FFC: The Stolen Warbler

Finally! A Chuck Wendig flash fiction that I actually got around to!

Challenge: Flash Fiction Challenge: The Random Title Jamboree

Word Count: 1341

The Stolen Warbler

The fire bit at the night’s chill, as it had for the last two weeks. Journey to find the warbler had taken longer than expected.

“Ain’t the king got enough money to buy himself some other nice bird to sing him ditties?” Paluv grumbled from under his baggy hood. He laid his head on the nearest stone, fuzzy with moss that had never seen a man’s presence.

“Considering the price he’s paying for its return? I doubt he’d care to hear that point.” Maldys struck a sharpening stone across his arrow tips, flinging sparks into the already crackling blaze.

Amarin’s plinking lute did little to liven the night. It seemed as if he were lost in his song but his playing softened when a topic piqued his interest. And this subject, despite it cropping up each night, always dulled his strings to a hum.

“But a warbler? Smidgeon of a bird. Not worth its meat or its tweet.” Paluv’s horse-wide mouth pulled into a grin, “You can have that rhyme for your song, Amarin.”

The bard’s strings grew louder.

Smashed glasses and tossed plates clattered to the tavern floor as Maldys slammed the beer-bellied cur onto the bar.

“I don’t know where it is!” The spy sniveled through blood and snot.

“And I suppose you don’t know someone who does?” The hunter growled through his great, brown beard.

Shaking his head like a wet dog, the man sputtered, “All I know is the king’s been stolen from. Folks think it was the bandits. Or the West Jarls. Some even talk about it being a dragon that took something. But you find one of them thieves guilds, they might say something.”

Maldys shoved the man off and behind the bar, dug into his pocket and flipped a golden coin to the barkeep, and left.

Amarin picked pockets with his hands and rumors with his ears. The festival crowd had so much to see they couldn’t be bothered to think of their purses. Spinning dancers, fire breathers, games of skill and luck; all distractions.

She looked like moonkissed marble. With dark hair past her shoulders, curves that could win a war, and eyes of wonder. This way and that, she dove to every booth, listening and laughing. No money or purse at her side, the hosts often let her play for free if only to have her stand near them a moment longer.

No more coin fishing. No more rumors to hear. He wanted to meet her. King’s quest be damned.

Though he trailed her for the afternoon, when he got close she’d flit away like a pond skimmer. Gliding through a crowd made of water only she could stand on. It’s like she knew. And after a particularly raucous crowd observing a sword fight, he lost her.

He found another woman that night. She loved his voice. He loved how she cost a single ale to get into bed. But in the morning after, he felt cheated for its ease.

“You’re on your way to a boot in the ass, Master Paluv.” The night guard warned as he gripped the scruff of the man’s collar in his gauntlet.

The drunkard, having spent a good sum of his advance on ale tonight, hiccupped, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m performing the king’s orders!”

The guard sighed, but continued escorting the heavy-set clod.

“It’s true!” Paluv said, taking a long moment to spit to the side of the road, “King’s lost his warbler. Wants a singy-song to listen to. Can’t sleep without the thing.”

“One more lie out of you and it’s the stocks.” The guard heaved Paluv like a shotput out of the border gate. “Come back when you can see straight.”

The fat man faceplanted, catching grass and grit in his underbite. As he struggled up to his feet, he didn’t notice the shadow behind him.

The crowd around gasped and awed at the sight.

Amarin tried to keep from retching.

Maldys just stared.

Paluv had looked better.

His eyes looked peaceful. Like he might not have known what was happening. From his nose down, though, he looked like a tiger scratching post. Old clothes ripped to ribbons and blood stinking up the morning air.

The hunter leaned down and rifled through what was left of Paluv’s clothes, gingerly examining him.

“This is perfect.” He said, pulling a long string of beads ending in a crude, pewter skull.

Amarin arched a well-groomed eyebrow as Maldys presented it to him.

“It’s not the thieves guild we should have looked for. It’s the Grey Skulls.” He said it with as much menace as the name deserved.

Amarin shrugged, still confused.

“Assassins.” Maldys sighed.

“You idiot!” The shaven-headed guild master slapped his protegé none too soft. “I didn’t tell you to flay the fat one.”

