What Is Faith?

I spent a few minutes trying to sort through the madness of my life. I spent about ten minutes warming up, and this is what I came to.

My life is, and always has been, about faith. But I have yet to find the words to accurately convey what it means to me, yet I can provide examples.

If I may elaborate, please?

Faith is falling out of the running for a job—and then interviewing for it that following week.

Faith is living homelessly for more than five years and living to tell about it.

Faith is maintaining your residence and way of life despite a lack of income.

Faith is victory after exhaustion.

This is the most trying time of my life, and I’m not talking about the lesson plan I keep twittering on about. I’m still amazed that my children’s family (on their mother’s side) were the ones who alerted me about my children. Once my staunchest adversaries and now they’re the ones who’re instrumental in me being able to maintain contact with my kids? That is faith.

Still, the questions mount, and these are questions beyond whether or not I can do it; if it was that simple, there’d be no question.

There’s the thorny legal process. My ex-wife abandoned our children, leaving them with her family so she could be with her drug-addicted boyfriend. I don’t have much better on my side; I still left them. But…I’ve gotten myself together, somewhat. I mean, I live alone, I’m self-sufficient, I have a trickling revenue stream even though I’m out of work, and my oldest son seems excited about seeing me again. Will my ability to support them count for anything in a system notorious for awarding custody to the mother regardless of the father’s status?

I’m not just saying that. I’ve seen it firsthand.

What if I have to remain in California in order to keep my kids? This is the only way I’d have to concede the issue. I can’t afford to live in California, much less support two children.

I don’t want to live in California, either. It took me more than a decade to say that (and I would do it for my kids if left with no choice, and I had the means), but there’s nothing for me there. I grew up in San Francisco, and that feels great to say, but Missouri is home, and God willing, I’ll spend the bulk of my years in St. Louis.

Moments like this, when doubt creeps into my mind, I get that feeling at the pit of my stomach, and the comforting thought that I’ve had since I was a child; it’ll all be okay.

Funny thing; it always is.

And so I fight on, working towards the inevitable exhaustion, for the first time unsure as to whether or not I can achieve my goal. I know that I have a gift for pulling things together, and I do not quit.
Faith, like always, is what will turn raw willpower into reality.

So at last I find the words. What is faith?

Faith is the knowledge of knowing that things will work out without knowing exactly how.

Faith is the will to fight on.

The source of my faith is, and always will be, God and His Son, but what you use is entirely up to you.

Where Zune Went Wrong

I feel I should preface this blog by saying that I am, in no way, an “expert” on technological matters. I consider myself a mid-level techie, meaning I can walk noobs through software installation and even troubleshooting minor problems, but I leave coding and frankensteining entire machines to the pros. Google solves a lot of problems for me.

That being said…

I purchased my little 4-Gig Zune about a year ago, thanks to a deal Wal-Mart still runs. There’s a fifty dollar difference (in the Zune’s favor) between the 4-Gig Zune and 4-Gig iPod.  So it’s still a good idea for the economically-minded consumer.

Also, the whole DRM thing really rubbed me the wrong way (why do I have to keep authorizing computers to play music I purchased?!) so I went for the alternative.

Since then, I put a lot of wear and tear on the armband accessory, and sadly, it’s no longer with us. I haven’t had any major problems with the device itself; save for the last software update causing the player to freeze occasionally, it’s been fine. Watching videos can be a bit of a challenge, but hey, it’s a small screen, and you get what you pay for.

Noobs might have a hard time getting videos to play on the device. I recommend Prism while it’s free; you can convert downloaded videos to play on your Zune without worrying about some obtrusive ‘trial version’ crap taking up most of your screen.

Hardware isn’t much without software to back it up, and this, in my opinion, is where Zune takes a brutal fall down the stairs and snaps every body part along the way.

