Yeh, so, some kids throw a piece of concrete at Michael’s car Saturday night.

Let me stop right here and say I’ve never been one for having the police come by the house.  If I’m not actively doing something illegal, I’m sure as fuck thinking about doing something illegal  However, when you are forced to file a police report for insurance purposes, it’s unavoidable.

Let me stop again and say that while this statement is not a reflection on how much I don’t love other cities, I have to give H-town its street creed.   From the time our neighbor knocked on the door to let us know of the criminal mischief to the time Michael backed into the garage, inclusive of installation of a garage door opener and all repairs to the window and door frame … less than 48 hours.

In certain other cities, the fucking cops wouldn’t have even passed by yet.  Just sayin …

Before:

After:

From the day we moved into the house we’ve said, “We really need to get both vehicles in the garage.”  Well …

You ever move a full bucket?  Full of water, full of feed, full of whatever – you’re focusing on the wrong part of the story.

You get about halfway to your destination and you feel a slight slip.  It’s heavy but you got it, you’re cool.

Maybe you recognize the sweat covering your hands.  Maybe you don’t.  Matters not either way, it’s there.

Fingers stretched, red.  Knuckles all white and screaming.  You start thinking that you might should put the bucket down for a second.  Re-adjust.  Move to the other hand.

Nahhh, you say to yourself, you got this.  Right?  I mean, you don’t need to work smart, you just need to charge forward.  Just keep moving and it’ll all be okay.

Consuming yourself in the steps, counting them, always moving forward.

Now, you’d have made it to your destination sooner, and without the painful blisters, if you’d have put the fucking bucket down.  Checked it.  Checked yourself.  Started fresh.

Too bad you didn’t.