“But you told me to make an example of him.” The other man winced but did not reach for his cheek.

“I told you to send a message. That anyone looking for the king’s warbler forfeits their life.” The guild leader drew his knife and threw it at the wall of unfurled maps right by the apprentice’s head. “What I didn’t tell you was to leave our token on him.”

The man shrunk into his shoulders, “But the Grey Skulls always leave their mark.”

“You may as well have led them right to u–”
The door behind him splintered off its hinges and before he could turn, the guild leader fell dead, an arrow embedded at the base of his skull.

Dark hair. Moonlight skin. Eyes, too big for this world, filled up with fear. The girl leveled her spear more like a cornered raccoon than a trained soldier. Amarin stood stunned, sword limp at his side. But Maldys’s bow remained steady.

“Afraid you need to put down the stick, girlie.” The hunter said, calm breaths pacing in sync with his bowstring, ready to let fly at any moment.

“The king won’t want me dead!” The girl hissed through gritted teeth.

“Your father just wants you home safe.”

“That monster is not a father.” She backed another step away and one to the side. The hunter’s aim barely shifted, warbler locked in his sights.

“All the same. I mean to collect on the promised reward. And the half I’ll get with you dead is fine by me.”

The warbler’s breathing picked up, her eyes darted from hunter to bard and back to the window behind her.

“You don’t understand. He keeps me locked away. Makes me sing.”

“The world’s a worse place than that.” The hunter scoffed, “You should count yourself lucky. You literally get to sing for your supper and that’s all.”

“I’ll die before I go back.” She warned.

A long moment passed and the hunter breathed in slowly and out slower. “As you wish, Princess.”

Amarin’s lute-based club made a twanging sound as it cracked Maldys’s head, causing his shot to fire wide and the hunter to collapse.

“The warbler’s your daughter.” Maldys said. More as a statement than a question. The king looked at him from his throne with his balding head and sweat-sliding crown before nodding.

“And if I retrieve her alive…and do not reveal this new fact. You will double the original offer?”

The king nodded once more and the hunter turned away.

For now, the world was gone. Amarin thought of the friend he’d lost, the friend he’d betrayed, and the king he’d forsaken. But the thoughts ebbed away like the cold around their traveling campfire.

He played his lute to the wind’s tune. To the moment of Summer’s passing. The girl, shy at first, had begun to hum along with him as they traveled. There was no question why the king wanted her hidden.

With the warbler’s assassin escort defeated (by his own hand in part), she needed a protector. He would do for now. Were it his choice, he would do forever. For the stolen warbler had stolen the bard’s heart.


A Mind-fog on Regret and Moving On

(Whew…wrote this right after I finished my Abuse post yesterday with the intention of pacing this out a couple days. Had this post scheduled for Friday at 9AM. Blowback happened a lot quicker than that. Anger and sadness from people who are doing their best to see two sides of a coin with a photograph of the coin’s Heads but not its Tails. So, to them, I apologize for starting this two-part post off like a hand-grenade before cooling you down with a balmy firefighter hose of Olay. Dick move on my part.)


That was pretty heavy.

A lot of emotion in it, putting it lightly.

If you’ve got it in you, I’ve got one more. This one’s less triggery but still serious.

Last serious one too for a bit. Don’t want to mood you all to death and I think I’m starting to have some sort of fun-times buildup in me.

*coughs up streamers*


With my grandpa dying, thus dies too an opportunity I’d been sitting on for a year or so. If I remember correctly, about February, 2013, my dad told me that grandpa wanted to see his grandchildren.

He wanted to see me.

Now, as I said in the previous post, I had been convinced it wasn’t abuse at the time. In that time since, though, that episode in my childhood festered like a leprous head wound; constantly itching and making me think I’m the smelly kid on campus. It bled and scabbed over and got worse and worse. I grew to hate him through my teen years. And only recently did I come to a pleasant epiphany about it all.

I told myself I wanted to see him; I needed to. Just so I could see him as an adult. See him smaller than me.

But knocking around in my heart was that kid. Terrified of a man who had abused him. Terrified of a man who had been in jail for years because of him.

