I pay any outstanding bills as soon as I get paid. I am never late.

I clean my apartment frequently. I keep a tight ship.

I shower daily. Cleanliness is next to godliness.

I work out five days a week. Keep your body lean, mean, and strong.

I eat healthy. Keep your blood clean.

I have excellent credit. I ignored the advice of my elders and never got a credit card figuring that as long as I did nothing to ruin my credit, it would always remain not bad. 

But I am still immature and one fact proves this: I want to wear a devil's lock again. I hate my job and to deal with it lately, I've been listening to Black Flag, Minor Threat, and the Misfits. Sure, others fit their way in between, but these shining three, this trifecta of punk rock and status quo rebellion, reminds me of when I was 18 and not just wanted to, but had to lash out against anything within arm's reach and beyond. Granted, much of that time was spent drunk, urinating in public, and escaping arrest more than a handful of times with a silver tongue, but even without the alcohol fumes igniting my courage, I still raged and thrashed. 

I had just gotten kicked out of high school for writing a poorly written newsletter that was us vs. them in its message. Goddamn that thing was poorly written. No paragraph structure, enough passive sentences to fail seventh grade English, and just all around bad. But as it is, the medium is the message, and the medium had cut throats. In fact, as the administration told me while they were alleviating me of my high school duties, it had cut throats in every middle school and high school in the tri-county area. That's success whether you're 18 or 80. 

But the times are a changin'. I'm becoming an old man. I'm 25 and three quarters. At 10:30am on any given weekday, I'm behind a desk, pumping away at work that should be completed by either a squad of chimpanzees or a few middle school students. The work doesn't match my job description and even though I told my boss that this work "makes me want to blow my brains out before I turn into a zombie," she says it is all she has for us for the time-being. If that doesn't cancel out job security, I don't know what does. 

As has been pointed out numerous times in the past by men wise and not wise, you lose your piss and vinegar as you get older. You don't want to rebel when you're forty. You don't want to question things when you're fifty. But when you're 25, you're still close enough to 18 to remember the taste of blood of when you cut throats because you had to and the harder your currently and seemingly inevitable circumstances push you into a shell you don't want to live in, the more you want to transform into that young adult, or old child, who fell asleep underneath the heads of his victims hanging on the wall. 

And that's why I want a devil's lock. For those not in the know, I will only say that the Misfits wore this hairstyle. At least the original Misfits with Glenn Danzig did. I don't know what the band looks like in 2008, but the devil's lock is a hairstyle that will make sure you don't get the job.  

I wore one for a short time when I was 18 and one night when I went to a gas station with a friend to pick up some beer, I walked out before him. The clerk didn't know we were together and she told him, "Goddamn. I've seen some fucked up shit in my lifetime, but I ain't never seen a hairstyle like that." 

And that's what I want. That's what I need. No matter how strong you feel inside or once were inside, if you're around enough squares, enough herbs, enough lame people, enough people who are content and don't strive to always be better, the environment and the people that create that environment will weaken you. Think Plato's cave allegory here. I'm trying to get out of the cave and I'm wise enough to know I shouldn't go back in to save them. If they can't save themselves, nobody will and I need to carry my shield: the devil's lock.

You know why I don't run discussions regarding dinosaur anatomy or time travel? Or why I don't engage in debates regarding China's foreign policy? Because I don't shit about any of it. I don't think people should hold an opinion in any subject until they have done a significant amount of investigation. Otherwise, they are going to make themselves look like fools. And rightfully so. I firmly believe that if someone is running their mouth and trying to put others down without having even a basic understanding of a subject, they should be put shut down. 

Why is it that the laziest, most loud-mouthed people are always the quickest ones to come up with the least thought-out and loudest opinions? Why do the people who haven't read any books, on any subject, are the quickest to form an opinion on something they know nothing about? The people who think the least, speak the most (which does not necessitate that people who are quiet are wise/knowledgeable or that because someone has a loud mouth that they are stupid. A basic understanding of logic and fallacies will show that). 

Recently, someone offered me very wise words upon being told that I am a vegetarian by a third person. She stated, and I quote, "That's stupid." Ignoring the immediate urge of slamming her face first into the hibachi grill less than a yard away from us, I asked her why. 

Ignoring all medical studies, data, and statistics, she informed me that not only is this diet very unhealthy, but I can't get any protein because I don't eat meat. This is coming from some dyke that spends all of her time delivering pizzas stoned. 

I had to defend myself. Instead of being a vegetarian and a meat eater sitting side by side accepting each other's life choices, she had to step out of line. I asked her, "Are you just making this shit up? Can you cite any sources? At this point, I'd accept Sesame Street as a source for your data. Have you even studied this before or do your audio tapes of Larry the Cable Guy stabilize and solidify your beliefs? A vegetarian diet is actually much healthier than a meat-based one and there are numerous non-meat-based protein sources." 

