One of my coworkers turned 22 today. Wow, hell, I’m old enough to have a fucking 22 year old as a son or daughter or whatever.

But I don’t.

I just think of the 22 year old me right now, just damn…Nobody cares who I was then, what I went through.

1995.

Why should I bother writing about it?

28 years ago, ancient history. Memories and dust that nobody cares about.

But I remember for that poor bastard that I was. That had been through so much shit and was hanging by a thread. Getting through the next day by sheer cussedness.

He survived and I want to fucking honor that, even if nobody else gives a single solitary shit about his existence.

He survived, when he didn’t always want to. Thank you.

P.S. The image is from shopping after work today. Why not? WordPress keeps asking for a featured image. Life, if anything, is a combination of the mundane and profound.