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I could start this story off with, “Dear Diary.” Only that would be too effeminate.

Or I could try, “Dear Journal,” but I don’t think the journal and I are that close yet. Maybe with some time and patience our relationship will blossom… but not just yet.

Instead let me simply explain that I am not writing this for fun. I’m writing this because I have to.

Nobody’s holding a gun to my head telling me to, but they might as well be. 

The thing is, it’s a lot easier to say something than it is to actually do it. Ask any alcoholic. Countless drunks will boldfaced lie to you and tell you that they’re quitting drinking. That they’ve fought off all their demons.  Bullshit.

It’s a lot easier to say it than to do it, because people in general are weak-willed. Whenever they want to those demons can put them in a headlock and apply some pressure just for fun. On Friday night at the bar with all their friends. On Sunday evening when the home team is kicking off. Whenever they see anybody else with a drink.

Maybe I’ll be able to hold myself to these written words better than any spoken ones. So let this be a testament to the fact that I am trying. I really am.

I want to grow up.

Now I know if you read this you’re going to be wondering how much of this is real and how much of this is lies.  Don’t worry about that.   Every story is a little bit of both. You should know that by now.
Every encyclopedia article, every A&E biography, every heart-felt monologue is a little bit of fiction as well. Stories stretched just a little larger than they actually happened. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s natural. Everybody does it. You have to make the story interesting. If it’s not interesting people will stop reading, stop listening, stop caring. 

And likewise, every piece of fiction you’ve ever read, every detective novel, every stupid play you read in high school probably had at least a little bit of truth behind it. 

They always say write what you know. So there is a tendency to borrow experiences from your own life when you’re writing. And there is, of course, a tendency to base characters on people close to you. They’re more real. They’re easier to write. The author already knows them, knows their background, and knows how they would respond.

This story is no different. Some stories are embellished. Some stories may be entirely made up. Who gives a fuck? The characters are real. Some are thinly disguised. Some I haven’t even changed the name to protect the guilty. You know who you are. You’ll recognize these adventures. You may have been part of the chaos.

Like every good story it’s hard to know where to start. Many would opt for going back to the beginning. The problem with this is there is no beginning. At least no distinguishable beginning. Every story has a back story, and I would be hard pressed to try to place these events on time line. 
Plus, when I go way back I have a tendency to get ahead of myself. I tend to jump to more interesting points that I like better. Then from there I might hop back far in the past to something it reminded me of. From there, who knows where I’ll go? But in the midst of all this hopping, skipping, and jumping I usually leave out a lot more story than I mean to.

So let’s try something different.  Let’s just jump straight in.

Fuck starting at the beginning. We’ll get to that later.

Fuck starting at the end. It isn’t even over yet. That’s what this is, I’m hoping. That’s what I’m working on right now. Hopefully this will be the end. But if it’s not, how am I supposed to tell the story, damnit?

Let’s just hop in somewhere in the middle.

Right in the thick of it.

Like they say, right up the middle is where all the action is. 

Image via Wikipedia