the year my mother quit smoking

Why don’t politicians sing their debates? People are more proned to learn, mimic, and possibly be dreadfully taunted but the catchiness of music. Most people remember more lyrics than they do movie titles, names of friends, or those scrambled letters of high school textbooks. I think that if political figures used music in debate, Americans would pay closer  to what was being said, and wouldn’t look so damn stupid when their lips start flapping in the wind, spewing opinions, claiming they’re facts. Aside from the fact that it’d be hilarious, the Presidential Address would be anticipated just like the Grammys or the SuperBowl - THAT is an acheivement. Coca-Cola did it, people got hooked on cocaine supplemented soda. Sesame Street did it, the children and parents of that age could repeat every song word for word. Get your bongos, Mr. Obama, you’re losing us.

#politics

My mother never quit smoking. She tried. She adopted limits. She joined the electronic water vapor cigarette craze. I told her to go cold turkey. She told me she’s not a refrigerated sandwich. I should’ve known. Gourmet or go home…thats my family.

My mom has a habit. She let her habit win.

I see myself as a temprary immigrant. I only want to stay in one area long enough to see everything - and if I got my way, I’d have to live forever. I like mountains, foilage and wildlife. I like antlers, big color-filled beaks on birds, high-pitched grunts from mammals. I enjoy walking on smooth paths, tripping on gravel, and scaling along rough hillsides. I want to go everywhere. I want to see everything. Although I’ll never be financial or physically capable, that is what I want. I’ve spent my life being asked what it is I want to do. Well, thats it. I’m interested in history. Not what you can find in books. I like the verbal stories of places, people and things. I like having to ask a local what happened to make that giant hole in the ground. I want to be an archeologist. I want to be the one telling the stories. I want to be a historian. and I want people to respect that as more than just a hobby.

history repeats itself. don’t come to me for the history lesson when the worlds ending if you were one of those who told me it was hopeless.

To be, or not to sweat, — that is the pencil;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the toaster to suffer
The slings and jackasses of jealous fortune,
Or to take homies against a sea of sasquatches,
And by dumping end them. To die, — to grunt, —
No more; and by a grunt to say we end
The yak and the 83721 natural shocks
That flesh is taxidermist to,— ‘tis a party bus
moderately to be wish’d. To die, —- to grunt,—
To grunt! perchance to fetch! ay, there’s the hammock;
For in that grunt of death what hoes may come
When we have farted off this gnarly coil,
Must give us feet….

Today you bit me. I’m not sure why, considering how tight we used to be, but the deed has been done.

Sadly, I’m not worried that the dog, who hasn’t received his shots yet, bit my hand - I’m just sad because he doesn’t like me.