When the bad times began all depends on how you measure it. For instance, in some of my more self-pitying moments I’d probably argue they started at birth. I suppose it could be argued they started in November of 2002 with a friend’s severe illness. Nobody ever knew what was wrong with him, one day he was whisked away to the hospital and the next thing we knew he was dead. That’s how 2003 began: my buddy died and the Eagles got their asses handed to them in the playoffs.
Now it’s November 8, 2006 and I’m hoping that the bad times are over. At least the overwhelmingly-negative-no-good-very-bad bad times. As time allows I think I’ll start to fill the Intar-net-web in on the bad times from 2003 to today so everyone and their mother knows why life’s been such a bowl of peaches and why, in future, my cynicism gear is likely to be stripped from overuse.
I heard a quote on the radio the other day. A writer complained that he had, “had the kind of childhood which is death to a writer.” I’ve had that kind of a life. No pain, no suffering, nothing to write about. I’ve still got it pretty easy but I am beginning to see what can go wrong.
So, I’ll write about what could go wrong and did go wrong. My tales of woe from three years of constant cock-punches. Then you’ll all know why I have $100 in very hard liquor in the trunk of my car.