My parents are on a timer, and they’ve both led amazing lives…especially my mom. This week she’s in the hospital and it kind of struck me that, while she’s pretty damn indestructible, she isn’t immortal.

It’s time to get those stories of theirs down, to capture them and archive them, so they’re not lost in the rain.

Riding white water through tunnels in a mountain.

Standing on the beach, watching the cloud rise as the Bikini Atoll was incinerated by a Hydrogen Bomb.

So, a guy walks into a bar and says to the bartender,

“The Universe wants a drink.”

The bartender looks at the man for a moment and asks,

“Okay. What does the Universe want?”

The man leans forward,

“You already know.”

I need a douche hat…and a shitty car with a soup-can muffler.

While you’re giving me gifts, why not some mid ’90’s economy sedan with plenty of space under the hood for superchargers, turbos, cold air intakes and enough trunk space to stuff a few bass cannons so I might make my brain hemorrhage.

Occasionally you need to drop the bomb; go with the nuclear option in order to scorch your landscape clear and let a new environment take hold.

The Diluvian Mountains were a bitter set of black and grey teeth jutting from a flood plain that was sparsely populated. Steep, tall, prone to releasing torrents of glacial flood waters at a whim, not many cities had seen a desire to set roots close by, so there were few who called the place home. The residents who did were seasonal farmers and hunters who would risk the plains during warm weather, growing fast, high-yield crops they could harvest quickly for market then return to the higher valleys to wait out winters, hunting, until the next cycle began.

I'm going to follow the lead of a friend and revive this thing, with a general purpose of some generalized stress relief. No, I won't go into a load of detail. The points aren't too important. What is important is the pain-making fact that those points are many; like...