Before I tear into this thing, I have to point out the pluses; Zune does provide a cheaper, DRM-free alternative to purchasing songs (.79 cents, compared to the .99 cents from itunes, and you can play them anywhere). The social aspect is a great idea, and I think it’s cool to tap into other people’s tastes. My favorite feature is how you’re awarded ‘badges’ for listening to a song or album x amount of times. It’s a good way to publicly display what kind of music you’re really into.

It’s podcasts can be somewhat touch-and-go; generally, I’ve had no problems, but I went through a rough spot about four months back where I couldn’t get anything to download. I nearly got kicked off of twitter for that ceaselessly ranting about that.

Problem #1.

Why, oh why, does Zune not allow you to create video playlists?! This is a readily accessible feature in Windows Media Player (which is also created by Microsoft, but I’ll get to that momentarily) that members of the Zune boards have been crying out for vainly for over two years now. If it hasn’t happened now, chances are it’s not going too.

Problem #2.

The software also tends to tie up a lot of processor; I no longer run the program from my laptop, as it wasn’t uncommon for it to be hogging up to seventy percent of my cpu’s processing ability. If I had Outlook 2007 and my (addin heavy) Firefox running, Zune would often be the straw that broke the camel’s back. You want to run the software, you should have some horsepower to back it up.

Problem #3.

I know quite a few people who were/are familiar with Windows Media Player and purchased their zune expecting the device to be compatible. Why not; Microsoft makes both the hardware and the software. It only makes sense the two should work together, right?

Wrong.

There are still a ton of people in this world who’re not technically savvy; why in the name of Optimus Prime would you make them download and then learn an entirely new piece of software when you have one readily available?

I know coders who will intelligently counter this point, but I steadfastly maintain that the Zune would’ve fared much better, had it been an add-in to the existing Windows Media, instead of making it a standalone.

An article run by Businessweek prompted me to write this blog. You can cite your own reasons; poor marketing (I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Zune commercial), bad design, poor software, whatever, one indisputable fact remains—the Zune is failing.

So I close by saying; you get what you pay for. The Zune is a cheaper investment, but with so many ways to get around DRM these days, and the ease of using iTunes, you’re better off with the iPod.

Pony up the extra cash and get yourself a Nano.

Rise of a New Dream

If I had to liken myself to any two objects, the first would be one of those pullback/release type of toy cars. You know how they feel when you pull them back; as though they’re about to explode out of your hands? Well, when you let me go, I’ll charge ahead blindly at full speed, until I hit the wall.

Another object would be a bullet. Once fired, I would usually destroy my target without caring about collateral damage. I was one who very much believed that the ends justified the means.

I’m not as reckless as I used to be. In fact, the older I get, the more things come into perspective.

I should’ve done something about my children a long time ago, but I didn’t, and I try not to waste time lamenting things that cannot be changed. Here and now is what I have to work with. I am terrified of being a single father. At nineteen, I edited out Eminem CD’s and allowed my son to sing along, and at thirty-two, I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. I don’t engage in random acts of violence. I don’t even dress the same way anymore.

In short, I’m not going to have any idea what I’m doing.

I will have help—for which I’m grateful—but in the end, these two children are my responsibility, as I’m the one who brought them into this world. I don’t believe I’m any less guilty than their mother—we both left—and no matter what arrangement I work out with my children, I will never abandon them again.

I enjoy helping people and making a difference in people’s lives, even if it’s people I don’t know. I do this largely because I believe in karma, but also, it’s the right thing to do; I’ve had a lot of people help me for no reason throughout the years, I feel almost obligated to return the favor. My problem is that I don’t know as much as I think I do, and I absolutely hate to say no to someone in need. I used to habitually say yes and then apologize later, feeling guilty that I failed.

Okay, I admit to being pretty screwed up.

I’ve come to realize that there are things I know, and things I’m very good at, and those things I can pass on.

I would still like to create a place that encourages creative freedom; a place where writers, artists, and other creative minds can meet and bring their dreams to life without (too much) restraint. I have no idea how to do this right now, but when it’s time, I’m sure I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll use the little traction I have as a writer.

