February didn’t see a deepsicks post. In the grand scheme, doesn’t mean anything. I doubt I’ll forget that February ’13 was the longest shortest month of my life, and counting.
BUT WHO KNOWS! Time does things. Knots your bootstraps and puts you to sleep. Gilds and Instagrams the edges of memory, then Tom Sawyer-style extols the grandeur of labor, whitewash in broad strokes it calls a clean slate.
Who the hell was I, anyway?
Competing but not competitive, unless I really have changed. My brothers trap me into playing a parlor game but I cringe out after a couple of rounds, citing psychological distress.
I’m not a cheat. I’m not a liar. I’m not a spy.