Category Archives: Daily Prompt

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The Thirsty Alien

The family was sleeping and I wanted to get a run in before breakfast. I was a happily disorientated by the smell of bacon and coffee. The enticing smell followed me to the front door, where I sat to put on my shoes. I half jokingly thought it might be a pre-cursor to a heart attack.

I came out the front door and immediately pissed myself. There at the end of the drive way was a silver ship. Standing outside was a tall grey creature with eyes the size of dinner plates.

I can only imagine how wide his sight lines were, or how much of the visual spectrum he could take in. HE. I have no idea if he was a he or a she. I just can’t say it. I never believed in God until I saw that obviously alien creature on my lawn one summer morning.

There were no words exchanged, but rather, a type of empathic probing, so at least that part satisfies Hollywood predictability.

She was confused, a little scared, awestruck, thirsty. Thirsty was the strongest emotion. She had a deep thirst that was the lead in a dance with all the other emotions.

She needed something that could help her understand. My mind rested on one thing I though would help. I went back inside to my bookshelf and brought her back a single book. There were many more I wanted to grab, that I wish I had at hand to lend, but I could only give one. I could feel it. Feel it without words.

I handed her A History of God: The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, by Karen Armstrong.

I thought it would her her put the madness of humanity into some context. I don’t know how many other people were visited that morning. Or have been visited in other ways.

I do hope that someone gave her a funny book. Our sense of humor is probably the only thing that can save us.

Jimmie G

written in response to The Daily Prompt: Worldly Encounters 



Story Killer

The idea that just one piece of advice could dramatically salvage my many bad decisions suggests I am much closer to self actualization than I am. Is self actualization still a thing? With so much self improvement jargon added to the ‘who are you’ lexicon it can be hard to pass the vocab tests on Fridays. But thats just my scarcity paradigm on display.

So let me construct an abundance model and showcase a bit of advice I wish I had listened to years ago.

Write. Everyday.

Had I listened to what Ray Bradbury wrote so many years ago I may now be a published author. I would certainly be a more developed writer.

Since making a commitment to write more often this past January I have seen my story telling strengthen. My muse does not seem so lazy since I have become more active.

So I wish I would have taken this advice to heart as a young man. Not because I would be a financial success had I done so, but  I think my writing would be stronger. And so many of my characters and stories would not have withered away due to neglect.

If there were writing police I would certainly be a criminal due to the many times I have had an idea that I have thought to death. I have locked characters away in my mind, denying them the nourishment of alien eyes.

I have strangled plots by way of world building.

I have bludgeoned narratives with adjectives because my fingers are too numb to grasp action.

My descriptions are gardens so thick with flowers you cannot take a stroll.

Or at least they once were. I have been practicing with the pruning sheers and I am starting to get a feel for it.

One leaf at a time.

Jimmie G.

Powerful Suggestion

What’s the one piece of advice you wish someone had given you a year (or five, or ten…) ago?

What’s the one piece of advice you wish someone had given you a year (or five, or ten…) ago?

What’s the one piece of advice you wish someone had given you a year (or five, or ten…) ago?


Fairy on pointe

My lady was hippie cool when I first saw her.

Clad in splayed bell bottom jeans she made herself.

Baggy, wild print shirts, and and bells dangling from hemp ropes woven into her her hair.

A beautiful fairy princess.

She shed the hippie attire to stand in arabesque on pink pointe. One leg weighted to the ground, while the rest of her floated to a heaven she desperately wanted me to believe in.

My lady wore hot red pants one night and was the fist to say “I love you” because she has more courage than I.

My lady followed me to white sand shores to become my wife.

Encouraged me to the soar amongst the monoliths of the greatest city in the world and then carried our roots on a pilgrimage to the emerald soil of the Northwest.

My lady, my wife, my friend.

Why do I love you so?

Because I love to breathe. I love the sun on my skin. I love common sense, and truth and beauty, and smiles.

You are the missing rungs on my ladder that allow me to climb higher.

You are…my beautiful.

Jimmie G.

Daily Prompt: She’s So Fine. 

Fashioning the whip.

I’m not dying, I’ll do that later. What I am is a 43 year old and I have to tell you that time seems much different to me now, than even five or seven years ago. I remember the younger me with a disbelief that the memory I have of that younger me is so distant. I feel him inside of me, struggling to break free of this old man that has done so little of the things he wanted done.

