I want to leave behind a body of work that people can dig into and enjoy, even if it’s just in the dissection of me as a person.

I’m sure it won’t all be flattering; I’ve behaved terribly at times.

Such is the life of a drunken wannabe punk kid from the small towns of Ontario. You’ll say and do shit to regret later; apologies don’t mean it didn’t happen.

It also doesn’t mean it’s who you ended up.

I don’t know how I’ll end up.

But I’m worried I don’t have the stamina or force of will for the long run.

Please don’t let me end up one of these cozy mystery writers, or some detective or spy novel fuck, churning out the same formulaic CSI bullshit each week.

It’s always the goddamned butler.

I want my legacy to be more complex than that.

More compelling; equally pathetic, mildly horrific, one long cringe punctuated by the occasional, “Okay, he’s growing on me.”

He’s getting better.

Please let me leave it behind.

Target: 1000 words
Written: 326 words, poem: Roses And Violets

Read: Constellation Games, Leonard Richardson
Comics: Chew 9-12
Music: No Joke!, Meat Puppets