Life As I Play It

Just past my twentieth birthday, I’m coming out of a depression; major surgery on my knee has torpedoed any chances of a professional career in football. The doctors keep telling me how I’m lucky just to be able to walk without limping; the fact that I can still do martial arts is proof of God’s existence, one of them says.

My oldest son is an infant at the time. Aside from finally graduating high school, he’s the only reason I’m smiling anymore.
Until a friend of mine (we’ll call him Ced) approaches me after work one night…asks me if I’m interested in fighting again. Of course, I say, but it’s not like any reputable commission will sanction me. That’s the catch, he says, No sanctions, no rules, no guarantees that you’ll walk out of there. But the money…

When Ced drops the dollar amount on me, there’s not a lot I won’t do. You’re gonna have to leave your son behind for a little while, Ced tells me, piquing my curiosity. Why? I ask, Where’re we going?

You’ve never heard of it, I promise. Little town called Sunburst.

Where the hell is Sunburst? We heading back across the bridge?

Ced chuckles. I’ll never forget that. Nah. We’re going way further than that.

Ced…where the hell is this place? Where’re we going?

It’s a little rinkydink town near the Canadian border…in Montana.

We drove–he drove, I slept–to Montana. I had never been, and I haven’t been back since that fateful morning where we were bound by conflict and the need to get out of there alive.

I kept asking myself, what’s he doing this for? He has money (gophers always get a cut) it’s not like he needs to be putting himself out there like this. Hell, I’ve never even seen him fight. I don’t want to get caught up in something and then have to babysit his ass…

I wasn’t the nicest person back then…
Montana has the most gloriously crimson skies I’ve ever seen. Dusk sets in early and quickly, the skies change colors fast and clouds take their time as they head towards the setting sun.

Sunburst is small, one of the small towns I’ve ever been in. Back then, I thought it was a suburb of a larger city. I didn’t want to be there long.
The fight was to take place at this exceptionally small bar, where the fights were the talk of the town. Ced was cool with the owner (who makes the best steaks I’ve ever had), and he bartered room and board for the night in exchange for a percentage of my winnings. (God help us if I lost). Turned out the guy I was taking on had run through most of the local competition, so someone coming in from California was a big deal.

The fight was rather lackluster. I was proud of myself for doing away with him so quickly, but a lot of people lost money that night…

The owner gets paid, he has no complaints. I don’t sleep well that night; never do in unfamiliar places.
The following morning, Ced and I have to answer for what we’ve done.
It begins as we descend the dark-wood staircase, bags packed, ready to return to our native land. We hear grumbling, and it’s angry. Who comes to a bar at ten in the morning?!

You ever walk into a room where everyone is arguing, and then they become silent the second you arrive? It was that type of tension. And there were sixteen people between us and the door…

I recognized a few faces from the night before. I wondered if they had been there all night. One of them complains that he lost his whole paycheck thanks to me. He’s the first to get up and start walking towards us. Shit.

Soon, everyone feels like they have something to prove, and they back him up. Suddenly, I really want to go home and hold my son.
Go right. Ced whispers to me.
What?
You go right. I’ll go left.
…Okay.
You ready?
Yup.

Ced lunged first. I had no idea he was so bloodthirsty. Before then , Ced was someone I had known less than a year, an on-again-off-again nerd/hustler who worked near the Embarcadero. I knew him through a mutual friend, but we had never gotten to know one another…not until that morning.

Now, suddenly, I’m fighting side-by-side against this person I hardly know, and I’m counting on him to watch my back just as he’s counting on me to watch his. Our survival depends on our cooperation; take a moment to distrust one another or ask questions, and we don’t go home.
I don’t know how long the fight went on, but we tore up the bar and beat it out of there at high speed. As we drove away, we passed three squad cars heading back towards the bar. Both of us laughed and enjoyed the sensation of passing adrenaline.

Ced and I remained tight for nearly five years beyond that, until our lives took us in separate directions.

But the friendship, forged from necessity, is strong today.

I’m at work late last week when my phone begins to vibrate. Instinctively, I reach for it, thinking it may be my kids. Instead, it’s out of the 816 area code…
Immediately, I begin to assume the worst. I’ve always feared (hoped?) that someone from the old life would come looking for me, hoping to settle up. But I severed ties with the old life years ago, and when I left, I made sure I owed no one.

Phone in hand, I beeline to the breakroom, trying to figure out why someone in Kansas City would be looking for me. I check my voicemail and a slightly familiar voice is on my recorder—and he calls me out by name. My real name. He sounds brain-damaged or something, and I can hear a woman coaching him in the background. He doesn’t wanna fight, he tells me, and he would just like to talk to me.

My fears subside as I try to remember where I know this voice. I figure I have a few minutes to kill, so I punch in the number and tell the man that answers that I’m returning his call.
He sounds happy to hear from me, asking if I remember who he is. Unfortunately, I don’t, but I get the idea I’m talking to an opponent. The woman continues to coach him on…and when he gives me his name, it clicks. Not his name, but the way he says it. The rapid speech and arrogant inflection that made me think he was from Brooklyn or something. I’m overcome by a number of positive emotions as we try to cram almost eight years into five minutes.

