Stephen King wrecked my van

Sometimes I wake up and have a cool title pop into my head. This is one of those mornings.

Stephen King never did a thing to my van. I don't own a van. Never have.

I saw a Corvette get passed by a van once. I wanted to take the keys from the Corvette guy and give his yellow monstrosity to someone with actual balls.

I watched Castle last night. They paid homage to Carrie. I think that planted the Stephen King seed. I haven't read Mssr. King in almost two decades, but I read somewhere that he wrote in the asshat who ran him over as a villain or a loser into his Dark Tower series.

I'm still not likely going to read it, but Carrie was awesome.

I feel about Stephen King the way I do about the Rolling Stones: I could listen to/re-read the early stuff every day and never get tired of it, but the shit from the last twenty five years or so leaves me meh.

I wish I could write something worthy of the title of this post instead of something meh.

Grief is a funny thing. The other day I wrote a post that made me stop in the middle of writing it to have a bit of a breakdown because I found myself really missing my dad. It'll be ten years that he's been gone come this November and yet, it felt like my sister just whispered those words for the first time, dad's dead. 

I still believe what I've always believed about grief: it's a decidedly selfish thing. But knowing a thing, even believing that thing doesn't make me any less susceptible to it. I'm down here crying while he is Pasta Heaven ordering strippers by the dozen while drinking heavenly beer.

Grief is me missing what my dad was to me.

I should never read facebook while dribbling.

Shut up, you're crying!

Titty sprinkles.


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