That makes this list hard, cathartic, and dangerous. ‘Putting it out there’ is the first step in getting done what you want to get done. It can also be a measuring stick with which to beat yourself. Un-accomplishment is the whip of my flagellation. I only know that word because I saw Da Vinci Code.

But what the hell. Lets fashion another whip.

I want to, to be, to earn, to see, to…

  • To be Featured on Freshly Pressed
  • To sell a movie script
  • To earn the Certified Meeting Professional designation
  • To see my daughters go to college
  • Run a half marathon in every state
  • Publish a book of short stories
  • To finish the fantasy novel that had plagued my mind for years
  • Teach acting
  • Make a living writing
  • Eat at every restaurant in West Seattle
  • Have a beer from every brewery in the Pacific Northwest
  • Take my podcast, the lazy muses, to syndication
  • Be invited to Comic Con as a speaker
  • Retire with enough money to travel
  • Love my wife the way I did when we were kids
  • Raise strong, independent women, that will demand equality
  • Do something worth remembering
  • Perform Shakespeare in front of a paying audience again.
  • Have one of my plays performed simultaneously in multiple theatres.
  • Run Hood to Coast Relay
  • Visit my beloved New York City again
  • Be a home owner
  • Fashion a bucket list rather than a whip

Jimmie G

written in response to the Daily Prompt, Dust in the Wind. 


Mountains on her brow

Daily Prompt: Lookin’ Out My Back Door

Look out your back window or door — describe what you see, as if you were trying to convey the scene to someone from another country or planet.

From my balcony I can see a hundred variations of Craftsman rooftops crowding each other for space. When the old houses die, two or three skinnier homes go up where once stood a single dwelling. Jutting up here and there are evergreens and leafless seasonals holding their breath till spring.

The Sound is becalmed today, sitting like a black mirror in want of a reflection. But the Sounds mistress is too far away.

The Olympics rise high above the, a white ridged crown upon the Sounds brow. A beautiful reminder that no matter how big or magnificent the things of man, they always bend the knee to their mother.

Jimmie G

Folios of “I’m sorry’s”

Daily Prompt: Moments to Remember

What are the three most memorable moments — good or bad, happy or sad — in your life? Go!

Marriage, and the birth of two girls born seven years and one day apart, October 1 and 2. What can I say, January is sexy time in our house.

I was married on March 17 by an Irish priest, a day of drunken revelry for many. My wife had hair down to her bum at the time. She just happened to be rooming with the Wig Master for the Asolo Theatre Company, and so had an expert to do her hair that day. It was dramatic, and beautiful, and extraordinary. All three adjectives fall short for how my wife looked that day. Like every bride I suppose, she looked exquisite and perfect. I will always remember her on that day.

What I will also remember is her stepping off the plane three months later to join me in London. I was finishing two months abroad as part of my graduate training. From London we would launch our month long honeymoon Eurailing.

After we got through customs she finally asked, “do you notice anything?”. I have never tested well, and failed this quiz like so many others. My wife had cut her bum-length hair to just above her shoulders, and I hadn’t noticed. I can only claim blind love. (?)

To compound matters, everyone of the ten other classmates with whom I studied with and roomed with, plus their significant others, all, immediately noticed the dramatic hair loss. Its a story still told by my wife.

Here’s another story told by my wife.

The birth of my first daughter. It was a Sunday when it all began. I usually work weekends and this was no exception. An old friend was in town visiting and so I scheduled a poker game for later that night. When my wife started having contractions in the early hours of Sunday morning it was clear work was not in the cards for me that day. However, I still held hopes of having the poker game that night. I also thought it was like having a day off. I could actually watch some football. I never get to watch the early games. Huzzah, I thought. I didn’t recognize what was actually happening. I was another test that I was failing.

Late in the afternoon it was time to go the hospital, baby wanted out. This was a big deal because we were living in Astoria, Queens at the time, so no car. I speed dialed a livery cab, because you can only hail Yellow Cabs, no calling. We painfully waited for the car to show up. When it arrived their were two people in the front seats. Odd since car pooling only happens during massive, eastern sea board wide, power outages. Turns out we had a new driver being broken in. The new kid got to cut her teeth on a woman writhing in pain from  full back labor and a man in full hysterics. The traffic jam on the Upper East Side didn’t help. I stepped up my game at the hospital, testing a little better. Eventually our first little girl popped out.