"Well, humans were meant to eat meat." 

This is idiotic in itself. It begs the question, "Who meant for us to eat meat?" I don't know if she meant that we were meant to eat meat in some sort of theological or biblical sense, or if our bodies were physiologically designed to require a meat-based diet. Either way, she's giving me easy targets to shoot down. 

"Actually, there's a lot of evidence to suggest that our bodies are not designed to eat meat. This becomes apparent when you compare our bodies to other herbivores and carnivores in the animal kingdom paying special attention to jaw shape, the intestine length, the fact that we lack 19 physiological characteristics to digest meat that other animals have, and the fact that we're the only animal that has to heat our meat before we eat it." 

I think she replied with something impressive like, "Well, whatever." 

Luckily, she did not bring God into this like people have in the past.  

"God made us to eat meat." As though God has a grudge against animals. 

"God intended for us to eat meat." As though we have to. 

It should also be mentioned that I don't believe in God so bringing up a deity whose existence cannot even be proven and whose religion I do not accept doesn't hold any weight.  

She also made mention that it is unnatural for humans to not eat meat. Unfortunately my wit kicked in twenty minutes too late as I should've responded, "It is then also unnatural for humans to be lesbians," of which she is one, "but really, what do we mean when we say 'natural for humans' anyway? I think most people still accept you for your choice and don't even think you're that 'unnatural' for being attracted to the same gender. It's 2008; being a vegetarian or being a lesbian aren't really big deals." 

By the end of this she was silent while I remained fueled. She wasn't being inquisitive; she was attacking something that I believe in. Wanting more out of her, I said, "Is that it? Please, throw out some more intelligent quips and statistics and facts you create to support your viewpoint. Tell me anything you can because I will fucking ruin you. There isn't an argument I haven't heard. Believe me, I've done my research." 

A bit extreme maybe, but I find it pretty irritating when people try to lay waste on me without knowing what they're talking about. Especially when they don't have anything to back it up with so they resort to making stuff up. Oftentimes, we question and go so far as to put down the cultures and beliefs outsides of our own that we never question our own. We "find" our religion because it is the one we were born into, the one that knocked on our door, or the one that already suited our beliefs beforehand, not necessarily because there appears to be more truth to one than the other.  

"My parents are Christian so I am Christian." 

"My parents eat meat so I eat meat." 

"My father beat me so I beat my child." 

Good luck with life, kid. Good luck sorting out human nature from familial and cultural inheritance. Good luck finding the golden needle in the pile of bullshit in the pile of horseshit. Good luck making something of yourself.

Most people live for nothing but their own fear of death. It's their own fear of death that keeps in the corner everyday. They're still not doing anything to prolong it. They've only turned their corner into a pantry with McDonald's bags, Nickelback albums, Christmas cards, hoping that if they blend in Death himself may not notice them. They may be hoping to be saved, but Christ isn't coming back. In the meantime, their happiness is dependent on television results: the winner of American Idol or the Superbowl.  

They even look like idiots on the street. I try not to be judgmental, but what the hell. Look what they're giving me to work with: I recently encountered one of the most confusing male figures (I abstain from using the word man here) I have met in a long time. Driving down the road, I change lanes and pass a Crown Victoria. I do so politely while obeying all traffic laws and regulations. As I pass him, we approach a red light and he lowers his driver side tinted window. His car is the vehicular aspect of his intimidating attempt towards strangers. A Crown Victoria is a car that when driven by someone under sixty is usually done so to appear intimidating, married with dice hanging from the rear view mirror and the fact that out of the corner of my eye, I can see him turn his head to stare at me. He looks away just as I am turning to look at him. He sees this and to make sure he isn't out-intimidated, looks back at me a second time. I continued staring and he turned to look forward again. And then something confusing sets in. He's blasting Queen. Even his car's speakers are confused. Dealing with the facts presented to me, I can only conclude that he is the most homosexual wanna-be gangster I have ever encountered, but I'm open-minded; I can accept that. 

At my day job, which becomes harder to bear the closer I get to leaving and going full time at the shop, I have been working on a list of deceased patients daily. There are thousands of them. A hundred to a hundred and fifty ones drop off the active list everyday, thousands of families left to make funeral arrangements and argue over inheritance sums. Thousands of corpses make up this dusty list that hasn't been worked in months. Each account reminds me of the inevitability and closeness of death. Each account begs me to leave this place, do something. It doesn't have to be anything grand. It could be a bike ride, so long as I'm enjoying the ride. I'm not in search of an Epicurean lifestyle; I'm in search of purpose and a life indulged in one. Supposedly, that's what defines Generation Y. Whatever. 

