You Don’t Get to Be More Afraid of My Recovery Than I Am
I survived injuries that kill people outright. Every minute since has been a fight, and I fought. Two months later, I got back on my bike, not because I forgot what happened, but because I refuse to let the person who hit me define the rest of my life. What surprised me wasn’t fear. It was the judgment for getting up.
This Time of Year
I used to love the holidays. I loved the simplicity, the togetherness, the quiet joy of people actually being decent to one another. Somewhere along the way, we traded that in for parking lot warfare, shopping cart rage, and a soul-sucking obsession with buying shit no one actually needs. Now the season doesn’t bring out goodwill, it brings out the truth. And honestly? That truth kind of fucking sucks.
The Rage of Recovery
Drool, dependency, and a staircase that suddenly feels like Everest. Healing isn’t noble or poetic. It’s rage, humiliation, fire, and the refusal to surrender your autonomy — even when life keeps stacking obstacles in your way.
Maybe Patience Isn’t the Virtue They Say It Is
Patience and I have a long, ugly history. I can do it — I just fucking hate it. Growing up poor taught me how to wait, but recovering from this accident is teaching me something else entirely: sometimes patience is just forced stillness dressed up as virtue.
American Roulette
A cold morning ride, coffee with a colleague, and a breakfast date that turned into a protest invite — another reminder that dating in your fifties is American Roulette, and I’m better off riding solo.
Shut Up and Shoot: A Pool League Rant
Most people don’t join the bar pool league to compete—they join to drink and pretend they’re Minnesota Fucking Fats. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to sink shots, skip the lectures, and get home before sunrise.