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.
Played Like a Fucking Fiddle
After twelve-hour workdays, all I want is to spend time with Dawna. Unfortunately, she's trying to squeeze two households into one, and apparently my constant presence isn't particularly conducive to concentration. So she came up with a brilliant solution: send my annoying ass on errands. One light bulb, a pack of cigarettes, several hours riding Nyx and Aurora, and an overcooked swordfish dinner later, I discovered on Facebook that my future wife had played me like a fucking fiddle. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.