Just beggining to realize that I may in fact have been born in the wrong time period. As I sat in my car driving two friends home, I realized that I belong in front of a camp fire, in the center of some medieval village, my face and hands grizzled and scarred, telling children of the horrors real and supernatural I've faced, my adventures regalling old and young alike. Unfortunately I was born a few centuries late and like everything else I just have to deal.
I guess thats the real focus of this whole thing: having to deal. Everyday I find things to remind me that I've made my bed and now I have to lie in it. However, the bed I've made is neither warm nor comfortable, and I know I could do better. So how do you deal when you realize that the choices you made were stupid, and choices you keep making are stupid, and you hate where you've ended up? All I want is to rest my weary bones in front of that nice big fire, drink deep from my tankard and roll it in my gnarled hands, watching the children ushered home by their parents, leaving grissled old dogs like myself to sit watching the embers, remembering times gone by.
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