Today is November 5th, 2021. It is a Friday. Who I am in this story is not important, rather it is important the things I have now witnessed.
Astroworld, Houston, Texas. Travis Scott is the only one performing. I don’t know how many people were at the festival, but I do know that every single person was at that stage.
My friend and I wanted to be close to the stage — as close as we could possibly get. We were not able to get very close, but we did end up on the side, near the walkway in the middle. Surrounding us were chest-high metal gates. "Barriers."
We stood there for two hours, as did every other person. Every gap was filled, where your feet were placed was where they stayed.
Energy rose as the time neared -beginning the show. Within the first 30 seconds of the first song, people began to drown — in other people. There were so many people. Tall men, women. Women and men where the only thing they could see was the back of the person in front of them.
1. I’m terminal as fuck. I’ve got tumors in my heart, liver, lymph nodes, pancreas, abdomen, shoulder and neck.
Currently I’ve done a little over 7,000 hours of chemo along with 3 months of radiation and 8 surgeries so far.
Originally I was told that I’d have about 12-24 months to live.
If I make it to January 16th, I’ll have made it 7 years.
I’m just about to start the last approved treatment for my cancer (Colo-rectal). Currently I’m in pain, scared, and have just lost another friend of mine to this horrible fucking disease.
1. My dog was diagnosed with nasal cancer around this time last year. It took his life two months later.
We did daily trips to Wendy’s where he got his favorite (chicken nuggets) and as time passed and he got worse he started getting a kid’s meal. We started collecting the stupid toys. He played with them when they were appropriate, but mostly we collected them.
We took almost daily trips to the woods, sometimes with one of the other dogs, sometimes without them. We aimed to focus on recording memories. Not living them, recording them. Nobody wants to hear you cry in a recording, they want silly things. We recorded him in the woods. We recorded him eating his nugs. We recorded him playing the occasion he’d play. We recorded him with his tricks and recorded him downtown. I couldn’t live each day, I had to record each day, because living at that time was way too hard.
He passed away on December 4th, 2020. Now, I get daily memories of my dog through my phone. Some are tearjerkers, some are happy. All are authentic and show how much my shelter pitty I got from the shelter one day because he caught my eye was loved.
Arthur Empey was an American living in New Jersey when war consumed Europe in 1914. Enraged by the sinking of the Lusitania and loss of the lives of American passengers, he expected to join an American army to combat the Germans. When America did not immediately declare war, Empey boarded a ship to England, enlisted in the British Army (a violation of our neutrality law, but no one seemd to mind) and was soon manning a trench on the front lines.
Emprey survived his experience and published his recollections in 1917. We join his story after he has been made a member of a machine gun crew and sits in a British trench peering towards German lines. Conditions are perfect for an enemy gas attack – a slight breeze blowing from the enemy’s direction – and the warning has been passed along to be on the lookout:
Most people who hear about older men paying for the loving of a younger woman assume it’s prostitution, or at least prostitution lite. Because you’re essentially paying for sex. What’s the difference?
Well, I’m not picking a girl up off the street. It’s not like I’m getting a street hooker. I suppose there could be a fine line. But I see these girls, I get to know them, and I do things financially for them. If I was married, I would probably do the same. I’m seeing a girl who needs stability, and I’m helping her out. Although if there wasn’t sex involved, would I do it? Probably not.
I worked in a Police Department for 4 years, first as an intern and then as the assistant to the Chief of Police. Many of my friends are detectives. I will try to provide you with information on it.
- A detective is a lateral promotion of a police officer. It is the same rank, just a different function of the organization. Thus, you need to be a police/patrol officer first. The amount of time spent on patrol varies widely with departments, but I would say you should anticipate on spending at least 5 years as a patrol officer. During that time you will be provided multiple opportunities to increase your skill set and get training for a lateral promotion to a detective. To emphasize this point, there are Patrol Sergeants (a real promotion) and Detective Sergeants (a leader of detectives). I hope this makes sense.
1. So many people think of relationships as being all about love, lust and sex. What about the completely ordinary, everyday things, like going for a walk? Grocery shopping? Out to dinner? Or making dinner!? Going on vacation? Going to a movie? Just simply spending the day together, hanging out, visiting a farmers market or going on a day trip somewhere new. Grabbing a coffee somewhere and sitting outside, people-watching while you chat. Meeting each other’s friends/family and getting to know them too. Having another opinion on decisions you may have to make. Not having to always take the trash out yourself lol. Finding a tv show you both like and binge-watching on cold winters nights while eating pizza. Knowing that someone is there when you come home from work. Learning and growing from issues you both may face in your relationship and overcoming them if the relationship is strong enough, or break up and meet someone new if it isn’t, and start all over again. Maybe having a family, if that’s your thing.
I was high as a kite when I got in the car and now I’m higher still. Every time things go right and you get a normal guy, not a nut, a cop, a non-payer, it feels like the world is your stage. Money, control, drugs, dudes, drama, excitement, attention, sex, nightlife “love,” glamor — I slam!
I was very, very hot.
Now I’m 61. I’m not hot. I’ve had two babies. I’ve been sleep deprived most of my life. My hair is a mess (possible Asperger’s symptom). I have never been married, legally. Funny, because I used to wonder how all those girls around me were ever going to find husbands, looking like that.
In high school, someone started a rumor I was on the cover of Seventeen. The freshman girls began to follow me around, giggling. They were so excited. This went on for months. I could see them admiring me from across the cafeteria, or down the hall. They’d stop, to worship. At last, one nervously came up to ask me about it. I told her: I was a model, but not in Seventeen.