Most of the people in the buildings that comprise my company would never trip on the idea of exterior purpose. They have allocated 100% of their drive and meaning to this eight hour slice of day. When systems collapse here, the managers and administrators follow suit. They lives are the verge of devastation. When the ordinary, low-paid reps here do not make their quota or earn incentive, they feel useless, become discarded, road-side tires. They have given up. Just as America has traded freedom for the illusion of security, so have they traded their dreams for the illusion of security. 

There are a few of us here who this fear does not apply to. For us, the statement "failure is not an option" does not apply. For us, failure is not something to be concerned with. If they tell me I failed, I will tell them I never cared in the first place. If they tell me I could have done better, I will emphasize that I hadn't even tried for a mediocre accomplishment. My heart isn't in it. When I speak to someone who got a low grade on their performance evaluation or didn't earn incentive and doesn't care and laughs it off, I feel renewed, overjoyed, refreshed, energized. Congratulations; you have overcome what is irrelevant. 

If your goal is to become the manager of Accounts Receivable, by all means, go for it. "Follow your heart" and manage those accounts. Bring in some revenue. I can't argue with your passion, no matter how useless I believe it is. My disagreement is with being a middle man in life. You're not on top; you're not on bottom, you're just somewhere in the middle, in the eye of the storm, doing no good, just coexisting under the radar. You cause no damage yet you build nothing. Another gear in the process. Interchangeable would be a compliment; useless would be appropriate. 

Wrongly, many people believe that I am against a lifestyle involved in business. That is not true. I am against a lifestyle where a person is not in control of their own fate, or more specifically, a lifestyle where a person hands over their fate to their superior in return for a paycheck and it is this lifestyle that is most often seen in the business world. I urge everyone not to do this. Keep your happiness, keep your dignity. Be in charge of yourself and during those seemingly inevitable times when someone else is in charge of your life, make sure it's temporary, try not to care, and remember the meaning you have applied to another, more important area of your life. 

Usually, when I leave my apartment to go to my second job, my female roommate who just moved out would be on the couch arguing over who has the toughest job with my other roommate.  They are cranky because one just woke up from a nap while the other is tired and about to nap. After seeing pictures of my male roommate's job, I can say, "Yes, this definitely requires some significant amount of training and certification." It looks impressive and he can begin conversations in front of attractive women by saying, "You'll never guess what happened in surgery today. We were performing a triple dichotomy bypass overflow and…" The other roommate's job however required the strength to lift paper and the bravado to make eye contact. If she had been right that her job was hard, then she would deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor for that time she did the dishes. 

And then I visualize it. My own line of motivational posters. That garbage is so easy to come up with. Read three of them and you'll get the flow of things. I see a picture of a runner handing off that metal tube stick to another runner on a track during a relay race. Or maybe an intense rushing, gushing photo of a white water rafter reaching out to save another rafter currently holding onto his capsized raft for dear life: It's more than a competition. It's dedication. My own ambitious capabilities are being visualized, no matter how farfetched or insane. Ad campaigns. Live ad campaigns. Dress as a slaughtered cow. Decapitated, over twenty gallons of fake blood poured over my cavernous neck and down my body, onto the ground. An axe where there should be my head. I am holding a sign that says, "Stop into Wendy's today for a delicious Jr. Cheeseburger!" More dead cows sprawled across the sidewalk and adjacent properties. Let's be honest with ourselves here. We won't tell you to stop eating it; we will just point out what you are eating. Your kids will know too. Meanwhile, self-proclaimed philomaths who need to use shirts to discover wit will laugh at us: "Meat is murder. Tasty tasty murder!" But we won't need to study shirts for our own opinions. All this motivational garbage that infests our companies' walls, our MySpace profiles, and little books of quotations is useless, superfluous, and futile. It just sounds good. It's sugar cookies. Motivational posters are nothing but sugar cookies. You can fill yourself up on it but it won't get you anywhere. 

Less than a week before last Christmas, I drove down the road, looking at all the Christmas decorations the city had put up on light poles and other sky reaching concrete and metal erections. I wanted to appreciate it, but I couldn't. I didn't have the time. The decorations are a nostalgic reach towards the past, into my childhood, a memory I'd love to delve into and drink whiskey out of a clean glass on my back porch and talk with friends in eye's reach of. But I didn't have time and I still don't. Instead, I drove down the road and took in what I could. I felt like I was driving past St. Nick himself, yelling out the car window, "Sorry, old friend. No time to talk. Maybe next year!" 

