About a month ago I laid in bed and realized I was fucking up. I realized the choices I made were wrong and that I had blown opportunities. I missed important moments or even worse - I had terrible reactions.
See the thing is - and we all miss this and when I type this it's going to sound so goddamned trite - but all moments are finite. You only get one chance to say you're sorry and you only get one chance to catch someone when he trips and you only get one chance to offer friendship to someone who feels lonely and you only get one sentence to defend someone who's abused. It's all so finite.
And about a month ago I saw my tally. And I knew I had blown it. All of it. I knew I was not the man I should be. And I was afraid it was too late. And so I panicked. And sure. This is about death. My death - my heart - my parents' deaths. Sure it is. But it's also about a forgotten word: responsibilities. Goddamn it. We're responsible. If you think personal happiness is the goal than it's time you remember that your hands were meant for more than to please yourself. Your hands were meant to serve.
So. I decided to go out with the best report card I could possibly earn. And I haven't been all that successful. Well, because in so many ways I really suck. But I'm trying hard. I am.
Tonight was a great night for me. Today I decided I'd stay home and watch the game with my Dad. And make no mistake. I hate sports. But - he doesn't. You want baldass truth? I spent a childhood in my room listening to games and judging them banal and the spectators as limited. But I knew how important this game was to my Dad and so I stayed home and I watched it beside him. And I'm thrilled I did. We shared moments - finite wonderful moments - of such joy. Of such communion. Tonight was all about made memories and camaraderie with my buddy: my Dad. So. The Vikings won? My Father cared. And I care I could share a moment of joy with a man who's giving me infinite love. Earnest? Do you know me at all?