Deathbed Regrets Can’t Be Fucking Fixed
Missing the woman I love has me questioning something far bigger than a few lonely nights. Have I spent so much time chasing professional success and taking care of responsibilities that I've forgotten to cherish the moments right in front of me? I've died three fucking times, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that time isn't guaranteed. Deathbed regrets can't be fucking fixed, and I refuse to waste the life I've been given.
One Fucking Year
One year ago, an evening motorcycle ride left me broken on Cerrillos Road. Broken bones, surgeries, months of rehabilitation, and nights spent crying when nobody was watching. But somewhere in the hardest fucking year of my life, I found love, purpose, and something I hadn't truly possessed before: a sense of my own worth. I'm not grateful for the accident. I'm grateful I survived it.
The Final Chapter
My day job woke me up. My writing career kept me awake. Somewhere between midnight emails, publishing expenses, Undertow, and another book I haven’t fucking written yet, I realized writing isn’t just something I’m doing. It’s what I intend to carry with me to the final door.
The Reaper’s Kiss
There’s a difference between watching somebody face death and being the person staring through the fucking door. Once you’ve crossed that threshold and somehow come back, mortality stops being an idea. Tomorrow isn’t promised. You know that in your fucking bones.
The List
Almost a year after the motorcycle crash, I showed Dawna the list of everything that had been broken, torn, punctured, crushed, or otherwise fucked up that night. I expected her to understand what I survived. I wasn't expecting the fucking list to remind me how much of it I'm still carrying.
Cosmic Voicemail
I haven’t written much this week, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that the words matter. I survived cardiac arrests, a motorcycle crash, and enough reminders that tomorrow isn’t fucking promised. So I’m writing like I’m leaving a cosmic voicemail behind.