I’d like to be able to work as a full-time writer. I had a little taste of it last month; as unbelievable as it seems, I paid the bills using nothing but my imagination. It’s an addictive, galvanizing sensation, and I want more of it. Besides, being able to work from home allows me to spend more time with my kids…and family.

So there it is. This is what I’m about now, this is what I dream about, this is what I’m working for.

Maybe the next time I speak of my dreams, I’ll be able to compare myself to something less destructive than a bullet.

From the publish button to God’s ear.

What This Means

In order to catch the historical inauguration of our 44th President, I actually set the alarm. Anyone who knows me knows how much I hate getting up early, but this would never happen again in my lifetime. I wish I had my children with me to see it.

On January 20th, 2009, I, with the rest of the world, watched a black man ascend to the highest office the United States of America as to offer. Twice, just to shut everyone up, although we didn’t get to see the second time.

I say that and I still don’t believe it. Despite all of his critics and naysayers, like it or not, Barack Obama is the President of the United States.

I’m from one of the most politically liberal areas in the country, currently (permanently) residing in a land where ‘colored’ is still a common way to refer to black people. Out on the street alone, or with my white girlfriend, it’s not uncommon for me/us to get hateful looks. That being said, I don’t think it’s fair to say that racism has come to an end in this country. On the contrary, I doubt it ever will, even as those who cling to the old beliefs die off. They pass their beliefs on to the young, who I am glad to say are not tolerated so much anymore.

I will say this.
Barack Obama’s ascendency is living proof that there is nothing one can’t achieve if they are willing to work. These are no longer just inspirational words, either; if you want proof, turn on your TV.

What this means is that people from all walks of life have one less excuse for not trying.

I Fight For My Friends II

One can’t live in two worlds, I’m realizing. Eventually, you have to make a choice.

You also choose the friends that are worth fighting for.

I have two good friends; one of them enforces a system I don’t really believe in, yet we’re friends anyway. Another disagrees with the system as strongly as I do, but may have broken what is, in my opinion, an unbreakable law. I can’t prove if he did or didn’t; for a change, I did not blindly follow my first instinct, which would’ve led to violence. Instead, I thought things through.

While my law-enforcing friend became angry with me (for not doing the right thing), I stood against the world and desperately tried to convince my wayward friend to cease his involvement—any type of involvement—with an underage girl. In a few short weeks, he had gone from being in love with her to looking at her like a daughter. The thought of it made me want to vomit. How can you do this?! Who the hell are you and what have you done with my friend?!

I saw my friend and the underage girl together, physically flirting and whispering to one another when they thought nobody would notice. I convinced myself that it wasn’t what I knew it was.

Last week, I needed a ride to the career center. My wayward friend agreed to drive me. I had to be there at two; he showed up at a quarter till…with his underage friend in tow.

Millions of questions flooded my mind: Why was she there? Why wasn’t she in school? Why did she keep saying that they had just woke up?

I cut him off after that…for a minute. It’s the Christian thing to forgive, right? Ugh… Besides, it’s not like I was able to prove that he was doing anything illegal. Maybe he was just confused. Maybe someone is going to sell me the St. Louis Arch.

I cornered him, and demanded to know what was going on. I wondered if I was really fighting for him or just struggling to hold on to one of the first face-to-face friendships I’ve had in years.

He told me that he was dating the underage girl’s mother, and that he was spending time with her children in an attempt to get to know them better.

Avery: Thank God. That makes sense.
Busterwolf: You’re lying, and I know you’re lying, you sick f***.

I forgave him. We patched things up.

Yesterday, the girl’s mother happened to be at a friend’s house and I asked her, point blank, if she has been seeing Billy. She denied it. Of course.

I let my instincts guide me as she told me how she was sick of the rumor; she’s never done anything with Billy.

This means, the night we patched things up, someone I considered one of my closest friends lied to me yet again. He lied to me as he promised not to lie to me again.

Crushed, I realized the truth.

