Punk

At this point I’m convinced my blog is just a Word doc wearing a beret. I’ve got three and a half friends (Mr. Half, stop pretending), and zero subscribers. So either I’m a pariah or incredibly exclusive — same thing. Folks get one sniff of my vintage-sweater vibe and instantly start planning their escape route. Honestly, good call.

I’m in the garage staining wood, a classy pastime for an unemployed man who’s perfectly content being a house owning hobo. Stain is great: you can slop it on and ninety percent of the time it looks intentional, which matches my aura. Mid‑stroke I hear, 'Hi.' I don’t like people, in fact I hate each and every one of you, so I continue mopping stain like I’m auditioning for the role of ‘doomed piece of lumber.’ She says it again, louder. By the fifth 'Hi' the sound escalates into something that belongs on a battlefield or a reality childbirth special. I am twelve feet and five‑eighths of glorious height — and there’s a tiny human at my ankles. I give her my best 'one more noise and I’ll haunt your dreams' look. She says 'Hi' again and starts up the driveway. Her dad drags her back. He gets the same death‑stare memo. Mission accomplished.

Dad was gentle as a damp sponge; Mom was Matilda the Hun — part drill sergeant, part medieval reenactor. She didn’t just solve problems, she gave a masterclass in problem elimination. Later, fueled by two or three adult beverages, the encore performance would commence. Result: I emerged from childhood emotionally intact — battle‑scarred, slightly singed, and oddly well‑trained in evasive maneuvers.