My children

You know, I look at my kids, and they are happy.  They are tough.  My oldest, in particular, I have no doubt could get through any training program any American military force offers, if she were a man.  She can work 20 hour days for months on end.  I worry about her, I buy her protein powder (she is a vegetarian, as I was when I was her age), and that’s all I can do.

And I look at myself.  It is a fucking miracle I am still alive.  I keep saying this.  I keep wondering at it.  I should be dead, by all rational measures and metrics.

But I have something in me which does not quit, which is fucking hard, which will spit in your face and then punch a knife in your carotid, which does not give a fuck, which is born to survive, to live, and to reproduce.

And my kids have this too.  I didn’t try to give it to them: they simply inherited it. 

I have always been honest with everyone, including my kids.  I admit my weaknesses.  I admit my failures.  I own my frequent stupidity. I  have a high fucking IQ but I am still sometimes a goddamned moron.  It pisses me off.  I try to make it up when I rain accidentally on someones parade, which I have done in the last week.

Everything I do: I try to pour my soul in it.  I go in with everything.  I bet everything I have.  This is the only honest approach.  I fail sometimes, and it hurts.

But to the point: both my kids hear me.  They understand how I am.  And I think they feel this path too, however weakly and incompetently I have walked it.  I went all in, and will continue to do so as long as I live.  This is the game.  This is life.  It ends at some point, but what happens in the middle is up to me.