We exist in a world where it seems every skill, talent or gift, no matter how esoteric or seemingly inapplicable, can, through the bittersweet, pyrrhic blessing of social media, be monetized, commodified and capitalized upon. I harbor no unrealistic goals, because realism has become hyperreal. I live a simple life, one that appears to have placed me at odds with the world's status quo. Good, fuck them. Take happiness where you can grasp and steal it, whether it's by drinking overpowering, ironically cheap beer with great friends, screaming obscenities at the top of your lungs for the shock value, or doing feats of strength on public benches. In my case, everything is words and handstands. The rest is irrelevant. Forever flawed. Forever rebellious.
As my parole date looms and I prepare to muster out of the service that's cradled me the entirety of my adult life, I face the future with an uneasy trepidation coupled with my characteristic combative nature.
I've heard every excuse, tempting me with bonuses and transparent promises regarding where I could live next, to tales of woe and agonizing regret, detailing the life of a miscreant that fleed from the Navy, expecting to flourish in the free world, no longer bound by the constraints of military life.
Eager and cherry, they're invariably met with a crippling reality, sprinting head first into a shallow pool of filthy water barely concealing jagged, dangerous rocks and craters.
I'll take my chances as I retake the reins of my life, though, even this far out, I know that my path will hardly be traditional, and will probably offend some traditionally and civically minded elders.
I plan to drift, languid but controlle…
Ill Get Married When I Find A Woman That Can Stand Me
Multiple weddings are looming on the horizon of my social life.
Family by blood and salt water are imploring me to attend their betrothals, and I'm eager to follow.
These occasions are always joyous, representative of the birth of fresh beginnings and requited love.
Unfortunately, questions often bloom like weeds, stubborn and resilient, durable and recalcitrant.
Chief among them is the dreaded, "When do you plan on getting married, Gino?".
I always respond with solid sarcasm, assuring the inquirer that they will recieve an invitation to my theoretical wedding before I turn 50.
This is usually enough to dissuade the prying escapades, but the otherwise serene pond of my mind is still left rippling and torrential.
"When will I get married?", I hound myself, wondering aloud and musing self-indulgently.
The honest truth is that I could go my entire life without shacking up.
Though I've been told my ad…