I headed home and tracked down my law-enforcing friend. We hadn’t spoken in awhile, and my message was simple: We need to talk.

When he showed up, he wasn’t in uniform, which was good: He would to talk to me as a friend, rather than as a cop. He was cordial as he entered my home and shook my hand. He knew why I had called him. When he took a seat on my couch, I unloaded like a dump truck.

No, I’ve never seen anything illicit between these two with my own eyes. Yes, I thought the situation was worth investigating. Yes, I had seen a lot of physical play between the two, and yes, I thought it was inappropriate. It’s been going on for about a month now…

I lied in a recent myspace survey; I think I cried last night. I know I kept wiping my eyes. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

My friend wrote down everything I said, then closed his notepad and folded his hands. He lowered his head for a moment and just exhaled; one doesn’t become numb to this kind of thing, and it’s a lot to take in.

He looked up to me and asked me, off the record, if I thought these two were being sexual.

…
Yes. I say it out loud.

Whoa…
I was suddenly sprinting for the toilet and there went dinner. I hadn’t thrown up in years, and it was like my body was making up for it. I threw up until it hurt, and I was clutching my stomach. It felt like coughing up acid. Thankfully, there was no blood.

My friend didn’t help. He just waited patiently in my front room.
He did, however, ask me if I felt better when I re-emerged. Not really, I said.

We talked—my friends are good at that—about what it really meant to be someone’s father.

When you’re someone’s father, he told me, you have to lead by example. You don’t cut and run when you get angry with someone. You fight for them for all you’re worth, and when that fails, you do the right thing…

I know he is right, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

Chances are there will be no legal action taken, as there’s no proof. Still, I can say that I did all I could, and mean it.

If I’m going to show my children how to live in this world, I have to do it myself first.

So there it is. I still feel like crud, but I’ll get past it, and maybe one day my former friend will wake up, or maybe he won’t, but that’s between him and God.

I have my own issues to sort through, and I need to keep people in my life who have similar (healthy) goals.

Those are the friends worth fighting for.

Not Need, But Choice.

I wasn’t expecting the Ravens to get past Tennessee, but we did. So despite the fact that the Steelers had swept us this season, I held out hope that, despite the injuries and statistics, we just might pull it out. If we defeated the Steelers in their own home, we’d head back to the Super Bowl for the second time in nine years.

It wasn’t meant to be. To say that I dislike the Steelers is not to say that I don’t respect them. They wanted it much more than we did, and they had the experience to back it up.

Final score: 24-13.

To see my squad come so close to the big game, just to fall short one game shy of the super bowl, well, this is why we watch the game. We go through the highs and lows with them. The further we go, the harder it is to fall.

Molly was here for a four-day weekend, and barely stayed in her skin while I cheered and cussed out the TV, and then sank into a mild depression. Molly doesn’t like to people sad, especially those she cares about.

She immediately went over to my laptop and opened up my (extensive) Alvin & The Chipmunks collection. In a manner that ensured we will never end up on a reality dance show, we danced as she sang along with “Bad Day” among others.

There was a time when I would go on and on about the people I was dating in my blogs; keeping things relatively quiet about Molly isn’t meant to say that I’m not very happy where I am. It means I am learning to keep my mouth shut.

My closest friends know the truth, as close friends should. I can say that I have never stayed up late with someone downloading chipmunk videos and, later on, arguing opposite points of the death penalty.

As I grow older, I learn there are some things I need to keep to myself if they’re going to turn into something. What I can say publicly is that this place, right here, is where I want to be. Not because I feel a need to be here, or even because I feel this is where I’m supposed to be; no, this is where I choose to be.

A Story About Pain

When I was nineteen, I had a legitimate shot at being an athlete. Instead of playing football (like I should have) I wound up going into the ring. In my fourth fight, I knocked my opponent down and was heading back to my corner. Before I could get there, he had gotten up, gone airborne, and thrust the blade of his foot into the rear of my left knee, shattering it instantly.