I hate being unproductive. I am obsessed with productivity, a productivity that will earn me long term results and a lifestyle where I am doing what I like and making money for it. For some people, that might be the equivalent of being paid to be a drunk, a dollar a beer, or, for having your own train set. Currency for every time the locomotive passes underneath a tunnel, built by a man in his late forties in his basement that he tends to every night after dinner with a meticulous approach and a heartwarming touch to every plastic tree and miniature building placed down. An activity that a person enjoys in-itself, this is what should be the heart of each person's ambition.  

Over the past year and a half, my schedule has given a lot of people the wrong impression. Potential and past loves, but also some friends I've had for years and as long as I have lived in Florida. "The old group is breaking up," Mike tells the old group like the sky is falling and it's too late, we're all destined to be crushed underneath shards of blue sky. I try to explain to him and those around us that my part in this dissolving of the group is due to external matters, seventy plus hours a week – not a packing up and moving out of the friendship. These friends still mean the same to me, but I have to get things on track and keep them there. I think they sometimes understand, but they're still put off. What more can I do? I don't know. After you put your effort in, all you can do is hope. 

On January 1, I began charging for tattoos. No more free tattoos for friends, and friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends, who have heard about this great offer and must now exploit the artist at all costs, or rather, no cost and no tip. I have tattooed some people three, four, or five times and they haven't tipped me once. Some of these people offered great company and conversation and I was happy to tattoo them with no charge and no tip. Plus a lot of them gave me fun stuff to tattoo. Other people I have only tattooed once or twice, never tipped, and the only reason I am upset is because I had to deal with their boring and agitating company for hours at a time. They should be tipping me having to put up with them, not for tattooing them.  

I am only charging fifty dollars and one hundred dollars based on the size and complexity of the tattoo. The shop minimum is eighty dollars. Yes, even for a freckle. I imagine the people who have been taking advantage of my apprenticeship will move on to the other artists figuring that if they're going to have to pay, they may as well go to someone who has been doing it for years. And this probably means no more Insane Clown Posse tattoos. The tattoos are definitely getting better. I am proud of them as apprentice tattoos, though I can still point out ten flaws in each one and the other artists in the shop can probably pick out twenty. But the wearer is happy and typically does not have the scrutinizing eye that demands perfection in every line, every curve, anything the needle touches. It is the next step towards leaving my khakis in the closet for the moths and wearing sneakers everyday.  

And then I can loosen up a bit, reorganize my priorities. Try to resettle old friendships, restore them like old, unattended houses dilapidating and crumbling each day like old people living alone whose children have forgotten them amongst careers and intercourse. Trying to find themselves, they forget the important ones around them, and I am guilty of this myself.

Thinking about the people around me I can only conclude one basic idea for social interaction: You're not supposed to be smarter or wiser than the guy next to you. You're not supposed to make better decisions than him. You're not supposed to be happier or more successful than him. You are however expected to have made the same mistakes as him and to keep making them. You're supposed to have the same prejudices, the same superstitions, believe the same myths and deny the same reality. Your failures can only match or exceed his, not be able to hide in the shadow of his. Your misery must cast a larger and more impressive shadow and the flowerbed of your ignorance and weakness must be watered by your tears of inescapable sorrow. It's pathetic what we expect from each other and not even realize. Being a little more successful than him will anger him and he'll try pull you from the ladder armed with rhetoric and envy. That's why long-term involves not only the apathy regarding success, but the ability to shake people off your leg and swat them off your back.

I have a dream of what it will feel like when I finally leave the hazy smog-like atmosphere of the uncomfortable corporate world and paradigm and move my life into one surrounded by art at the tattoo shop. It's much like moving out of LA. I imagine that when the day finally comes when I walk into the shop, the balloons will fall, the dancers will come out kicking, and the horses will line up with equestrians on them proudly blowing their horns while riflemen shoot imaginary targets in the sky. And from the back of the shop, where an Hollywood-grade fog machine has been pumping some smoky like cancer-causing gas into the air for hours in preparation for my arrival, Mike will walk out and greet me with a large certificate congratulating me on graduation from apprentice to full fledged tattoo artist.  

"Congratulations, you no longer have to scrub everyone's tubes every night, sterilize the shop from top to bottom every night, and be the brunt of humiliating jokes. You no longer need your stuffy day job. Come; join us, be us, we invite you to be a part of the elite movement taking place in America where people are actually doing something they enjoy for a living." 

Unlike a giddy American Idol finalist months away from a drug bust in my hometown, I will respond like a Southern gentleman, a young farming boy in Southern Georgia just informed that his father died in a plowing accident and he must now take his father's position and work the farm. A serious, strong, and determined face my skin will retain while I nod my head, never breaking eye contact. 

"I'm ready." 