Seven years and one day later our second little girl came. The contractions started at nine pm on October first. I started timing the contractions as we both joked that the second simply could not be born on the same day as our first. By eleven pm it was time to drop our eldest off at her cousins house and head to the hospital. We had moved to Seattle by this point so the only new driver was me. I followed the traffic laws so as not to stress my wife. We were told to park out back, but there wasn’t any parking to be found. I did find an excellent spot in the front however. I rang the bell to alert the nurses of our arrival and was immediately chastised for not going to the back. I chastised the nurse for chastising me while my wife was clearly in pain. “I didn’t follow directions! Put it on my fucking report card and get down here and open the door”. I didn’t say any of those things by the way. When the nurse came down a few painfully long minutes later she got half way to the door before stopping and turning around. My wife’s teary protest prompted my arm to bang on the glass sliding doors. The nurse popped back into view pushing a wheel chair.

There was yelling and pushing and demanding of an epidural. The whole I while I stayed calm and collected and most importantly, I was supportive.

I did it right for a change. There is more of course. A few other things I did right. Many and more “I’m sorry’s” in the catalogue of me learning to do it the right way. Folios of “I’m sorry’s” really.

I’ll “I’m sorry” my way into enlightenment, or into less “I’m sorry’s”. 

I’m getting better. I’ve hardly said it at all this week.

Jimmie G.


Taking a stand

I believe it to be true that the only ice cream flavor of relevance is Vanilla Bean. Most others are varying degrees of pretentious spectacle. I will allow that Strawberry and Chocolate are also sincere flavors, by which I mean natural in thought, almost unimaginative. How does one make Tiramisu ice cream? The process seems unintuitive, esoteric even.  Cinnamon Bun? Coffee and Cookies? RED VELVET CAKE? Can such flavors even be deconstructed without immediately slipping into impossible to pronounce chemical ingredients? Probs not.

Lets do a little SAT comparison. Vanilla Bean is to ice cream is what black pants are to a wardrobe. A classic staple that never goes out of style, unto which any accessory can be put. Chocolate sauce is equal to a white shirt and tie. Rainbow sprinkles is equal to power clashing.  Fresh fruit toppings? Dinner jacket.

I also hold to be true that more than two toppings on a pizza is too much. Too many ingredients prevents dough from becoming crust. I concede that simply staying in the oven technically converts dough to crust. However, soft dough is the fanny pack of pizza crust. Two toppings is the limit. This prevents an explosion of indistinguishable flavors. The best combo is two forms of pork. Salami is less predictable and therefore my favorite. Pepperoni is pedestrian, but can get you home.  I suggest going with a sweet meat if the first is spicy. For that whole yin and yang thing.

Lastly. Light roasted coffee. Its nasty and ironically, I find that it tastes burnt. I know that coffee snobs think dark roasted is sooooo junior varsity, unsophisticated, low brow. Well, call me a groundling, because people falling, fart jokes, and DARK ROASTED coffee gets me every time. A hot cup of dark coffee is my favorite thing about every morning. Waves of sultry steam sauntering away from a dark nectar, carrying with it the scent of toffee, the after-a-message type of lucidity, and dozens of warm kisses every time you bring the cup to your mouth.

These are strong and controversial opinions. I understand this. Many are Blue state vs Red state type arguments. But its time somebody took a stand.

Who will stand with me?

jimmie g.

Daily Prompt: I Believe

by Krista on March 16, 2014

For today’s prompt, tell us three things that you believe in your heart to be true. Tell us three things you believe in your heart to be false.

Abusive Courtesy

It has taken me al long time to acclimate to Seattle. It was billed to me as a magical place where, upon crossing the border a WA. Wish Officer, WAWO’s, would ask what your dreams are, and then immediately grant them. Jobs were as simple as showing up at Amazon, Microsoft, or Boeing, and simply saying “I’m here”. None of these were true. I was unemployed for several months before taking a position as insurance salesman. So much for 60K of classical acting training, but that wasn’t Seattle’s fault.

What is Seattle’s fault is the abusive courtesy. You cannot walk into a bank without being assaulted with ‘hellos’, or invasively interrogated about your weekend plans. Once, while depositing my unemployment check the teller asked if it was my day off from work. She was blind to the shame in my eyes and deaf to the sarcasm in my voice when I replied, “I guess you could say that”.

