I remember when blogging used to be about just writing about whatever bizarre thing was on my mind. It was about telling old stories or thinking about the future or just spilling the beans about whatever pointless happened to me in a given day. I sort of miss that.
I'm glad that I can supplement our family's income by blogging now, and I enjoy very much what I do on my various sites, but sometimes I miss the days when I only had a handful of readers and could write what I wanted with abandon.
Like today. I want to write and curse and shake my fist at life. I want to write GODDAMN MUTHERFUCKER COCKSUCKER SHIT and not worry about who my audience has become and what they might think.
A friend is dying. A friend who took me to my first high school dance. Who kissed me after a football game. Who was a sports hero and a soldier and a husband and son and brother and friend. Who is not yet 40 years old. Who just found the love of his life, who deserves fifty plus years with her, instead of just two. Two. Two years, one spent in and out of the hospital in pain, in psychosis, in grief.