This line was part of Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note. He killed himself on February 20, 2005. I understand the sentiment as we move into yet another dreary 28 or 29 days of the worst month of the year. More like Fuck-you-ary. The weather is unbearably cold and gray, basketball and hockey dominate the sports world, and I am reminded of love lost by a birthday(not my own) and Valentine's Day. The hopeful outlook of Spring is just around the corner, but it seems miles away with every half inch of shitty snow that falls in East Tennessee.
So as I sit here by the fire, whiskey drink by my side, Neil Young on the box, I am reflective about a decadent Autumn and Winter. The Mighty Orange finished strong on the gridiron, fun was had, and ridiculous amounts of alcohol and various strange, illegal narcotics were consumed. There wasn't much to write about on a weekly basis as I soon realized that all of my weekends were pretty much the same, and documenting them became tedious. That, and my Mom started reading about them. She is cool as they come, but writing about drug use and unprotected sex isn't exactly what she wants to hear from her first born. Though I maintain that much of this is fictional and/or greatly exaggerated, I felt the need to tone it down a bit. But no fear, dear reader, the fun never stops.
For these reasons I have decided to focus not on the present debauchery, but to take a look back. I have done and seen some pretty funny and interesting shit over the years as I have traversed this fair planet, and it is time for these stories to be shared with the world. Or at least to the 5 people who are aware of this site.
to be continued...