But before I put in my two weeks notice, I will use up all of the paid time off that I cannot turn in for cash. I'm sure requesting two weeks off and cashing in all of my vacation time may raise a few eyebrows and red flags, and may even excite the termination process I fear my current daytime employer is running for various reasons, but so be it, when you're dealing with a company, a group of people, barely human, who suck you dry then spit you back into the unemployment line after years of dedicated service, I grow inspired by the words of fictional pirate Jack Sparrow: Take what you can. Give nothing back. That same quote grazes the cover of tattoo artist Martin LaCasse's book of paintings, sketches, and flash. 

At the time of writing, I have done about 43 tattoos. Tonight that number will become 45. Though at the beginning of my apprenticeship, my drawing skills existed solely in my mind and could not be transferred to any real, tangible, physical realm, I had hoped that perhaps I would become some art prodigy who needed only the right master to harvest and cultivate his artistic skills. I knew the mindset I take when drawing. I knew I had to shut off the analytical side and just start moving. Lo and behold, I have been told recently that my tattooing progress is right where I should be, and it's an honest attribute, one that I am proud of and all of my artwork is approached confidently yet humbly. 

Again, leaving here will be flying out of LA on the back of Falkor the Luck Dragon to someplace story writers couldn't even conceive. Everything in here is infused with a confusion fume that muddles our conversations, distorts them, filters them, and distills them until we are left with nothing but evening time television; dare not discuss religion and politics lest you offend someone for disagreeing. The dress code only confirms our poor taste in anything, amplifies it with khakis and a polo shirt, blending-in attire. This is not what I wear, but what I have been putting on for the past nearly six and a half years is barely any more impressive: I might look like an herb, but I refuse to talk or act like one. 

Up to this point, the extent of 90% of my conversations with people involves them cutting me off mid-sentence, blurting out, "Yeah, I know! How dare you tell me something I already know!" The extent of my wisdom is limited to knowing that the strength of the wind is directly proportionate to the importance of my cell phone call. But the tattoo shop, a place with tall windows that welcomes the warming sunlight, a sunlight that gives a natural radiance to the hundreds of faces of new people I will meet each year, and for each one, a new life story, some boring and filled with couches, others invigorating and filled with war and vehement passions. I can wear t-shirts and jeans every day. I can listen to music all day long. My life will be filled with the artistic pleasures of drawing, painting, tattooing, and writing. Each day will be devoted to climbing to the next rung on the ladder while enjoying fresh, crisp air (Ok, so that is farfetched. The air in Florida is miserable and humid), brilliant sunlight, and the freedom of wrapping my body in clothes from the middle pile, which is also known as the not-fresh-but-still-clean-enough-to-wear-pile, but regardless, a pile that still represents my choice and my freedom. 

I am a firm believer and advocate of the "stop bitching and do something about it" approach to life; however, let's be realistic, sometimes the change can't be made overnight. If you hate your job at Dollar General, Proctor & Gamble won't hire you into their executive position because you're tired of your manager's shit. They'd probably want you to spend some time in school first. So in the meantime, while you're in school, or whatever process you're taking to fulfill your deepest desires, I think you should be allowed to complain until your heart's content, hence, the foundation of all of my writing.  

I am so close I can taste it. I can smell the sea salt on my drive to the beach.

Allow me one cliché: The world is filled with two types of people: those who admit their regrets and those who pretend they have no regrets. Usually, the people who claim to have no regrets call them "life lessons" instead. The only way to get over them isn't to deny them as regrets and call them something else, it's to accept the past as something that happened, deal with it, and move on. It starts with accepting responsibility for your actions, but it's not always easy to move on when the other person involved in your regret is dead because of you. 

Wild Bill stands well over six feet tall. Maybe six four. Stocky. He works in the Public Works department for the city. He comes into the shop on average about once a week and always with a case of canned Busch. He's the only guy we let into the shop with a case of beer and each time he walks in, he walks straight to the back and puts the case in the fridge. By the time he's gone, there's usually about seven or eight cans of Busch in the various garbages throughout the shop. That doesn't mean he only drank seven or eight cans of Busch. That only means that he threw away seven or eight cans in the shop. That doesn't include what he drank before he came and what he's got in his hand when he's walking out the door. 

I've told him a few times that he really knows how to live life. He leads a simple, non-confrontational life that never starts shit and never takes shit - and, word has it that his house is often abound with topless women. He wears traditional biker gear and gets tattooed regularly. He's an open, understanding, down-to-earth guy and I just realized I may have just written his personal ad, but I insist it wasn't my intention. He does his thing and he never seems to interfere with anyone else. A patch on his vest reads "I don't fucking wave." 