The paperwork! That’s what I said. The paperwork would take too long. That’s why I didn’t have to confront this. I mean…I have to find my driver’s licence (pocket), my birth certificate (drawer), and my dad’s birth certificate (which he emailed to me when he told me about it). THEN I’d have to submit it and wait three to four weeks for it to get approved. The agony! Like putting lemon juice in an itchy, leprous head wound.

I told myself he’d be dead before the paperwork got filed.


The paperwork never got filed. And he still died. I still remember that gnawing sensation, like a rottweiler chewing a year-old bone, in the pit of my stomach when dad texted me grandpa died. For a moment there was relief. “Whew…there goes one prison visit.” I chuckled to myself. After that a slow-simmering teapot started to heat up inside me. The more I thought about it, the more I blamed myself. The more I regretted never seeing him.

What did he think of me now?

What would he have talked about?

Did he know I forgave him?

Because I had. I had to because I needed to get past this. Soon after I heard he wanted to see me, it was clear that whatever bitterness he might have held toward me was buried under an ever-growing termite pile of death. He felt his health failing him and wanted to see people for the last time. He’d resigned himself to jail for the rest of his days and wanted some human contact. The reaper’s scythe makes a sickly friend.

But I don’t get the answers to those questions. Because I stood, ready to skydive, and never made the leap. Nerves, laziness, whatever I can name it…I get less closure because of my actions.

So now what?

*cricket noises*

That’s what I was asking myself all weekend. But I couldn’t let this keep defining me. Most of my life, this abuse stood like a colossus over me. Constantly staring. I could keep it secret. Crack the closet door for close friends to see inside. But to what end? He’s dead.

Time to make my own stories. My abuse, from both my grandpa and my dad, had been an easy fallback for a gritty story. I could whip it out in front of friends at parties as if to say “LOOK! THIS IS WHY I EAT TOAST LIKE I DO.” But it would still be the colossus. Still be that leering Jenga tower. I’d be carrying that tower on my back like I have been since this all started.

No more.

Just like I said before, your actions prove to me your caliber. My grandpa wanted to see me in his last days and I let the past creep on me; hold me down like clinging ivy. He was already paying for his past…so I could have at least given him this. In the same vein, my dad hit me as a kid. Since I’ve moved out, he hasn’t hit me. Hasn’t hit my siblings either.

He and I don’t talk much even today.

I could at least give him this: he’s changed after all.

But do I let my nerves hold me down like super glue again?

Do I wait until he’s almost dead too to start making more excuses why I can’t talk to him?

More to the point, am I going to wait on everybody who’s done me wrong in my life? Harboring ill-feelings like a never-changed piece of fly paper?


I can’t.

I don’t have the time or energy to spend whiling away, harmed by people whose actions years ago were the cause of such pain.

I have to move on.

I’m going to.

I have.

Readers? Maybe there’s a colossus standing over you. Whatever the issue, I recommend working that out. Don’t let it loom. These things are holy-balls heavy.

So Grandpa? I’m beyond it. If you’re reading, Dad? Let’s talk sometime. Anyone else? Let’s have more good times than bad.

I’m sort of spinning in circles now.

But you guys get the point.

At the very least, thanks for reading.

*knocks over the Jenga tower*

*explodes in a cloud of confetti and balloons*

A Mind-fog on Abuse

All right, kids. First, a warning. Beware of triggery mcguffins. And stop reading if you don’t want to hear serious stuff.

So yeah.


Proceed at your own caution.

*opens a closet and an orgy of skeletons tumbles out*

Right then.

My Grandpa died this weekend. August 29th. Friday. 4:40PM. Old age I suppose.

Twelve-plus years in prison’ll speed that along for sure.

With it, my brain’s been strained through a collander, doused in soy sauce, and dribbled over pancakes.

Mmm…soy-brain pancakes.

Honestly it left me in a dazed shock this whole weekend.

Why’s that? It’s the reason he’s in prison. As a young child, for several years, he abused me. Sexually abused me. No, no more details than that. *bats your hand* It’s nerve-wracking as it is to put that out on this public space. Anyone’ll be able to read this and so this needs to be a message that’s worthwhile to the passerby. Not to mention how stupid it would be to post that sort of shit here.

