A Memoir of War, Solitude, and Hostess Sno-Balls™ (Sponsorship Pending)
This is not a book. This is a IED made of words. If you're looking for comfort, lies, or spiritual hand-holding, click here instead. Otherwise, strap in.
Moonday 14 December 1964, 0134 AM... I was born—not just into the world, but into winter. Into blizzards and black ice and the kind of cold that could freeze the tears on your cheeks before they fell. I loved it. The harsher the better. Winter is my favorite season still. Because when the world outside matched the storm inside, at least things made sense.
That night, the kitchen light glowed like a distress beacon as Dad’s station wagon fishtailed up the driveway. A case of beer in one hand, a bottle of liquid regret in the other. The script never changed:
Usually Mom. Sometimes the furniture. Always the silence.
B'JIBBAJABBLE™ FORUM (COMING SOON) A place for realists, minimalists, survivalists, and stubborn assholes who refuse to swallow bullshit on purpose.
(Future home of the Undignified Guerrilla Network)