Recently, Wild Bill dropped off at the shop, along with a bag of alligator heads and various Florida native animal bones, a letter he found at the Veterans' Memorial Wall. The letter was written by a Vietnam Vet for his sergeant who died in the war because of his hesitation in action. The veteran of a 33 day stint in Vietnam hesitated, his sergeant died as a result, and regret has haunted this man for 39 years. The letter is an honest attempt at dispelling and curing his guilt, but dead men don't read and we're left to wonder what final effect the letter ends up having. Does the sergeant's spirit read the letter? Pretty unlikely. Does the veteran walk home and leave some of his guilt behind? Maybe, but I do believe the letter held a therapeutic effect. 

The letter serves as a biting example of the consequences of what hesitating in action can do and the resulting regret we can carry with us for the remainder of our lives. You can either act or hesitate, but if you hesitate, you're letting inaction decide your fate for you. 

The unedited letter reads: 

Hatch, 

      Hey Sarge! I've been writing this in my mind for 39 years now. I thought it was about time to put it on paper now. I wanted to write it earlier and place it at the "Wall" in D.C. but that didn't happen. It wouldn't have worked out anyway Sarge. I never knew your name. I always thought your name was Hatcher but there was no Hatcher on the "Wall" so I guess "Hatch" was your nickname or something. I guess the name isn't so important anyway. You know who I am and my knowing you as "Hatch", Sergeant, or Sarge is all that matters.

      Veteran's Day is here now and by writing this at this time I'll place it at our Vietnam Memorial here in Port St. Lucie, Fl.

      I don't remember much about my short stay in the Nam. (I never really new very much, as a matter of fact). Only that I somehow ended up at Bastogne for a brief stay of a couple of weeks and then I found myself with another bunch of grunts in A Shua, beating the bush for Charlie. Where I was and what I was doing really has no bearing on this letter though, Sarge. What I did after your fall couldn't possibly make up for my freezing that first night at that ass hole of a firebase: My first time under fire. I, as you know, had only trooped in that afternoon, and I didn't even have fatigues, let alone any other gear.

      Hell Hatch, I was a Helicopter Repairman. I'd never even fired a 16 at that time. I was the N.F.G. without a home.

      When those first mortar rounds hit the compound, it was complete pandemonium. Everyone was running in every direction; some guys with a full load other in their drawers. I ran out of the hooch and froze. I had no idea where to go and had no gear to do anything with. I just dropped and started digging in with my bare hands. I was terrified Hatch. The noise was incredible. Out of the side of my eye, a figure appeared about 25 meters out. Through the smoke I recognized that figure as you, Hatch, having known you as 1^st Platoon Sgt. In Basic at Ft. Polk. I only knew you as Hatch, as I was in 2^nd Platoon. You must have known I had arrived by recognizing my name or something. I watched you and you were signaling me to join on you. You were shouting but I couldn't hear you and I was too scared to move anyway. I can never forgive myself for that, Hatch. Because my fear and failure to move resulted in your death. You were obviously pissed at me and at Charlie cause you were shouting wildly and firing in every direction when in a flash and a karump, you were gone. If I had joined on you, we could have made it to safety. I didn't though, did I Hatch. Now you're gone and I'm still here. Here trying to lead a normal life. I didn't realize what I had caused, at first. When I did awaken to the fact that I was responsible for your death, I determined myself to make amends for it. (As if anything I could possibly do would bring you back). Such was my reasoning at the time though Sarge.

      I was choppered out of that hell hole, after a couple of weeks, and into another in the A Shua. I learned more every day, after that first night Sarge. I tried making it up to you Sarge, but nothing worked. I've never been scared since though Hatch.

      My tour in Nam was cut short by my wife. She got me out on a Dependency Discharge, just a few weeks after you bought it. I fought to stay my tour but it was useless.

      I was taken to some fall bird who was the A.G. and was he pissed. He let fire with more abuse and humiliation that I was sure it was brig time for me for some reason. He even threatened to have me shot for cowardice. I kept trying to get a word in to find out what I had done but he just seemed to get madder. Eventually, he chilled and let me know I was being discharged for dependency reasons. I was able to let him know that I knew nothing about it and that I wanted to refuse it and finish my tour. (Crazy huh!!!) He told me that my time in Nam would never show anywhere. He was right Hatch.

      I was sent back to Ft. Eustis, Va., my last duty station before Nam and discharged. After many attempts to get info, there's no record of my brief 33 days in Vietnam. I can't imagine anyone having that kind of power. He obviously had connections. Well, that's neither here nor there, Hatch. I really don't have a shit. Never did, really. I found there was no way of making things right with you and that really was and still is all that's important to me.

      Hatch,  Sergeant, Sarge, that's all I knew you by. You at least knew my name and cared enough to give your life for me. I'm so, so, very sorry I didn't, or couldn't respond to you that night 39 years ago Sarge. I guess I was a coward that night. Scared sh^^less and frozen to the ground. It's never happened again Hatch; not there or here stateside.

