Here's to you, kiddo.

We come to regret the things we said when we were young, but never regret. Never feel like you've got to have an explanation. Fuck explanations. Who cares what you think anyways?

Today I had an epithany. Looking at Alfred Lord Tennyson's 'Ullysses', I realised, that everything we do, at any age, doesn't matter, as long as we see that it gets done and we get pleasure out of it. Because as dumbassed as it sounds, we always question the meaning of life. We all want to get the best out of a situation, mostly one that gets us what we want.

A tale of midlife crisis can also appeal to a 20 year old still. I mean, in those days, we'd be seen as ancient. If you lived to 40, you'd be heralded as the old wise man who no one really cares about opinion-wise. Right now, I'm contemplating about what really matters. Right now, you matter. Yeah, you, person who for some odd reason decided to peek at this rubbish blog. Usually, you get some piss poor attempt at poetry or prose, but here's some profound love instead.

I mean it. I appreciate that you care enough for a minute to glimpse at my predicaments, my issues, my troubled and always fucked up love life, and also the moments of happiness and joy. Your dedication is my muse.

So, here's a cigar. Raise an invisible glass, and wish yourself a happy day, and a night you'll remember.