I’m not a writer. Ernest Hemingway was a writer. I just have a vivid imagination and type 90 WPM.
Most men claim to desire driven, independent and confident women. Yet when confronted with such a creature reverence often evolves into resent. For just like women, men need to be needed.
The problem with having problems is that ‘someone’ always has it worse.
Never trust someone that claims they care nothing of what society thinks of them. Instead of conquering obstacles, they simply pretend they don’t exist.
The Second Amendment is timeless for our Founders grasped that self-defense is three-fold: every free individual must protect themselves against the evil will of the man, the mob and the state.
No one loses their innocence. It is either taken or given away willingly.
As a Texan, I say ma’m and sir to my age contemporaries and open doors for anyone that I can. This goes for men, too, though it is appreciated when they beat me to it and disappointing when they don’t.
It is assured that men of all ages imagine a woman naked when they first meet.
Political corruption, social greed, and Americanized quasi-socialism can ruin even the most wonderful places. California proved that.
If the novel is dead, I’m a necrophiliac.
The Internet is the Petri dish of humanity. We can’t control what grows in it, but we don’t have to watch either.
While writing is like a joyful release, editing is a prison where the bars are my former intentions and the abusive warden my own neuroticism.
As a civilian, I know nothing about combat, the Marine Corps experience or modern man’s struggle adjusting to peace after war. I only know what’s been shared with me; confidences I would never betray, nor use as details in a novel.
We the people have no excuse for starry-eyed sycophantic group-think in the Information Age. Knowledge is but a fingertip away.
Perhaps the Creator of this strange place knows us better than we know ourselves. Perhaps humanity was meant to eternally ponder the purpose and importance of our own existence. If we were assured of either, we’d be intolerable creatures.
Texans aren’t cocky. We’re just better than you. And you know it.
It should surprise no one that modern soldiers return home just as conflicted and detached as previous generations. The difference is that in the age of vapid American decadence, their simpler fundamental values are largely irrelevant to we civilians.
True art is thoughtful, emotional examination of how human themes impact the overall experience of existing. The rest is kitsch.