I love the future, and my family. Some things I’ve worked towards in my free-time for years are conceivably attainable in the next couple years, and for the first time in my adult life, my fleeting and fluctuating hopes and dreams seem founded in reality. Back that up with a solid ass family of a wife who rolls like the yang to my yin, or yin to my yang, but we jive each other up and keep each other adrenalinized and eroticized and it works well. Plus three kids who all are pretty dynamic little kooks in their own right (yeah, I know, every fucker on earth thinks their kids are special even though 85% of the time it’s just another fucking kid with crazy eyes waiting for you to not be paying attention), and I’m stoked in my upward mobility, at least creatively speaking. Money will be cool too, but that’ll follow just fine if I deliver on the front end.
I hate hot. Nothing like sanding 1927 dirt off an old shit ass house, and you being all sweaty and leaking internal liquids, and the dirt coats you and then forms blackened clumps along sweat lines, clumping inside your elbows, under your arms, along your belt line under what’s left of your once-proud beer belly, and you take a break to drink a cup of Gatorade-spiked water from your water cooler, and it’s cold as fuck because you stuffed ten pounds of ice inside the cooler that morning, but you drink it down, feel guilty for taking too long a break even though it’s only been about two minutes, so you go back up the ladder, and almost immediately the sweat starts kicking double time as you barely stay ahead of the southern humidity’s dehydration curve.
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