      I've prayed a thousand times for forgiveness, Hatch. I don't know if I've been forgiven by you or by God, Sarge, but I do know that I can never forgive myself. I'll go to my grave as the unforgiven. And that's as it should be.

      By the way Hatch: thanks for trying. Thanks for caring enough to sacrifice yourself for me, my Brother-In-Arms. My God grant you peace.

      You were the bravest Sarge. The 1^st I.D. would be proud of you for living up to the oath, Sarge.

      "No mission too difficult. No sacrifice too great. Duty first." 

      See ya Sarge…By any chance, did you know you're my hero? and I love you… 

                              Ed

As soon as the time becomes available, within the next two or three days, I plan on sending the entire original letter to an historical archive located in Washington, D.C

This is fiction!

I laid on the couch and read my book while the girls talked. I rested my head on the arm of the couch. My girl sat on the other side of the couch with her legs crossed and turned towards her friend. Her friend sat in the La-Z-Boy recliner my roommate got a friend who was going to dump it. They did their thing. I did mine. We all got along fine.  

"Oh, you know Franklin got some other girl pregnant while he was with Sherry, but he never told her." 

"I thought that was Sherry's kid." 

"Oh, no, Sherry got pregnant while she was with Franklin by some other guy right after she found he was cheating on her. She didn't try to get pregnant, but after she found out he got some other girl pregnant, she went out and starting parting her sea for any Moses willing to raise his arms to the sky." 

"That slut." 

"Her and half the men in this town were screaming Jesus." 

"Fucking slut." 

Soon enough though, their stories became more personal and as the host of this event, I had no choice but to lay there as they discussed it all. The stories were interesting, but not interesting enough for me to join in. I'd make a terrible talk show host. I'd lose interest in most of the people's gossip and life stories and walk away during production. But I didn't mind. Let them discuss what they will discuss. But when my own girl started reminiscing on stories of her youthful love experiences, of drunken men wooing her, forcing themselves upon her, trying to kiss her, date her, dry hump her, and so on, man after man, woo after woo, serenade after serenade, I can only wish for two cotton swabs, with the cotton swabs removed to puncture my ear drums. 

I stared at my book now, stared at the words, the sentences, the paragraphs. They were no longer words, but ink collected on the page, as all of my focus was on her stories that I didn't even want to hear let alone listen to.  

I tried to interrupt. 

"Hey, did you guys hear about the killer who murdered over twenty women in Upstate New York and buried their bodies in shallow graves only to go back and unbury them three months later? He only did it because he wanted to pick out the worms that would inevitably feast upon their bodies and eat them. The worms love estrogen, investigators say, and that man became addicted to those estrogen-indulged worms after being a POW in Vietnam for three years and he had to eat the freshly dead bodies of murdered Vietnamese civilian women. By the time he made it back to America, he couldn't stomach hot dogs and hamburgers. He had to go for the wormy cadavers." 

That wasn't even true. I made it up. But I wanted to turn their attention to something shocking, revolting, American, something that would reverse the direction of their blood flow.  

"No way. That's crazy." 

"Yeah, apparently, the best tasting worms are in the brains. That's where the glucose is. Makes 'em taste sweeter. That's why he'd slit their throats so as to not taint the feast for his worms." 

"No way." 

They were mildly interested. I could only turn the gaze of their heads for a moment, but they were still on the same track they were on before, like a car passing by and staring at protestors on the sidewalk, and then continuing on down the road. Even a serial killer couldn't kill their gossip. They did think it was crazy, but Franklin getting Sherry pregnant after all their cheating pregnancies was even crazier.

Moving some place because of the weather is about as stupid as moving some place because of the department stores. Most people move to Florida for the weather, which is nothing more than an angry sun and his extreme heat teamed up with his greatest ally, humidity. Together, they pack a scornful, miserable team that make the state an overall shitty place to live (in addition the education system, state government, and majority of residents). However, there are so many other ignored criteria that should be considered mandatory when choosing your permanent and oftentimes, final address.

It is common for a man or woman to descend slowly upon retirement age and think about those final years on Earth, reflect on the what-ifs, and after 65 years of taking shit at a job they probably never liked, decide that the best thing to do for those final years of bodily degradation is to live in a place that seems quaint, without a too frenzied atmosphere, and is unlikely to be conducive to cold drafts.

If you're thinking I'm going to criticize that, I'm not. I don't really have an opinion on that. "Retiring to Florida? Ok, fine."

