God damn, god damn, god damn. That's from a movie. I forget which one, but it's apropos.

In three months, three mother-fucking-months, I get the news… the news I've been anticipating… the news I've been expecting… the news I am willing into existence… the news I have been waiting for with baited breath… the news that few other than rulezerodad can appreciate: the news that I am cured.

8 mother-fucking years of hell. 8, mother-fucker, 8.

2 god-damn-mother-fucking years of something-worse-than-hell. 2 worse than hell.

Fuck. That.

And the news may/might/could (1) come to be, (2) bear fruit, (3) be my new reality, (4) change my life yet again, this time for the better… or it (5) may suck.

I choose to believe… to know… to feel in every atom of every cell of my body that it will be good. Damn.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

It's intense but it's my reality. Just like you have your own reality. And your reality is not - not - always good.

I know you all don't care, but I care.

  • My kids care.

  • My wife cares.

  • My family cares.

My employees - numbering a lot - well - the overwhelming majority care only so far as it relates to their own paychecks and nothing more. A handful might actually care.

  • But jesus, dudes, and very important: I care.

I check in every six months or so to provide a progress report. Not to those (cool) dudes I've been hanging with here for three years or so (and there are a lot), but, instead, to the new dudes, the dudes who are (1) lost, the dudes who are (2) bumming, the new dudes who are (3) flailing and don't know what to do.

I, weirdly, do kinda care.

Lately the new dudes here seem like first-class homos… but I won't let that get me down. I don't want to digress.

To the rest of you… know this:

I stumbled upon this dumbass place not understanding why my wife was seemingly disinterested, not understanding why my money didn't buy me happiness, not understanding why my marriage, well, sucked.

Why? Why? Why?

Lots of dudes, two in particular - stoney and steel - but don't let me get sentimental and gay - they helped me see the error of my ways and helped me stop acting like a helpless fucking victim - there are plenty of those in the world by the way, hence why your shtick doesn't work here - and instead, why it forces you to act like a man - a man on a mission - a mission of god (per blues brothers not bible) - a mission that was my mission - my family's mission - and, whether she likes it or fucking not, my wife's mission.

  • God damn.

  • God damn.

  • God damn.

Jesus, bros. Your problems are probably - in terms of probability - much, much less challenging than my own. After all, I can't very well get my wife to blow me better or give me a rim job if I'm dead.

Yet I've gotten through it. Butch up faggots - and heroin addicts alike - of which there are quite a few of late - and especially fairies-feeling-neglected by the RP quarantine - butch the fuck up...

Keep it in perspective and know this:

  • I now have a six-pack. Thanks MRP.
  • I now know stoicism. Thanks MRP.
  • I now have (great) sex. Even (better) sex. Actually, (amazing) sex with my wife.
  • This same wife - who never blew me (if you're in need of details) - now seeks me out to blow me often.

Results, mother-fuckers, results.

Perhaps more importantly, I can now deal with crazy, crazy circumstances that are about as insane and awful as they get. And I can survive. And I can thrive. And I can win, mother-fuckers, I can win.

I will win.

And so, too, will you.