Writing is something that I have always thoroughly enjoyed.
Don’t let me mislead you, this doesn’t mean I am good, I just really enjoy it. It has been an outlet for me and my thoughts, a way to really express myself when the stunned mullet look on my face just won’t do. The words are there, but they simply will not appear.
This is not for anyone in particular; in fact, I have no intention of anyone even reading this but the thought of putting myself out there has a certain appeal. Kind of like some reverse-voyeurism, which quite possibly isn’t even a phrase but hey, that doesn’t matter here.
At the time of writing this, I am 38 years of age. I have a daughter to my first wife and a son to my fiancé who has two-step children, both girls. I have a fiancé who I am madly in love with, stupidly in fact. I get all foggy headed when she pops to mind and I need to snap out of it to get my thinking back on track. Then I chuckle to myself because I repeat this process at least twice… Like I have done, just now.
I work in a job where I am not satisfied. I have experienced depression, drug addiction and reliance. I have sought out clinical help and won. I am regularly confused with simple issues and solved much harder ones. I am slightly over-weight and at times out of control. My favourite word starts with “F” and against everything I am told, I wish I could drink more than I am allowed. I am oddly comfortable in awkward moments and relish a stubborn debate and hearty laugh at your expense.
I believe I am truly normal.
Let’s give this a crack.