So, when i was younger, early teens to early 20’s I wrote a lot. I hesitate to call it a journal and certainly not a diary, you know, cause i’m a “man” and men don’t journal or have diaries. That shit’s for sissy’s and girls and we all know that stereotypes must be maintained at all costs. The loss of a self identity which was shaped by environment, society and countless other outside influences, basically everything other than the one enmeshed in said “self identity”, may falter and break away. And we can’t have that; status quo, this shit must be maintained.

So anyway, i always called referred to my journals as musings, i’m not immune to societal pressures asshole. These musing, many times would lead to really great short stories and poems. I had notebooks full of essays, stories, poems and general musings; a box full, the plastic bin type. I had them stored in my parents garage for a bit for safe keeping. I’m sure you can see where this is going. So one day i went to go get my writings and my god did they stink. The shittiest cat in the world, of course it was me who years earlier made my parents get it, had been using the box to piss in. Ruined. All of it ruined. So I threw everything away and it was around that time i stopped writing on a regular basis.

This page is going to nothing but my musings – That was a fucking long story for a really simple point