Juxtapose this with the ‘Seattle Freeze’, another form of abusive courtesy. The locals here in Rain City are quick to offer a warm hello and invite you out for drinks, or over to their place for dinner. However, the invite always gets lost in the mail. Run into these locals at PCC or Met Market or the playground, and you get the same invite, over and over again, but it rarely materializes. I moved to Seattle from the supposedly head down-don’t look a stranger in the eye, gruffness of New York City. Invites there were just as easily extended, yet more often honored. Perhaps its because New York is such a big city that everyone seems new.

Admittedly, I can be an a-hole, so I would normally complain and then put it back on my shoulders. Not so in this case. The Seattle Freeze is a thing. Its talked about amongst us other city expatriates, and even the locals. The way people talk about Syria or the Ukraine on Facebook, thinking that stating an opinion is the same as taking action. When in reality all that will done is hitting the share button. Here in the Emerald City there is a lot of talk given to the Seattle Freeze but it never brought out long enough to thaw.

As mayor of this town I would decree all locals befriend and share with an out-of-towner one meal at home and one local eatery. After that if the chemistry isn’t right, then by all means each side should do the polite thing and maintain a facade of friendliness.

After the ‘thaw’ I would turn my attention to abusive courtesy. This is courtesy is sinister because it is in actuality big business impersonating the local mom and pop shop. The invasive questions about your weekend are verbal slide of hands, a shell game. No matter what shell you pick, you will never find true friendliness because it was never there. They palmed it as soon as you came in the door. “Would you be interested in our mortgage rates?” NO. And what was it about my $100 deposit made you think I might be? The answer here is to do away with brick and mortar banks altogether. They are like video stores, clinging on to the flesh of relevancy by their finger nails.  Deposits and withdrawals can be done with an ATM or a smart phone. Neither of which is capable of insincerity.

Last to be addressed would be the traffic congestion. I-5, 99, 90, 520. All these numbers add up to an embarrassment of choked cars. For a supposedly green city everyone seems very devoted to personal transportation. And buses just don’t cut it. They are subject to the same traffic as everyone else. The ‘Bus lanes’ are Band-Aids over bullet wounds. Seattle desperately needs a rail system, extensive and far reaching. The HOV lanes could be given over to light rail, with one track for public transportation running north and south, with arterial tracks running east and west.  A third track should be completely devoted to emergency and towing services. Simple accidents with no injuries can back up the highway for an hour or more. The emergency rail could speed to any location unimpeded, scoop up the damaged vehicles and be off in far less time than a tow truck. The same alacrity would greatly benefit emergency response vehicles.

Your votes are appreciated and I vow to bring basketball back to Seattle.

What I love about this PacNor town? The Seahawks. I am an Army Brat. Growing up all over the globe prevented my roots to grow deep anywhere. As a result I never had a team seep into my bones. I liked all the local teams. Denver while attending University of Wyoming. Tampa while in grad school in Sarasota, Florida. I rooted for the Niners while I lived in Monterey, CA and all the the New York teams, except the Yankees, during my tenure in ‘the city’. Because home town hating is a lonely business. But none really got into my bones. When those teams lost it had no effect on me. This surprisingly was not the case with the ‘Hawks. I fell into brooding one day after a bad loss. I had become a fan. It was like falling in love. The ‘Hawks and I started off casually dating, then talking often. I then eagerly anticipated the next time we would see each other. When they lost it was like someone had been mean to them. Or they had acted foolishly, endangering our relationship. Except, they really couldn’t endanger it. In that way the relationship is like parent and child. They know now, no matter what they do, I will always love them.

My first love of a team. And you never forget your first.

I also love my neighborhood, The Admiral District of West Seattle. Its like the early days of Brooklyn, before the celebrities and hipsters took it over. West Sea has great restaurants, bars, and markets, ALL walkable. This was my number one request when moving to Seattle from my beloved Astoria, Queens. I didn’t want to live anywhere a car ride was needed to get a drink, a night out, or a tube of toothpaste. My new ‘hood offers all those amenities in spades.

Our West Seattle apartment is smaller than our place in Queens. Probably the only people to move from New York into a smaller place out west. But there you have it.

At least we’re a little closer to Brooklyn.

