This is what we do, kiddies. We spew until our hearts content. We talk (type) about the things that drive us; wild, crazy, to drink, and what have you. The things that haven’t killed me have given me the power to track those things down and blow ’em up, with a hand grenade. That’s all part of the fun, ain’t it? I’ve lived the life of ten men, or so I’m told, so it’s my right, right? I’ve earned the entitlement to regurgitate that which I know to be true. I wish there was an easier way, but unfortunately, there is not. We all have our moments in the sun. Sometimes we get burnt. That’s no excuse to sit in the corner and cry. Smear some lotion on that, and get on with it. There’s a new horizon with each upcoming sun. Chase it, grab it, and own that little bastard. You really can do whatever you want to in this paradox, make it count. If you blame anyone but yourself when you fail, then you are indeed a failure, and stop wasting my air.