Here’s the catch. As a kid, I never knew it was wrong. Not until all the psyches started telling me that it was horrible several years after it had stopped. I felt like a broken kid suddenly. In the interviews, they insisted that I was the victim and had no part in committing this heinous thing. That didn’t sit well with me, because here comes another truth.

At the time, I didn’t hate it.


Sounds weird, I know, and I’m not about to say that I liked it but my grandpa wasn’t beating me senseless. He was kind about it. It never seemed like abuse. Emphasized by him telling me it wasn’t. When a kid doesn’t know it’s wrong, there’s not much incentive to talk about it…especially when my grandpa told me to keep it secret.

And honestly, that’s the part that got my kids-brain wondering. Why is it secret if it’s not bad?

Meanwhile, you know who WAS beating my ass? Picking me up into the wall when I’d mouth off to him? Hitting me until he bruised me and left me limping? My dad.

Grandpa’s son.

Kicked dogs, all the way down.

And even as a naive kid, I KNEW that that was abuse. It hurt and I hated it. But he never went to jail for it. The strange dichotomy had my brain in a fuzzy confusion.

Both men abused me. Both in different ways. But in the end it’s all still abuse. And this would turn out to be one of the most defining aspects of my childhood. From the events themselves, the TERRIBLE fallout when it all came to light, how much more violent my dad got afterwards, and my thoughts, ever-spinning, trying to make sense of my past and the future. Trying to find out why these two men; my father and his father, would ever consider doing any of this to a child.

I still wonder. Most days it’s just tires spinning in mud but in the end it comes down to that they’re broken people too. For some reason what they do is all right in their minds. Probably predicated by abuse done to them as well.


I remember as a teen trying to parse from society what was good and what was bad and while I can’t confirm this, it seemed harder for me. I could feel that shriveled nugget of acceptance in me. When I’d see someone hurt by someone else, I’d immediately reason it out. ‘They deserved it’ or ‘they should have known better’ or ‘they should have been able to defend themselves’. The offender was a bully, yeah, but hey…same shit, different day.

And when someone was sexually victimized? When some girl felt uncomfortable because people were cat-calling her or slut-shaming her? When a boy was being teased about not having a girl to fuck or the school-ground favorite: ‘having a little dick’? You know what I thought? The same thing: Society’s just full of bullies and perverts. It’s practically how the world turns. And victims should just grow some cajones or a hulky vagina or whatever genital configuration that will toughen them up against the hand they’re dealt by the world at large.

And THAT is the damage that abuse does. Whether it’s with kindness or violence, I was ignoring the problem and the aggressor while focusing on the victims. Sometimes I feel that violence in me want to come out or that misogyny and misandry start reasoning things out again. It’s nestled into my soul by people who were willing to cross that line.

And I could give into it. I could have lapsed into the same, goddamned routine that my grandpa and my dad fell into. Fuck it if you want it! Beat it if it makes you mad! I could be that guy in prison. I could be that guy who beats his kids.

The person I am today, though? Despises that idea. I grew up knowing I couldn’t rely on anyone. Especially those close to me. For a long time, I feared my destiny was to be a broken person just like them. I made up for it by constantly trying to fix the mistakes of my past. Mistakes I was a victim of. It was a destructive, recursive loop.

Fast forward and now I’m here. My philosophy and beliefs have had to change radically in order to become the man I am today. In order to become my own individual. Not tied to the past or tradition or other bullshit that’s meant to desensitize me from this aberrant and damaging behavior. I’ve taken the broken bones of my past skeletons and I burn them for wood in the coal-stove of my motivation and action. My past notions are are wispy, floating ash in the wake of tomorrow.

Those nestled reflexes of mine are constantly kept in check by my willingness to make this domino effect stop. I will not be a part of this cycle. I can’t. The character I am, forged from these traumatic experiences, does not give a flappety-fuck who you think you are.

If you’re willing to harm or abuse another person for gain, you’re on my shit list.

If you have been harmed or abused, talk to people. Don’t let it keep happening. You’re your own person.

Everyone? Your actions determine your value to me. Not your race, not your gender, not your prestige, not which god(s)/goddess(es)/pixies/sucking-void you believe in. Prove to me you’re a decent individual by treating people like people.

Be the best person you can…and stop the dominoes.

