I Am My Father’s Son
I have never been one to celebrate birthdays, and I suppose that’s something I got from my dad. He never really liked celebrating his own, and would have preferred to just eat out with his family. Eating seems to be the only way we know how to celebrate.
Last year was a pretty cool birthday for him, turning 50 on 09-09-09. I wish I could’ve been there to see him. I usually don’t have big parties, but since it was 10-10-10, I figured a party on Saturday night going into Sunday was definitely in order. Someone gave me the idea of calling it a “Perfect 10” party. I imagined people dressing nice and chique, looking beautiful, top-shelf everything. Wouldn’t that have been something?
But here I am, thousands of miles away from anyone I know in any direction, and on this particular day, I feel a bit lonely really alone. It’s not really a day for spending with random people, but one to celebrate with those who have given your life meaning, and who have made it a worthwhile experience.
About me
I am just another kid trying to find his place, but four lang of thousands of miles, 4.20 languages, twenty odd years, and several guitars later, I still don't know where that is. But I will keep searching, and maybe I'll start getting an idea. This coil is just brimming with wanderlust. Nomad. Vagabond. Call me what you will.
This here is my little fledgling blog. Equal parts punching bag, confessional, and exhibit, but all thoughtspace. I'm gonna try to play around with layout and content until something works. I've never had one, so we'll see how this experiment goes.
