I have so many thoughts running through my head all the time. I'll relate to something metaphorically when we're out and about or reminisce an old memory I want to share. I write notes regularly, especially when I think of something funny, we could be driving somewhere and I'm handing her my phone, 'write this down, quick! Hurry, before I forget.'

My inspiration comes from all over the place—literally. But that frikkin @galenkp is ahead of me like five or six to one now. I'm not whining. Not at all. If I was I would've substituted 'frikkin' with 'something else' and you know what they say about if it ain't broke.

_{Asheville, North Carolina}

The other day or last week, a few months ago, whenever it was, Galen brought up a really good point—be prepared on paper when you die.

I've buried enough people, that shit gets ugly. I don't care how close you think you are to someone or how much you think someone loves you, survivors change after they buried a loved one. It just happens. The only way to be certain your remains or memory or whatever you wanna call it are treated precisely to your standards is by writing it down and assigning an executor to fulfill your wishes.

So I'm gonna make this real simple for Pura and put it on the Blockchain. It's that easy. She knows where to find it. I know it isn't going anywhere and, maybe by doing so, it'll inspire someone else to do the same thing and I'll have someone to hang out with in the weirdo room.

I've buried both grandparents, both uncles, my dog, my truest friend, too many buddies to count, and my only parent—buried her when I was 37 (now you know why I vote at 37%). She was 57 when she left, now you know 57%, too, shit! You're learning all my secrets. I now choose to cease divulging my hypochondriac ways. At the time of writing, I've conducted not one, not two, but three eulogy's. I'm a pro with death.

_{Stop dying!}

I'm tired of speaking at funerals! And stop asking me to speak, too, you know I can't say no and you're using that to your advantage.

I did as my mother asked and cremated her, she weighed 105 pounds when she died. They shipped her ashes to me in a black, plastic box. It's a 4x4 inch square by 12 inch long rectangle. The lid's held on by a piece of ugly, dingy, dirty finger-print having scotch tape because there's no lip on either container to prevent the lid from falling off without it. Inside is a bag of ashes, looks like charcoal, you can see teeth. The bag doesn't have a seal on it. It's one of those goldfish lookin bags you take your carnival fish home in. It's fastened at the top by a piece of shit plastic zip tie I wouldn't rely on holding a set of keys with. Attached to that zip tie through a punched, eighth inch hole is a stainless steel dog tag identifying that individuals remains—hangs around my neck.

I had my dog cremated, too, The Rook, she also weighed 105 pounds. All black German Shepherd, baddest dog I ever had. Kept waiting for her to speak English—shocked it never happened. I received her finer than fine ashes (finest ashes you've ever seen! No teeth) in a hand-carved, authentic redwood box with a hinged lid. Engraved brass plate - Rook The box has a locking mechanism on it complete with lock and key. Inside is a nicely folded, well handled and carefully sealed ziplock bag. It's tucked away nicely under a layer of pink rose petals inside the box.

• Height: They were both about 5 foot 2.
• Weight: Identical.
• Mom's ashes: $5,500.
• The Rook's ashes: $250.

Dear Pura, the baddest chick I've ever met. You're beautiful. I love you all the time.

•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•

Send Me To The Fuckin Vet!

I don't need that flesh anymore, I'm done with it. Had a great time in it! Look at all that artwork—got dang! It's called artwork nowadays or body art, tattoos are scary or something in this soft ass world. Remember back when we were kids and if you sucked at something you just sucked and found something else to do? Not today—nope! It's all about equal playing time and everyone gets a participation trophy today. Results—a buncha soft ass kids who won't leave the nest.

Use all of our crypto millions to throw the biggest party The Ranch has ever seen, Jerry's expecting you. See if you can get Yelawolf to perform or someone of that caliber, Tech N9ne or, oooh!!! Rittz! (I'll attach a link) It's all written in my phone—everything. Every single detail, you don't have to do anything but read. Go to the file folder that says 'personal.' It's filed under, you'll never guess, My Service. It's that easy. Don't worry about burning me or putting me in a dirt covered box or anything customary like that, save the money and put it toward the party. Donate my flesh to science :repeat: 'I'm done with it.'

