What I wrote yesterday was pure crap.

I reread that today and almost deleted it. Admittedly I was slightly inebriated at the time, so that's my out. Note to self, don't do that. Well I appreciate the positivity, I also am my own worse critic. I know I can write, I know I have some amount of talent with words, I know I've written some things over the years that have been quite profound. That piece of garbage from yesterday wasn't one of them.

I decided not to delete it for.... reasons. First of which is that maybe it will serve as a reminder that I can always... or... we... can always do better. Secondly, someone told me not to. Okay, you win, that piece of inhebrius rat poop stays.

I started again because I'm in a mood again. I usually only write when I'm in a mood. Last night I was in a mood, with a side of whisky. The world isn't in a good place right now, and hell, if it's gonna burn I may as well wax poetic about things that make me happy. That ended up being the neighbourhood pub. We all need a happy place in this collapsing broken world, mine happens to be out in a little town called McGregor. Unfortunately, the whisky dulled the charm of the place, ironically. Also ironically, I didn't even go there yesterday. 

My intention was to discuss how to keep ourselves sane and happy, I heavily digressed. So let me clarify in a sober state. 

Depending on how you view things, the world is in a strange state right now. Some of you may think things are peachy, in my view, they aren't. Regardless of opinion, we all need to have somewhere or something to ground us. We all have our little piece of paradise that keeps the demons away from us. Mine happens to be a little pub in McGregor. It's not because I like to drink, it's because that's where I found friends, who have become family. It's the place where I can have good conversations, good food, and yeah, good drink. It's a place I feel comfortable in turbulent times. I've found a few of these little places over the years, and it's never about the selection, or the food, or the decor. Believe me, some places have been... questionable.

It's about the people.

And some of those people there have done more to help me than I could have ever imagined. They have become my second family. Forgive me for sounding melancholy and mushy, but that's just truth. The only thing I said in yesterday's post I don't regret is that the world is going to shit. 

If you don't watch news, good. Stay on Netfix and Sportsnet. You'll be safe. If you do, then find a happy place. Find your McGregor. You're gonna need it. You're gonna need to find somewhere you feel like you can talk to someone who understands and not be alone in this really fucked up universe. Somewhere you can turn off the conflict and fear. And if you can't do that, maybe someplace where there is a person who understands your fears, and can empathize. 

That was my point yesterday. But then some guy named Gibson got in the way of a viewpoint. 

Cheers. 

 57.

 I'm 57 fucking years old now. Can I still do this? Should I still do this? Is anyone even reading this? I don't know anymore. And frankly I don't care. I've been writing crap on here randomly for over 20 years. It started as a mid-life crisis kind of thing, but now I'm getting old and I just don't give a shit anymore.

 I'm Gen X, which means I really don't give a crap anymore. I'm just gonna go to work, go to the pub and see my friends, I'm gonna watch some TV and go to bed by 9. Go ahead, judge me. Go ahead, I don't really care.

 At some point I'll not have to do the go to work thing anymore, but the pub, that's a constant. That's where all my old retired friends are, and the daily sign in book. Which, by the way, I never fucking win. I need to bribe Mel a little more. Maybe she'll cook it one day.

The pub is my happy place. Where my weird friends live. My friend bought it last year, and is trying hard to make it prosperous, that's a fight these days. Times are not good to us all, but we persevere, we push forward. We fight. That's what Canadians do. When we are done fighting, we go back to the pub, which we are fighting for, kind of a Canadian roundabout. Either way, we help our friends and our families. 

 57.

Fuck. I didn't think I'd be this old and just working and going to the pub. I thought I'd be rich and living on a Caribbean island somewhere. But nope, I'm still working like a dog and trying to survive like most other people. Like my kids, like my friends, we just survive, and then we go see Mel, and we wax poetic about what could have been, and what might be. Everyone needs a therapist. And therapists are better when they have a bottle of scotch nearby.

But I persevere. I survive. I live. And I occasionally blog. I write to who reads blogs anymore, nobody. Like, really who reads this stuff anymore? I've been doing this for two fucking decades and my readership is minimal. Admittedly, I don't write much, but still, who reads this random shit?

Anyway, life is still worth living, Trump invaded Venezuela, Iran is about to fall, Greenland is in peril, Ukraine is still being attacked, the world is burning. So let's live for our family and friends. Let's live for ourselves. Let's live for those who can't defend themselves. 

This wasn't the best post, but I don't care. It's my space. My rules.  And I'm old now. So the mid-life rules change. Love you all. Peace and happiness, go have a pint at your pub.

Cheers.