Je suis fini avec ceci. L'extrémité.

So, That is my new years resolution.

Why play with words when:

A: I'm not very good with them... And...
B: They are more often than not misconstrued as I have a habit of combining multiple thoughts in random order which, if read one way are the exact opposite of what I was trying to explain or express?

Look, this shit doesn't even make sense to me.

You see, THIS PLACE, it's my head...

It was for me... If it amused anyone, even a little bit... well, it served dual purposes. If you read it, you were part of it because I was writing about everything; and if you are a part of my life, you were in my thoughts... and therefore, you were here. BTW, I'm glad you were...

I always thought that there was nothing more intimate than opening a book or reading a story or listening to a song. Precisely because you were able to get into someones head. That was attractive and intimate and still is.

There is/was no filter and none necessary because it is esoteric. A kind of mindless braindump written at 2-3 am after a whiskey or three and before I went to bed.

But this became more of a diary, which ended up being therapuetic, until it no longer was.

What I've come to realize... Is at this point in my life, I no longer want anyone getting inside MY head. Hell, I don't even want to be there.

So, that's where it is. I actually had a good time with this and It's fun to read, but I think it's time I put it to bed. In the immortal words of Leslie "skeet skeet tom skerritt……"

BTW, That's a picture of Rhett one week after we brought him home. Christmas 2003

I'm very lucky.
g'night

I love you guys, I'll see you next year.