Before my wife kicks my ass. Here goes.

How many attempts does it take for the writer to break through the writers block? To write something sustainable and real enough not to fall victim to a rage-shut of the laptop or the delete-key-of-doom. How many ideas never see the light of day, forever locked away in the dark-mode theme of scrivener, pages, google docs, craft, blah blah or blah? I’ll let you know when I figure it out, I promise.

Today is the day I say “I pray not to fold under my own expectation of perfection.” The goalpost moving with every keystroke. I can’t pause for too long to reflect on the line before or I’ll slay it without a hint of remorse. Hiding from my responsibilities long enough to record anything meaningful has been an exercise in futility for about two and a half years now. Not that I would ever complain about the privilege of fatherhood -our kids didn’t ask to be here after all. I just took for granted all the moments I had in my head that belonged just to me. Not the future or the weight of each decision. Not the four eyes boring into me every waking moment — recording, archiving, and reflecting every behavior and slip of the tongue. No. All of that I’d trade for nothing. All the same, to pull myself into the selfish niche in the back of my mind with all the great and terrible images, get-rich-quick-schemes, promises of improvement, and untold traumas would take away from the moment. My absence physically, mentally, and emotionally no longer has a casualty of one. The weight of those moments, previously unnoticed and bearable to the world now have the consequences of negative wrinkles on the gray matter developing between the ears of my kids, and that in my mind is unforgivable.

I remember sneaking off to buy my time machine kit — a yellow pack of American Spirits, another 90 cent lighter to join the rest in between the seat and center console of my Camry, a big blue box of Nerds and a mango Arizona tea. Thats all I needed to leap forward a day at a time.

Who would have thought the feeling of smoke burning all the way down my throat would be a feeling I’d regard highly enough to write about. How each exhalation of smoke carried my stress and burdens up and away if only for a moment, that relief dissipating as quickly as the little I’d made. I was desperately seeking out the moments where I wasn't being attacked by the ever-flowing stream of noise in my head. A sabbatical from the poor decisions and the labor of maintenance that came with owning so many masks.

The rattle of my license plate which was held in place with two rusty bolts that were probably older than I was. My subwoofers smacked, headlights dimming as the cheap battery clung to life. My little bucket of a car shaking violently as the sound of Big Sean came through the old speakers about as clearly as Lake Mead is clean. The beat, the bass, and the clever lyrics spinning a tale to snatch me away from my own. The starlight trying its hardest to push through the haze and bright lights of the Las Vegas skyline. The white noise sensation in my legs growing to the point I couldn't ignore anymore. That was the only feeling that could disrupt me in those moments, black Vans crushing the stack of cigarette butts adding up on the ground as I shook my legs awake. I owed those minutes to nobody, and it was crazy to think I considered this a waste. I hated how my tongue felt raw from the sour kick of the nerds, my mouth so dry from the sugary tease of drink from the Arizona which never really quenched your thirst but for a minute or two. I thought I had all the time in the world to myself and that this would last forever. Vibing, chain-smoking, and bullshitting through the night.