This was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, and I think most of San Francisco heard me scream. I screamed so loud that I couldn’t even hear the ref counting me out.

Through the pain, I was mad as hell. There was no way this guy was gonna take a cheap shot and claim the purse. I should probably say these fights weren’t exactly sanctioned…

My trainer (a very good friend I maintain sporadic contact with today) is ready to call the fight, I have other ideas. He bandages my leg, which is unable to support any weight, and although I’m still willing to continue, I’m all but unable to come out of the corner.

So the cheap-shot-taking mofo blitzes me and keeps me on the ropes, first doing everything he can to tag my leg, and then resorting to whatever it takes. I’m able to knock him away, and as he falls back, I leap from the ropes, flip backwards towards him, and bring the instep of my right foot crashing down onto his shoulder. He’s out cold, but I go down too. I’m able to get back up.

I spent about three years completely rehabilitating myself, but the injury torpedoed any pro career I might’ve wanted.
So fast forward about half a decade. By chance, I wind up in Newark, New Jersey. When I say by chance, I really mean I fell asleep on the bus and missed my stop. If you haven’t been to Newark, rent a Charles Bronson film and save yourself the trip.

I wind up falling in (as usual) with the crowd that knows where everything is, and a fight is set up with this nineteen-year-old kid who has never lost.

The kid is a Bruce Lee-wannabe; lightning fast; all speed, and the battle cry was perfect, but not a lick of power. And cocky; damn, the kid could run off at the mouth. He made me look humble and I wanted to hit him just to shut him up.

He could take a beating, too. It didn’t matter how hard I hit him, he just kept getting up. I eventually became bored and hit him so hard that I nearly lost my balance. He may have tagged me a million times but his lack of power means he’s more annoying than anything else.

I start hitting this kid with everything I have in sequences and he just keeps getting up. The act is getting old.

I just want the money. To hell with everything else.

I knock him away with a side kick, knowing that he was going to get up. As he recovers, I leap into the air and thrust the blade of my right foot on the outside of his knee as he begins to get up. I felt the bone break beneath the impact.

He screamed. He cried. He pounded the ground. He cried for his mother. He clutched his knee. He would’ve torn it off to make the pain stop. I know this.

I watch this, and I can’t help but remember when someone inflicted a similar injury on me. I remember being told that I would never walk straight again and how long it took to prove them wrong. I keep telling myself that it wasn’t a cheap shot. I wonder why that isn’t making me feel any better.

Everyone was quiet, and looking to me as though I was some kind of monster. I was.

I told the kid I wasn’t going to hurt him. I don’t know if he heard me, but I know what the look in his eyes meant when he turned to me.

I picked him up—he didn’t weigh much—and I asked for directions to the nearest hospital. It was too far to walk, so I hailed a cab. Back then, they didn’t ask questions.

Once he was in proper care, I left.
I always expected that kid to come back for me someday. So far, he hasn’t.

Technorati Tags: Busterwolf,bus,fight,knee injury,pain,Newark

Vs. Busterwolf

There’s this new dream I’ve been having lately…
There is a torrential rainstorm in a barren land. The rain is coming down with such force that I can’t see but three feet from me.

Thunder and lightning strike with enough force to make me think the ground is coming apart.

I’m dressed; black button-up short-sleeved shirt, black jeans. No hat, no gloves, no do-rag. This is me, Avery K. Tingle.

This storm seems to call the end of the world forth, but I’m not affected. I keep walking, unsure of where I’m going, until I see a dark figure ahead, moving towards me.

It’s me. Well, sort of. It’s…who I used to be.
Blue jeans, black sleeveless T-shirt (which I still own), the trademark blue jean jacket with the black star on the back, and the hat I gave to Drea almost four years ago now.
The gloves are there too. I remember there was a time I did not nothing without them. The gloves are running with fresh blood.

For some reason, I’m not surprised.

Today (real life now) I’m at the desktop, trying to get my two computers to like one another. While going through the desktop I’m surprised to find two sets of users, both with very different settings. In one folder, there’s Avery…in the other, Busterwolf.