Jimmie G.

Daily Prompt: We Built This City

by Krista on March 9, 2014

What do you love most about the city / town / place that you live in? What do you like the least about it? If you were mayor, what would be the most important problem you’d tackle? How would you tackle it?

When I start tripping

Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone

by Krista on February 28, 2014

Ever have an experience that felt surreal, as though you’d been suddenly transported into the twilight zone, where time seemed to warp, perhaps slowing down or speeding up? Tell us all about it. If you haven’t had an experience in real life that you can draw from, write a fictional account of a surreal experience.

Eating ‘shrooms is like having a mouth full of shit. Bite after bite after bite of nasty, blue veined, shit. Funny that putting shit in your mouth can wash the shit from your soul.

I had my first soul washing college.  I was sitting on an eight foot orange couch, hunched over an empty keg of Dinkel Acker I stole in high school that I used as afoot stool. I was living in a large tudor style frat house, all wood beams and plaster, secret doors and hand shakes. The house looked like a fairy tale had gotten lost on the Laramie plains.

I sprinkled white stems crawling with blue veins, and fat brown caps over some food-like beef. The kind of meal you order by number. Had I known I would be eating God I would have gone somewhere nicer. Perhaps the Chinese place on Grand.

I gagged with each bite. The kind of gag that makes your stomach fold in half and swells your tongue. And with each gag I thought…this is gonna be great.

My room had been put in order, vacuumed, and perfumed with incense. I didn’t want to return from a long trip to a messy room.

I was musing how the saliva in my mouth was turning to smoke. I felt every pore in my body growing its own set of lungs and breathing in deep the sights and smells of around me,  then spitting out the bad taste of material things I had caged in my room.

Then a question popped into my head. Will I know when I when the trip begins? 

I wasn’t sure that I would, but before it did, I needed to get out into the Wyoming wind, cuddle up with the sun. And smoke. God, I felt like I could suck down Marlboro Reds till the smoke filled the marrow in my bones and then smoke some more. I was invincible, indestructible. Fuck cancer. That was a trick of the mind, a dis-ease that could never penetrate the leather of my skin. Funny I thought.

I wondered what crazy shit I would think of when I actually started tripping.

Once outside, I stood under the big Wyoming sky for a spell, gorging on the sexiness of Mother nature. The leaves swaying like Jessica Rabbit’s hips. I wanted to spoon with the wind. I wanted to run my fingers through the chalk of the low lying clouds glowing in a sea of electric blue. But first I needed to get some green. I had been told that tripping was like a balloon filled with helium, you need something keep you grounded or you would float away. The green was a great anchor.

I had to hurry before I started tripping.

I knocked on the door and waited for the old school retina scan, which in those days we called a peep hole. It took a minute for the door to open due to the duct tape around the door frame. It was meant to trap in any suspicious smells.

There was a customer there already, a dark clown in a puffy jacket spitting rhymes about being gangster. A halo of fur lined his hood, his hand beat the open air like a percussive.  I took a seat in a banana chair, front row center. I was transfixed by the glaring white of his teeth against the deep black of his skin. A broad, awkward smile sat on my face that made me uncomfortable and afraid. Afraid that he could see on my smile the words, caricature, cartoon, poser.

I needed to get that green and boogie before I started tripping in case this poser proved himself true.

Back out into the Wyoming sun. The clouds were lower in the sky before. I hunched my shoulders so I wouldn’t bumped my head on the sky and headed over to Jere’s to burn some of the green.

And then it happened.  The fasten seat belt sign had been turned off. My body defied gravity and leapt into the air. The trip had begun.

I noticed the change as I stared down the shaft of an infinitely long shaft of a two inch glass pipe. I could see every white hair of the green leaf surrender to the fire and send smoke billowing out of the bowl like a genie escaping her lamp.

She took my hand and lifted my arm. The veins in my hand were drawn in vibrant purple crayon on a canvas of pale white skin that undulated in fleshy waves. It was frightening and beautiful. The genie whispered in my ear that such visions couldn’t be shared with with the sober. She suggested I find sanctuary somewhere private. Who was I to argue with a genie? So I thanked Jere for the green and headed back to the tudor mansion.

The sanctuary the genie lead me to was a room of discarded treasures.  A place where brothers left things they no longer wanted. I found refuge in the piles of other peoples garbage.