At the very least, thanks for reading.

A Mind-fog on RPG Immersion

The topic on hand is immersing players in a campaign. I’ve got a biweekly Hackmaster group that I run a campaign for. It’s going well so far, I think.

I hope.

Sometimes I don’t know.

But we’re all still doing it, so I can’t be doing a terrible job, right?

Anyways. As I write adventures for my party to roll through, I’m running into a conundrum: I’m not sure where to take them out of the spotlight and dump them headfirst into a wider world. As characters, they’re advancing mechanically and they’re taking a larger position in the world but Kalamar is a big place and at 3rd and 4th level, they’re certainly not moving mountains.

This last session saw one of their own on trial for murder. It panned out all right (if by all right, you mean an innocent farmer being pegged for the crime and hanged in her place, that is). Thing is, they didn’t do any of the framing…someone else did.

And no one batted an eye.

Sure, a couple of the party members thought it was suspicious but they didn’t delve into any research or ask around. Not on their own steam. The wider world showed a tantalizing glimpse of leg and the players didn’t go for it.

Once the trial was over, I wanted to give them a little liberty in determining where the story ends up. Maybe delve into some personal quests or look into the murder trial debaucle. They’ve asked their NPC buddy Phineas to look into a talisman prophecy that they’ve been involved with since level 1 but that’s on the back-burner for at least another level. I’ve got an idea for the ending but they’re all wee baby characters compared to how difficult the final encounter will be. And I intend to pace the prophecy dungeon crawls out over the course of them becoming badass enough to not get brutally murdered by every encounter in the end. So for now, I’ve slackened the railroading leash to let them gallivant.

Beyond that, they’ve gone to the notice board in the local tavern and there are plenty of quest hooks…all of which exist in the wide world instead of being intimately tied to them like this prophecy questline.

My intuition might be held together by peanut butter and powered by angry bees but I got the distinct feeling that the party thought I hadn’t planned up to this point. Like they were waiting for a quest that was hand-tailored for them once again and I instead gave them a series of bounty quests on bandits, slave traders, hobgoblins, and a giant pig named Contessa. You know. Standard RPG quest fodder.

It was an attempt to broaden their perspective on the world. Adventure isn’t restricted to Frandor’s Keep nor is it constantly tied to the players themselves. But I think the point fell flat. I can think of a few reasons, but the biggest one might be that maybe I set them up for this.

Several of the players are new to roleplaying and I’ve sort of spoon-fed them quests up to this point. Giving them space to act had some of them sort of…twirling in place.

And so I’m sitting down, ready to write up the next arc of adventuring; gathering resources to provide them an engaging story no matter which path they take…and wondering how much needs to center on them. Obviously, to be engaging, the main protagonist of any story needs to be involved. They need to take action. But sometimes an adventure is a bunch of characters stepping into a larger conflict. Getting embroiled in the wider world instead of finding another dungeon crawl tailored to their level.

Admittedly, party makeup has a lot to do with this. I can’t very well go throwing in anything I want and expect a party to gel with it all. My group is made up of more combat-hungry players than roleplaying-hungry players. They love the danger of combat. Most of them tune out when it’s time to talk their way out of things.

So it’s ME who needs to get better at writing. I need to get better at immersing my players without having them chafe against those elements that has most of the party looking down at their phones instead of listening to the narrative. I consider the down-time a player spends in the screen of a smartphone a direct and negative critique on my ability to keep people’s focus as Game Master.

I think I need to work harder at having quick-pull details. Name charts, quick-stats, keep taking notes when new details are established. Establish a continuity that the party WANTS to follow. Not one that they HAVE to follow.

Of course it also depends on a player’s desire to become immersed as well…but that’s another blog post entirely.

In any case. Maybe you guys could help. You don’t need to be a master roleplayer to help. Any help at all’s appreciated.

Got any suggestions? Tips? Tricks?


I could use a lot of money.





At the very least, thanks for reading.

Musing on Excuses

I want to be a writer.

Already that notion comes with a world of context. Sometimes positive. Otherwise, negative. It’s a career path that excites me in that I become my own boss. I’m neurotic enough to harp on my failures that I’m sort of already my own boss, so why not get paid for it?

