait.
My handwriting is so bad my parents paid for summer classes to fix it. Didn’t work. If you’ve ever squinted at a note of mine and wondered whether I was okay, I was fine. I was enjoying it.
I’m 12 on the inside. Every July another year gets added to the outside and nobody consults me. Apparently, getting older is compulsory and growing up is a suggestion. I’ve considered it.
There’s a wife who tolerates all of the above, a daughter who thinks my old band sounds like a blender, and a son who arrived in 2026 and hasn’t formed an opinion yet. Give him time. Fame and fortune can wait outside. Everybody I want to impress already lives here.
There’s no newsletter here and no comments. You can read a paragraph without entering a relationship with the bastard who wrote it. Read something. You owe me nothing.
Everything on this site was written by a person who should have been asleep. Read it that way.