Few things are as depressing as the elderly and the elderly make up a great portion of the people in Florida, (in)famously. They are everywhere I go. They are a constant reminder that of the inevitable destination of white hair, wrinkly skin, confusion, and slowness. The fragility, frailty, and instability that resonates from their soft voices is a depressing indication of their aging and increasing weakness. Confusion is constantly abound, a cloud that cannot be walked out of, not even with the quickest Hoveround. Even their shaky, wobbly walk is the personified equivalent of a building in an earthquake.

Broaden your horizons and consider the family around this person. Their children must now care for the person who once cared for them. Love is powerful, yes, but so is changing the diaper and wiping the ass of an elderly person. The old become burdens to the immediate people around them who care enough to let them become burdens, if they are lucky enough to become burdens to others, or have the money to become another person's burden.

I come to my senses, eventually, after some short consideration and a short bout of feeling bad for their inevitable weakness. I tell myself we all reach that point, that one day I'll be asleep in my Hoveround, my head resting on my left shoulder, dripping with saliva leaked from my mouth,  as I wheel circles around a parking lot blocking traffic. Though I feel sympathy for their weakness, I know they were once young and vital. And just like I am now young and vital, I will one day be weak (or I'll just skip straight to death).

I tell myself not to feel bad; these people had their opportunities to make a great life for themselves. Perhaps their circumstances were a little bit better or a little bit worse, but those of us born with fully functioning bodies and sound minds have no excuses for boring lives and wasted times. Ultimately, we can only blame ourselves for the fear that holds us back. They were once at my point in life, with the ability to go face-to-face with an army after a night of minimal sleep and with little food in their bellies. I know I'm saying something obvious and something you already know, but it needs mentioning: their life choices shaped what they are now. Instead of feeling bad for them, which obviously does nothing for them or me, I think it is best to learn a lesson from them and that is to live a wise life now, empty of negativity and packed with righteous living.

Am I just trying to convince you to quit your job, live in a commune, and grow your own fruit? Start a rock band and make millions? Tell your boss to shove it and figure out a plan after? Am I telling you to burn what you hate now and indulge in your passions? Kind of. I'm seeing many people's lives like I'm afraid mine almost ended up as – work a job you hate then die. I don't want others to do that either. I'm 25, on the brink of getting out, and abound with excitement. I took, and am still taking, the steps I have to so I don't slip in between the gaps of living a boring life. I'll be 80 in no time flat and when I'm suffering the confines of Alzheimer's, osteoporosis, and/or cancer, I'd like to be staring out the window reflecting on something that makes me smile.

I know that the majority of the people who are going to read this won't live in a foreign country, but I need to get this off of my chest anyway. I beg to tell the whole world. I'd like to tell the only remaining member of a murdered innocent family in Iraq or Afghanistan. I want to tell every country that protests our President's visit with burning effigies and enflamed American flags. 

"I'm sorry about our President." 

George W. Bush. Antichrist. Enemy of the world's nations. Enemy of the people he vowed to serve, or at least two thirds of us. Most of us didn't ask for him. In fact, most of us tried to keep him out of office. So how did he still become the President of the most powerful nation in the world? We are still baffled ourselves. I read the news everyday. I read news on the right and news on the left and blow off a good portion of it when it seems filled with rhetoric, propaganda, hyperbole, and fails to cite sources.  

"Just the facts, ma'am."  

I hate liberal writing that feels sorry for everyone and doesn't acknowledge that people need to take responsibility for themselves. I hate pointless Democrat attempts at justifying decisions. And the worst of all, I grow increasingly infuriated at Republican rants that accuse anyone of disagreeing with the Bush Administration and refusing to lay down in a blinded obsequious manner of being a terrorist or someone who hates freedom. It is hard to take anyone seriously who only uses Fox News as their primary source for news. 

The people who accuse of others of hating freedom are usually the ones who promote restricting it in the first place while the people who exercise are often labeled terrorists, freedom haters, or other propagandist terms by right wing media. But you know already knew that. 

And so do I. But I am afraid that the rest of the world might think that, for some odd reason (maybe because he was elected twice?) we actually like the guy. Sure, his approval rating is embarrassing low, the lowest any president has ever received, currently at 32%, but he's still here, still charging like a bull through the China shop of politics, vetoing what we need and blowing our taxes on what we don't want to pay for. He's like a child with no parent running rampant through the department store, everyone looks on thinking someone needs to do something about it, but he's still juiced up on sugar and megalomania destroying anything his sticky hands can reach.  

Even I sometimes think there must be some supernatural reason for his existence and placement in office, like some angry God has done this so punish us – "You have been the world's greatest power for too long. I put the only fool in office who could bring down the whole structure faster than a tsunami on a sand castle." 

So, world, if you're listening, I'm sorry about our President. 

And while I'm discussing politics, I'm also sorry about our Congress. We were pretty excited too when the Democrats gained control, and thought they wouldn't lay down in a startlingly submissive doggy style pose either.