Frank and Ernest...

I have new blog posts (and some rehashes of things that have happened in the period when I wasn't really writing) percolating in my mostly gin-fueled brain, O my droogs and only friends, but I feel that in this new and improved (which can't really be, can it? There's no way for something to be both new, AND improved) blog of mine, I should come from a place of greater honesty perhaps.

So here goes:

Jay, my closest friend and my Don Cheadle, is named Jared. He still makes sure I am ok. Jared is also a good 15 years younger than me. My point with this is threefold:  you can't always pick the person that is going to be the friend you really need from your peer group; you won't always understand why the person that is THAT friend is really THAT friend (or what you bring to the friendship that is of any worth); and that age is truly, no shit, just a number.

I have several other friends who make sure, in one way or another, that I am OK. They are, in no preferential order:  Shane, Scott, Tammy, Seebe, Daniel, Michele, Heather, and even Doug.

I say "even Doug" in that way, because I would've never picked him to be a friend of my own accord.  But life is teaching me that the Big Man spinning the Universe puts you in the path of people who you will end up needing, and upon whom, ultimately, you can rely.

My name is Dave. Those of you who bought my book already knew this. No, my last name is not really Sardonic. But I latched onto something funny, and sort of appropriate, and it stuck. I am not sorry, nor do I apologize.

I am a fucking asshole. Let's get that right out of the way right now. Oh yes, I paint myself in a light here where I come across as borderline saint, and perhaps many would agree with that. I am not. I can be cold, heartless, even cruel. I can revel in being cruel. I can love it, enjoy it, and even frolic in it. I hate that about myself. But I will never be rid of it either.

The only things I love more than myself (and I mean only, my beloved non-existent readers. I have thought long and hard about it, and I have come to the conclusion that while I have loved others almost as much as I love myself, the only things on this planet that make me feel my heart as much as it can be felt!) are watching Shrek 3 in the other room and practicing the loading and reloading of Nerf weaponry.

You've met them before, but I want to introduce you to them proper:  their names are Cameron and Ridley. Nos. 1 and 2, respectively.

I hope to continue to bring to this, my blog, however small or insignificant, the same aplomb and sarcasm, the same wit and angst, the same sadness and laughter, that I always have. I see signs already of a big shift in those of you I had come to think of as my stalwart and true non-existent readers. And because I no longer lie to myself, I really don't blame the ones who have left my tiny but important space on the World Wide Web for better climes.

I hope to clear the air as to what has become of me in the last year, year and a half, but I am not even sure that I can, or that it would make any sense. I am not sure that I even fully comprehend what, O my droogs, really HAS become of me, and so trying to sort it out in a blog post seems, at best, futile.

It's a process, a journey. Our companions are not always intended for the entire journey. Some have a specific role to play, and when it's done, they fade away from the storyline. Others, like Scott or Shane or Jared, will span the entire passing of the narrative that is someone's plot, someone's chapter, someone's life.

May you, those hangers on, the TRULY stalwart and true, be as blessed as I have found myself in recent times in your luck with these sorts of friends. May you be that sort of friend back. I am not really sure that I always am.

But I am, as with all things in my life right now, working on it.

Darth Sardonic

I used to write

I used to write here. When I was happy. When I was sad. When I was confused. When I loved. When I hated. When I was angry. When I wanted to die.

What became of me? I'm not really sure. I don't feel like I have changed, and yet I feel so different than who I was before. I feel like the me that was and the me that is are two people, friends, or lovers maybe, who have shared a common history for so long now that they use each other's phrases and cite the same experiences in a language that no one else understands.

I am going to shock any potential non-existent readers who might still lurk here once in awhile right now:  I am happy with who I am. I am a talented, smart, clever, fun, interesting, and yes, even sexy individual with so much to live for. Even now, when my life that is seems to be a fraction of my life that was. I still have the most important things in my life close, and even when they are not close, they are never far from my thoughts.

I have accepted myself, O my droogs and only friends; flawed, disturbed, emotionally damaged, in a word; fucked-up. But me. Imperfect, but fully equipped with the talents and tools necessary to be who I want for all the right reasons.

I need to visit this little bit of my space on the world wide web more often. I need to offer it more of my love and time and effort. I feel I might have healed from the last few years sufficient to begin to pay attention to this sapling I have nurtured and watered and loved, for better or worse, yet again.

I leave you, the old, or maybe new, or maybe truly rather than self-deprecatingly, non-existent readers with this one last thought:  the things that were always completely important to me have been and still are.

Darth Sardonic