Thing is, my brain starts doing loopdy-loops to justify why I shouldn’t. Why I should just put my blinders back on, stick to some easy path, and make everyone happy. Because there are people out there who want me to go to college for a ‘respectable degree’ or to simply go ‘to have that important piece of paper’.

I start to think that without that degree, I’m worthless as a writer.

And you know what? Being a writer who has studied writing for four years to get a bachelors degree obviously has a great resource to pull from but it is not required. By the words of many writers, each of which either have or do not have a degree, will acknowledge the fact that on the whole, no agent or publisher has asked them to produce this mystical and expensive piece of paper.

Other people warn me of the risks. They don’t want to see me crash and burn and wind up penniless in the gutter whispering sweet nothings to a derelict shopping cart.

Hell, I don’t want to see that happen.

I begin to dwell on the risk of failure, the sting of someone not liking my work. At the end of a day where I haven’t written, I can name at least four little demons I’ve given brain-side real estate to that keep me from it. Laziness, lack of security, writer’s block, and time or any other random and often easy excuses to blame.

In the end, it’s my fault. And I need to fix it.

Thankfully, I follow a couple brilliant writers who have some insight on all this jargon:

John Scalzi expresses his concern regarding the idiom ‘Writers don’t write to make money‘. He claims the notion, when accepted as true, already puts a writer half-way to not making it (that’s ME then). He writes to get rich (as well as enjoy the awesome roller-coaster life that is writing) and he’s done that fairly well.

Chuck Wendig exorcises the notion of Writer’s Block by insisting it doesn’t exist; that it’s another problem you’ve given a dumb and uselessly romantic name. If you name it to make it sound like our mystic Muse turning the spigot off on our inspiration, then you won’t find out what it really is. (fear of failure is my big one!)

He also has an amazing post that I read every now and again to kick myself in the ass over not getting things done. These 25 Lies Writers Tell are a perfect way to keep me sedentary unless I ignore them.

The more and more I read these and the more I write, the more I feel that my actions have meaning. I rekindle those coals in my heart regarding my own life. I do my own thing. Walk my own course. The idea of creating for money once again sounds like what I want to do. It sounds terrifying like building my parachute after the jump…and exciting because of it. I’m not about to quit my day-job…but the more I write, the more I fail, the more I try only means I’ll succeed more later. Eventually my day-job will get in the way. I’ll reach the point of “Hey, I could really start making this whole writer thing work if it weren’t for that 80 hour labor sink of mine”

Today is not that day.

Tomorrow’s probably not that day either.

But when that day comes it will be because I stopped listening to what scares me, stopped panicking, and stopped becoming paralyzed with the fear of meeting life head-on.

Because I’m a writer and I am done fucking around.

On-week Netflix Nut 8/12-8/18

Real quick this time around. Only got one movie watched but I liked it, maybe you will too:

Stuck In Love – Aha! Not a brutalizing action movie this time around. Figured I’d branch out to a family drama. Turns out this one, like many others these days, shot for the Indie feel with a larger budget. The very first shot is of the word ‘Irony’. And well…it sort of explained the feel I had for the first bit. When the main actors began speaking, the ticker-tack of a typewriter and their words written in a personalized font queued up next to their head. They went FULL INDIE. You’ve got all your classic character tropes. Bumbling, divorced Dad who still thinks he can get back in with his dad. Brooding Mom who hates her relationship with her daughter. College daughter who’s a cynic, jaded by the world. High school son who wants to see more of life. It’s an ok movie but I think it hit my brain a bit more considering this dad has raised his children to be writers…like from conception they’ve been trained to be penmonkeys. The dad’s a full-time writer, the daughter’s just published her first book (At 19 too! Take that you lazy 24 year old Micah), and the son is a wannabe poet and writer. Sadly, it’s not a great character development tool; no one comes to a grand change like ‘being a writer is not for me’ like I expected, but it’s the background noise for the drama.

All in all, good. I recommend it. Also, Kristen Bell is in it for any of you readers with a Pavlovian response to her name/face.

At the very least! Thanks for reading.

On Death and Dying

One of my favoritest comedians died recently. Like…within the last 24 hours or so. Maybe you’ve heard of him.