That's pretty much all the subject matter I got for this one, whatever happens beyond this point is filler, I got my point across. She's blow drying her hair right now, I can hear the hair dryer in the other room. That's about as far as her beauty treatments go. The photos I've shown you, my 10, all natural—Pura doesn't wear make-up. She's often questioned about her lips, too, "your lips are just gorgeous! Where'd you get'em done?" She's always so embarrassed to say "sorry, these are mine." She gets super embarrassed when I talk about her like this, too, if I want my wishes fulfilled, I better stop. She knows all about my Tina Fey crush.

_{And Nelly Fertado}

You know what's worse than drunk girl? Crying girl. I know what you're thinking, "but it's the same girl!" Crying girl and drunk girl are one and the same, you're right, the only difference is timing. I had to transition somehow and didn't want to come right out and talk about stupid girl. Figured drunk girl and crying girl was a good fluffer.

I'm at a pool party in Long Beach. It's a few blocks down from my apartment on the opposite side of Ocean Blvd. I'd seen some of these people before either on the beach or at the gym, around town somewhere. It's the middle of summer so all I'm wearing is a pair of board shorts and shoes, my mothers dog tag's in plain sight.

I'm talking to this chick who, now that I think about it, I wish she wouldn't have said anything cuz she was so hot before she opened her mouth (this is before Pura). So we're talking about whatever, I'm probably smokin a joint. I probably didn't need to say probably right there. Hold on..

_{Take 2}

I'm talking to this chick who, now that I think about it, I wish she wouldn't have said anything cuz she was so hot before she opened her mouth (this is before Pura). So we're talking about whatever, I'm smokin a joint. I think I'm making points with this chick, she's into me, she's bad! Rockin a hot pink bikini about two threads shy of a negligee—gonna be a great night!! I can already smell breakfast.

_{And then she talked}

My mothers dog tag has her ID number on it. It's diagonal and sideways cuz at $5,500, why take your time to stamp the thing properly? Just under her ID number it says "crematory." Stupid girl:

Oh, gross!! What are you, a mortician?!?

I had a drink in my hand—pre August 2nd, 2014. It was an accident and I can honestly say that's the first and only time I actually spit my drink on someone—her. Not intentionally, it's just how hard I laughed. Not my fault she said that right as I threw back some Jimmy Beam. She went from really hot to intolerable after she opened her mouth but the bourbon soaked bikini sealed the deal.

So I moved on! Same thing I've always done. I got every excuse in the world to be a mess. Slam dope, jump off the deep end, anything to numb the pain or worse—test tensile strength of 5/8" nylon rope around the fruitless mulberry in Zuck's back yard. I think the reason I'm doing this instead of that is so I have firepower when I meet someone who's even more fucked up than me—always training.

One of these days, who knows when or if ever, but one of these days I might rely on strength I wasn't aware of—always training. Unaware and unprepared are two different things. I'm prepared. When I meet that dude or that lady or that child, co-worker, stranger on the plane, I don't know who it's gonna be or if it'll ever manifest at all but if it does, I'm prepared. It's what keeps my head where it's at today. You'll have to take my word for it, without that motivation, I'd be all over the place even more than now.

When they're about to jump or about to slam their arm, whatever their ultimate decision is in an effort to escape reality, I wanna have some firepower. I can't very well say 'stop it! You're being a female dog' if I'm a mess myself. But if I'm as sober as I am today, I'm still in the gym 7 days a week and I can still say with honesty and absolute certainty: 'I'm in the best shape of my life' and I continue this path of lead by example. Then when that person throws all their drama and logic at me for ending it all because they buried their only parent or their wife fucked someone else or their truest friend succumbed to cancer or their foot got chopped off or whatever the fundamentals are behind their irrational decision. As it stands, if I cross paths with that disturbed individual today, let me talk to'em.

•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•

That's Not A Good Enough Reason!!!

'C'mere, gimme 15 minutes. Let me tell you a story before you make the most selfish decision of a lifetime, hear me out. I can change your mind.'