Rio was better

It doesn’t take long for me to get sick of my own writing. Especially all the boo hooing and woe is me crap that theme creeps and starts to dominate. I would hope the people that do read each post, the ones I advertise to on Facebook and thereby painting a remarkably despondent characterization of myself, are rolling their eyes and saying, suck it up buttercup, you have two stunning, healthy boys and a wife that adores you. And if you are unhappy in other parts of your life, just make a god damn change already.

Change. That was my only resolution last January. Affect change on my own life. Instead of waiting for things to happen to me. I wanted to attack life a bit, purposefully inject the passion in my veins and let the lightning shock and drive me to the greatness I still think is buried beneath a bunch of crud.

So I sit here, my lazy ass welded to my ergonomically designed chair, waiting for something to happen. There are some vignettes of possibility on the horizon and the fact that I am writing again, here, steeped in pity, is still better than not writing at all.

So thus begins this mild journey. I will post on this blog once a day for the month of November. Not write a novel like http://www.nanowrimo.org, just simple posts to reflect on the ups and downs of my so called life. Ironically, at the same time a tuft of will be busting out from the skin above my lip. I will not be charging admission for this writing challenge (unlike the mustache challenge). All I ask is that you bear with me and my occasionally dips in the chasm of desperate bleating. I really am a fun guy. A couple of beers and laugh around the campfire kind of guy. A tells a good yarn from a semi-interesting life kind of guy. A devilish smile and throaty growl kind of guy.

Wait a minute, that’s more like a wolf. Now, I’m hungry.

Hungry like a wolf.

Remember John Taylor – he was the cutest.