The two greatest finds were the Rastafarian wig that protected my thoughts from demons and the book of Esher drawings.

Each page of the Esher book offered a new mandala and I slipped further and further into the universe. One of my brothers found me in the room. Knowing I was on a trip he asked if I had seen any little blue men, or some other myopic question. He stood in the doorway only a few feet away but might as well have been on the other side of the universe.  The complexity of my grunt was lost on the brother.

I returned from my trip to a clean room. The night ended with me recounting my journey to some brothers over a few beers. The bar and drowsiness of beer all seemed so JV.

But there would be other trips. More shit in my mouth and paper on my tongue. More white painted foil and toilet paper rolls stuffed with dryer sheets.

And eventually there would be giggles riding hiccups and deciphering da-da in a coo. 

A whole new way of washing my soul. Shit would still be involved but at least I wouldn’t have to put it in my mouth.

Jimmie G

Artificial Peace

Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

by Krista on February 26, 2014

What is the best dream you’ve ever had? Recount it for us in all its ethereal glory. If no dream stands out in your memory, recount your worst nightmare. Leave no frightening detail out.

Its the one and only time I have ever dreamed of flying.  It was spring breaking in Lloret de Mar, Spain, my junior year of high school. Not because my family has money. I was an Army brat living in Stuttgart, Germany. The trip was just a couple hundred bucks all in. The 19 hour, double decker bus ride kicked off the festivities, and on the return became a rolling detox center.

Once there debauchery, drunkenness, and general tom-foolery were explored in excess, as were the Spanish versions of all my favorite fast food joints.  A new introduction to my bag of indulgences was hash. Hey. It was a week away from rules, so I was running away from the lines.  The black, sticky tar was cut and fluffed before being sprinkled over Marlboro Red tobacco. Because the effects weren’t immediate I chased the smoke with some vodka. I had been spoiled with German beer so the Spanish swill just wouldn’t do.

I have only two other memories from that night. First is the dream. Second is how I woke from that dream.

I was flying. High enough that the features of land below were nothing more than a patchwork of dirt and mud. But there something odd about the look of the land. It didn’t have the familiar look of far off land I remembered seeing on plane rides. The chaotically organized quilting of grass and trees and roadways was missing from the view in my dream. And it seemed to be shifting and rolling.

For me dreams never flow in  a linear fashion really. Mine are more like hard cuts in a film, flashing vignettes of information. I linger in a scene for a bit,  and can even find some momentary purchase and the BAM! Its the next scene.

So I’m flying high above this landscape and then suddenly I’m just above it and it not shifting and rolling. It’s boiling. What from afar looked like dirt and mud was actually the red and brown hues of a brain boiling over the sides of my skull. I dodged geysers of brain matter shooting up at me. But the fear was swept away by the sensation of flying.

Hard cut. The brain rips open and sucks me down. I descend through miles high skyscrapers with no windows. The buildings are black behemoths, packed side by side, and look like a chorus of Easter Island heads. One row of heads sits across from another, heads arched back, screaming each each other. The bridge of their noses almost touch. creating a space just large enough for me to fly between.

Hard cut. I’m flying through a tunnel created by the arguing heads. But I’m traveling so fast everything is a black blur.

Hard cut. I wake to white porcelain. The tiled floor isn’t the cool respite I have retreated to so often when feverish but a warm, sticky kind of hug. I peel myself off the floor, the vomit like a band-aide covering my body. I’m not going to do laundry before the end of the trip so I toss them in the trash and take a shower. That of course was number two.

I don’t remember where that day fell in the Spring Break week. I do know it wasn’t the last day. The last day I got a tattoo from an American guy born and raised in a border town outside San Antonio that didn’t speak a word of english. A buddy of mine translated for all of us. My tattoo was of an upside down peace sign, Artificial Peace, was the slogan of my crew then. I won’t try to pretend I remember the idiocy of that belief. I do remember thinking on the trip to Lloret de Mar, that I wanted to get a tattoo because “I didn’t want to die without any regrets”.

“I didn’t want to die without any regrets”.

Let that hang in your mind for a moment. The profound stupidity. Shocking is that this thought was not borne by drunkenness. It came to me in the light of sobriety.

I still have that tattoo. It sits on my upper left shoulder laughing at its own punchline.

A mind is a terrible thing to develop, unsupervised.

Jimmie G