I freely acknowledge that I live life on the edge. I do things that my friends think are crazy. I don't follow many rules. I'm the last person in the world who needs to be told life is short. I milk every single second out of every single day that I can, because I'd rather live with a little red cheeked embarrassment for the things I did than the melancholy regret for the things I didn't. And thanks to my aversion to the mundane, I'm going to have one hell of a book to publish one day.
Not that all of my stories have pretty, wrapped up, happy endings. The endings are always amusing and evocative, but I've had my fair share of explosions. But that's the thing... even the explosions are good. They're real. They're filled with emotion and life. And they're all part of my story.
And so I try to write it all down as it happens, because I know how I am. After the fireworks subside and the dust settles, I'll be back on another adventure, probably involving a passport. Once I set out again, I'll just remember the good of what happened in the chapter before. I forget the angst in making a life changing decision, the profound loneliness of an unknown place, the rage at life's injustices, and the bitter taste of the inevitable. After they pass, why bother with them? Do they make the sweet times any less satisfying? Does anguish make a memory more real than joy? I don't think so. And even if they did, there's still something to laugh about, just up ahead.
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