Chilling to the bone is that I do not remember setting this up.
Also chilling are my friends telling me that my eyes are different in almost every single picture I take. I know why.

Busterwolf is not a monster, although he can be. He is a shell I created to protect my weaker self. I find myself no longer needing this shell, which refuses to go quietly into that good night.

So it’s time for us to face. In my heart, right now, I know I can’t beat him. I know just how strong he is; I made him.

This past week, I began exploring a photography hobby, tried red wine for the first time in life, I got to meet up with some of the smartest literary minds in the city, I landed quick work setting up someone’s computer, ranked in on a writing contest, and I even forgave a friend.

Even the martial arts have taken on a different perspective for me; my chi is much more aligned, time seems to slow down when I go through a form, punches and kicks find their mark with much more fluidity. It’s like I’m more fluent than I’ve ever been.

For all the fear I’ve overcome, there is still one more hurdle I have to face, and this is where Busterwolf awaits. I have yet to confront my own rage.

An interesting tidbit is I’ve always gotten a much bigger rush from fighting than from sex. With sex, I care very much what my partner likes and in fighting…I don’t care about anything but being better. I think less and go almost entirely on emotion. Going deeper into my emotions eventually leads me to rage, at which point I no longer care if my opponent lives or dies.

With sex, there’s always that point I will never go beyond, no matter how much I get into it. I don’t think I’d ever kill the person I was sleeping with, but I don’t know what would happen if I gave that deeply into my emotions, either. I think it’s because I’ve held back so much is the reason I’ve never gotten a rush out of the experience.

I take extreme measures to keep my temper in check. Very few people have ever seen me angry, and the few who have don’t talk to me anymore. It’s not something I’m proud of.

I look at everything I’ve screwed up in my life—my kids, people that loved me—and I have come to realize that what I have now—my writing, getting my children back, Molly—is my second chance. I am letting the past go, but I still have no idea how to healthily deal with rage.

I know that I won’t overcome—or make peace with—Busterwolf through some fight in a dream, that would be too easy.

No, overcoming Busterwolf will involve me earning the right to raise my children, finding literary success (my goal is to do it full time, for a living, but if I have to choose, I would rather be respected), and finally, at long last, get on one knee to the girl I’m supposed to spend my life, ask that very fateful question, and she says “yes”.

Yeah….I can freely admit I want a home and a family. And I would like at least one more child with the one.

When I start to find those, that’s when Busterwolf will walk away, taking the storm with him.

But right now, he’s waiting for me.

(It’s not about me, it’s about my sons)

Alright, Wolf…let’s you and me go….

My First Synths

This idea was inspired by Melissa Maples, who keeps one of the most interesting personal blogs I’ve ever read. I’ve seen most of the country; she’s seen most of everywhere else, and photographed most of it.

A number of months ago, G4’s Layla Keyleigh reported a new website called Photsynth, which was in beta at the time; users could upload their photography, and the site assemble them to create virtual replicas. Once these photos are “Synthed” you can go on virtual tours of anyplace in the world. There’s even a video guide to walk you through the process.

It’s a lot of tedious work, but in the end, it’s worth it. My first synth didn’t end up so well (11% of the capital building) and I wound up deleting it.

The second and third synths turned out much better than my first two attempts, so I thought I’d share. I’d also like to extend a humble thank-you to Jason Kim, who was about to report his camera stolen had I held onto it one more day.

The first one is a replica of the Liberty Bell, just outside of the Capital Building in Jefferson City, MO.

The Liberty Bell Synth

I may not always agree with law enforcement, but it doesn’t mean I don’t respect what they stand for.

The Missouri State Law Enforcement Memorial Synth

Eventually, as I continue to move around (which I plan to restrict a bit in the future) I’ll try to upload more. Enjoy!

