“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
— Theodore Roosevelt
Hello
So, thanks for reading. Welcome to the “I’m getting old and I’d better start writing before I die” stage of my life.
I gotta be honest with you, I’ve never been more lost in my life or more unsure of the future as I am right now. And I swear, if there was a local LET’S GET VULNERABLE men’s group, I’d join it if other guys would be honest about their doubts and fears and then I wouldn’t feel like the last man standing in a puddle of my childhood trauma and unrealized dreams. So, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to write. I’m going to tell story after story and maybe you’ll relate as a parent or a lost soul or a child of a fucked up family. I don’t know. I hope you laugh a little and we talk about the truth of all of this existence that seems to have some sort of purpose, but maybe it doesn’t.