I apologize in advance for the strong language contained herein. If anthemic profanity is not your thing, read tomorrow's entry. You've been forewarned.
Today I will conquer the world and nothing can stand in my way. Put a box on my head, spike beach balls at my face, I will march on, phased not.
These Jazz Hands go out to anyone who has ever had their face rubbed in shit.
These Jazz Hands go out to anyone who has fought for every inch of ground they stand on.
These Jazz Hands go out to all of the men and women like our good friend, Pops, who stand tall despite life's circumstance delivering one devastating beat down after another.
These Jazz Hands go out to anyone who has crawled through miles of the most foul smelling shit, and came out squeaky clean on the other side.
These Jazz Hands go out to sixteen-year-old Becky and twenty-six-year-old Keith, whom I see every day during my routine commute into work. And for whom a bell, sadly tolls.
Life hands out blows. Some of them are considerable setbacks. Some are permanent. Some fatal.
I stand here today, the shit almost completely wiped off of my face. I may not know what it is like to climb a mountain, but I now know what it feels like to be told that I may attempt to ascend to the peak, if I so choose.
The great news is that I don't have to climb alone.
I wish more than anything that Wife were here to raise a toast (and to jazz our hands) to finally realizing the light at the end of a long, shitty tunnel. However, she is thirteen-hundred miles north. This toast, these jazzing hands that we would deploy together, would be in honor of all of those that have been knocked down, for those that have fought hard, for those that have wiped shit off their face just for the opportunity to climb their mountain. This toast, these jazzing hands, would be in honor of those that do not have this opportunity due to an untimely end.
Together, we shall all jazz our hands as a matter of pride. Together, we shall conquer the world and nothing can stand in our way. Together we shall climb that fucking mountain and not look back.
We owe it to each other. We owe it to Pops. We owe it to sixteen-year-old Becky and twenty-six-year-old Keith. We owe it to ourselves.
Two days hence I shall join Wife and Family, Plus One, on vacation in progress thirteen-hundred miles to the north and will raise an overdue toast and promptly jazz my hands upon arrival. Until then, I will raise a toast with Family Dog. I will jazz my hands and he will feverishly wag that crazy tail, then he will lick his balls.
Today's Jazz Hands are bullet proof.
Day one-hundred and ninety-nine complete.
Today I will conquer the world and nothing can stand in my way. Put a box on my head, spike beach balls at my face, I will march on, phased not.
These Jazz Hands go out to anyone who has ever had their face rubbed in shit.
These Jazz Hands go out to anyone who has fought for every inch of ground they stand on.
These Jazz Hands go out to all of the men and women like our good friend, Pops, who stand tall despite life's circumstance delivering one devastating beat down after another.
These Jazz Hands go out to anyone who has crawled through miles of the most foul smelling shit, and came out squeaky clean on the other side.
These Jazz Hands go out to sixteen-year-old Becky and twenty-six-year-old Keith, whom I see every day during my routine commute into work. And for whom a bell, sadly tolls.
Life hands out blows. Some of them are considerable setbacks. Some are permanent. Some fatal.
I stand here today, the shit almost completely wiped off of my face. I may not know what it is like to climb a mountain, but I now know what it feels like to be told that I may attempt to ascend to the peak, if I so choose.
The great news is that I don't have to climb alone.
I wish more than anything that Wife were here to raise a toast (and to jazz our hands) to finally realizing the light at the end of a long, shitty tunnel. However, she is thirteen-hundred miles north. This toast, these jazzing hands that we would deploy together, would be in honor of all of those that have been knocked down, for those that have fought hard, for those that have wiped shit off their face just for the opportunity to climb their mountain. This toast, these jazzing hands, would be in honor of those that do not have this opportunity due to an untimely end.
Together, we shall all jazz our hands as a matter of pride. Together, we shall conquer the world and nothing can stand in our way. Together we shall climb that fucking mountain and not look back.
We owe it to each other. We owe it to Pops. We owe it to sixteen-year-old Becky and twenty-six-year-old Keith. We owe it to ourselves.
Two days hence I shall join Wife and Family, Plus One, on vacation in progress thirteen-hundred miles to the north and will raise an overdue toast and promptly jazz my hands upon arrival. Until then, I will raise a toast with Family Dog. I will jazz my hands and he will feverishly wag that crazy tail, then he will lick his balls.
Today's Jazz Hands are bullet proof.
Day one-hundred and ninety-nine complete.
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