I've spent the better part of two years now wondering where the hell I went wrong. Stubborn ass that I am, it took me this long to finally suss out the answer: I didn't. I did my best at being a decent man and got my ass handed to me by a person who once described herself as an insensitive jerk. I refuse to bow down and make excuses for someone who didn't have the sense to stick around. Sick of that shit, I am. Angry at the fake heart I adored, I am.
Today I collected some of that deep pool of anger inside me, channeled it and sent it flowing into a piece of fiction I'm writing. Because the muse is the one who angers me, I guess I should thank her for helping create the vitriol, because it's goddamned good writing. Maybe I'll even dedicate it to her. That seems appropriate.
Or maybe I'll dedicate it to the people who deserve it, the ones who put up with my shit for the past couple years, who allowed me to whine and pule and stew in my own bitter bath. They're the real inspiration here. Without them I'd still be neck deep in a river of smack, or worse.
To use the words of one of my heroes (and fellow badass) Gary Bedell: My only mission: To be the best man I can be ... that is all.