Robin Williams.

Yes, Peter Pan’s gone. Patch Adam’s has stopped saving patients. The Bicentennial Man has worn down. The immortal Genie has disappeared in a puff of smoke. All of it sad.

All of it true.

And here I am, 3 AM, dwelling on this. No matter what you believe, afterlife or not, Robin Williams is no longer here. His movies are delightful. And to those who have watched his stand-up comedies, they’re even moreso (if you have the courage to look).

His last tweet, posted July 31st, referred to the 25th birthday of his daughter Zelda Williams. That’s, like, eleven days before his death. If that were to happen to me, my mother or father will have killed themselves THIS YEAR December 27th. It hasn’t happened (obviously since if I knew about it we’d be in some sort of time-turner paradox) and I doubt it will…but that’s the relativity. I don’t think I’m ready for that. I’m the oldest child and all, but damn, that’s too soon…relatively. But Robin suffered depression…badly…and this may seem biased and naive but I can see a father suffer through even the worst of depressions for his daughter…until they’re old enough. Some might, some might not, I’m not saying each depression victim is the same…but I can see the justification. If you need an idea of the depression Robin Williams suffered, you can watch his comedy shows on Youtube. Each one hints at it. But for how funny they are, the world didn’t notice.

And then my thoughts shot further.

My brother, dead at 14, lived within Robin Williams lifetime. At no point of his living did Robin Williams not exist. And I’m a little jealous.

I thought this would be funny to post on Facebook but my common sense proved smarter. That thought was: If I were to ever kill myself, it would only be when I’m more famous than Robin Willaims.

Now, now, stop, wait, quit it, you dick, I’m not thinking about killing myself. I wonder about it but I think that’s required by every person reading this. I don’t think any adult reading this has NEVER thought about what would happen if they kill themselves. Some believe they’ll find eternal life while some hope for an eternal void they won’t know. Each has their philosophy but I think everyone has thought about it.

That’s kind of what makes us human. We think about everything including ENDING OURSELVES. Just like George Carlin says:

“Do you realise, that right this second, right now somewhere around the world some guy is getting ready to kill himself. Isn’t that great? Statistics show that every year a million people commit suicide. Thats 2800 a day. That’s one every thirty seconds.
[Stares at watch]
There goes another guy!”

Now I can’t assume everyone’s delved into the concept, but I think most people have. When times get rough we wonder what it would be like to…not experience it at all. To die? To be rid of this mortal coil? Who couldn’t?

I contest, no one.

But really…if every depressed patient considered suicide as an alternative only when they’d achieved a worldwide fame surpassing Robin Williams, we’d see a lot less suicides…

…or a lot more famous suicides.

I can’t tell you, readers, that this will be a happy blog. Even know as I write it I can’t tell if you that thousands of unhappy people killing themselves per day is worse than thousands of famous people killing themselves per day…because the numbers won’t change…unless we ALL do something about it.

Do what? You might ask.

First, be kind. It doesn’t matter how badly you hate someone, just be fucking decent to them.

Second, look at and listen to other people. Pay attention. Maybe if you can muster the courage, talk to them. I can’t tell you the odds but maybe they’re looking for someone to talk to.

Third, if neither of those come easy, FIGURE YOURSELF OUT. That comes first. Decide what you believe. Decide what you care about. Ignore what your parents think. I may be coming off as radical, but you can’t assume that what your parents think is correct…if it is…constant scrutiny will prove it thus. If not…find your own truth. I bring this up because I’ve personally seen dozens of people slump into depressions because their thoughts are not their parent’s or others’ thoughts. I can’t claim to know the right idea. And neither can you. But we can all claim our own truth…whether it’s right or not. We must use our individual focus to determine any and all of that.

Hands down though…one of my favorite comedians died yesterday. And I feel the same as when George Carlin died. Or when John Pinette died. When laughter dies, something inside me stops…that particular vein of comedy can no longer continue. But I can. I can keep their ideas alive. And I will. I’ll keep quoting them. I’ll keep thinking and, hopefully, keep making people laugh. I’ll remember them. If you don’t, fine. If you do, neato. Live your lives…

And be the best person you want to be.

I’ll miss you Robin.

At the very least, thanks for reading.