Technorati Tags: Photosynth,Jefferson City,Capitol Building,Capitol,Missouri,Law,Law Enforcement,Memorial,Liberty,Bell,Liberty Bell,Travels,Photos

I Am Not A Child.

2008 was a great year. Runners up include holding onto the same job, apartment, and phone number. The grand prize is that I was never arrested.
Even more important, I never gave the police a reason to arrest me, although that didn’t stop them from looking for one.

The new year started off routinely; I sprained my back in a sparring match. Although Billy continually asked me if I was alright, I chose to fight through the pain (just like always) and continue. I was in so much pain that those who watched the match pointed out how worn out I was. I fought on. I don’t know why. The addiction to fighting is something I need to deal with this coming year.

I blog about the people and events that have the most impact on me (that I’m allowed to talk about), which brings me back to my relationship with Molly. She tore me a new one when I told her that I had hurt myself sparring. What she said hit home, and she made me make a promise; I will undoubtedly make friends in St. Louis who share my passion. The second I get hurt, stop. I can no longer risk a serious injury that jeopardizes my ability to take care of my children.

Her influence on me has forced me to take my life into account; she’s much more informed on world events than I am, and I find myself having a hard time keeping up in conversation with this girl who’s ten years my junior. There is no excuse for how little I know about the world around me, and I find myself driven to learn everything I can as quickly as I can. Adding the Nightly News to my list of podcasts was a good idea. I can no longer afford to have an apathetic attitude; I’m a part of this world too.

I’m blessed with a near-invincible drive; if I decide that you’re not going to beat me, then you’re not. If I decide to succeed at something, then I’m going too. I hold myself to a very high standard and I used to tell myself that it was okay to do the best I could; if I failed after doing the best I could, then I could live with that. This is no longer the case, and I can no longer have even the slightest excuse for failure. With more than my own life at stake, I can no longer just try; I have to succeed at some level.

This means I have to get a lot of my self-doubt under control; I have a hard time believing why anyone would want to be with me. I can pick apart someone’s motives until they finally leave, and then say this was how it’s supposed to be; I’m supposed to be alone. Or, I can try this; Molly wants to be with me, and also, she believes in my ability to succeed.

So not too long ago, she comes across a blog written by someone I was considering a relationship with, and some of what was mentioned drove her a little crazy. One of the statements in the blog alluded to the more she got to know me, the more she saw a child. I didn’t take it personally–at first. I noted that this blog came following a decision to be with Molly instead of her. When Molly began to ask me about the legitimacy of our relationship (was I sure about her?) I took things a little more seriously. I can screw things up with women just fine on my own; I don’t need any help.

I wasn’t raised normally. I have no desire to be “normal” because the idea of settling into a dreamless existence is a fate worse than Hell to me. I like to laugh, as often as possible. I look for fun in everything I do. I charge obstacles wholeheartedly and with everything I have because if I try to half-heart the obstacle, then I’m only going to get halfway through it. I approach the world with a child’s curiosity because it is a huge planet God gave us, with literally millions of opportunities to explore. I am close-minded to almost nothing and blessedly, I have been exposed to a multitude of cultures and at one point, I spoke Japanese nearly fluently (not so much anymore. Not too many opportunities to practice in the Midwest).

I take my responsibilities very seriously; I’ll go so far as to say that I take my responsibilities more seriously than most people because I have been where one ends up when they ignore their responsibilities. My children are my life and no matter what I encounter this year, I will have some sort of custody arrangement by summer.

I’m not a child. I may not look at life the same way most people do, but this doesn’t make me a child.

I will, however, cop to being a dork. And screw Tony Stark; I’m Iron Man.

So begins another year, one which finds me in a very promising relationship, mine to make work, at the first stages of a burgeoning writing career, about to move to a major metropolis area and begin caring for my two children.

The battle to curb my insecurities, keep my anger in check, and overcome my trust issues continue.

For the first time in more than ten years, my father and I will come face-to-face in June of this year. An angry child left California; a father and writer will return.

Let 2009 begin.

Thanks for following along.