And then it hit me; that was eight years ago…

Has that much time gone by? It makes sense; I’m about the age he was when we met. It was a sunny day not far from the shelter I was staying at in Kansas City. My youngest son had just been born. We had just been evicted. The fight was hastily planned (if you can call it planning), but both “Jason” and I needed the money. He got twenty percent if I won, and odds were three-to-one against me. As always.

We met on this barren field where the grass was dying. The homeless used it to sleep if they didn’t make it to the shelter on time. During the day, it was a shantytown of sorts.
He was muscular, lean, and gray. That was the first thing that hit me; this guy had short, curly, black hair that was beginning to turn gray! What the hell was he doing out here?!
He also looked like the illegitimate son of Sylvester Stallone and John Turturro, with black eyes, bad teeth, and a triangular-shaped head. He had reach, too.

He took one look and started berating me (at least, that’s what I thought at the time). He looked to his contact and kept asking who the “kid” was. He was here for a “real fight” and he wasn’t gonna beat up on “some kid”. And me, being my cool, level-headed self, responded in kind. He shut me up quick, saying that he wasn’t disrespecting me; he didn’t wanna hurt me. Go home, he said, do something real with myself. I shouldn’t be out here.

I asked him if he was scared. That made him mad. He gave up, and the fight was on.
I don’t remember much of the fight. He could hit. That was his strength; he could hit harder than you could. And he could take more damage than you could. You could stand toe-to-toe with him and I guarantee you that he’d knock you down first. Trust me on this.

In fact, I remember that vividly. I took a left cross, but before I could recover from that, he caught me again with a right. It felt like my brain exploded in my head and I could feel the force of the world spinning. It was like I hadn’t had enough time to recover from the first blow before taking the second. He knocked me down and knocked my hat off my head. I thought I was so cool when he knocked me down (again) and I rolled back to my feet, replacing my hat and telling him; “Okay, let’s go.”

Oh, what the hell. That was cool.

The moments we were in close were intense and insanely fun. I made it a point to never take two shots in a row from him and his balance was lousy. He was a hitter, I thought I was a martial artist. He had no answer when I started kicking.

But at one point, I caught him in the stomach when he was rushing me, and when he doubled over, I punched him in the back of the skull—which was a really bad idea. I screamed as every bone in my hand splintered, or that’s what it felt like. I couldn’t have unclenched my fist even if I wanted to. I hurt myself more him.

The fight finally ended when I caught him with a butterfly kick to the side of the head. I got back up. He didn’t. Jason and I collected our winnings and that was that…

Talking to him a week ago, my conscience crept on me. His words were perpetually slurred, and the woman in the background had to coach him through most of his speech. Did I help do this?
When I told him that I was working (ironically, back in Missouri), settled down (sort of), and off the streets, he actually laughed. He kept saying, “Good for you. Good for you.”

When I was training Tim and Ashley, I tried to talk them both out of the life. I understand now that back then, when I was young and stupid, he was trying to do the same to me. I have no romantic illusions about fighting or being homeless. Truthfully, there are only three possible outcomes. One requires that you beat the odds, the other two are not pleasant. One of them is fatal.

But we all wound up okay in the end, didn’t we?
So I sign off for now; I have to work in the morning.

This blog is dedicated to Pat Mason, a good fighter who was kind enough to look me up after all these years just to see if I was alright.

Seven in the morning is a great time to be up. The city isn’t quite awake yet, it’s not warm enough to be uncomfortable, not cold enough to be chilly.

It’s a good time for a run.

I originally started running because I was told it was the best way to keep type two diabetes in check (and they were right), but as I’ve gotten more into a routine, I’ve come to enjoy it.

For about forty-five minutes, my feet beat the pavement, my heart pounds like a hammer in my chest, and my lungs expand and contract as I regulate my breathing. For just forty-five minutes a day, I’m Busterwolf all over again.

I begin the run from the rear of my apartment complex. It’s a gentle downhill slope to start before crossing to the left and beginning the incline through a small suburb, just west of an old abandoned shoe factory. I’ll run over the highway and make my way to the park before doubling back.

I’m thirty-two years old. I’m physically past my fighting prime, but any fighter will tell you, you can’t just turn your instincts off and on, even if your body won’t keep up anymore. Although I can still fight, it’s not like it used to be, and it never will be again. I may never accept this.

I also use the morning run as a chance to brace myself for the coming day. When I walk in that door, and approach my desk, I’m stepping into the ring. My opponents are going to be the hundred-plus people I call that day. I secure a victory by out-thinking and outmaneuvering them, getting to the heart of their objections so I not only sell them something I believe is of better value than what they’ve got, but make sure that they are comfortable with it when I hang up the phone.

This is how I fight now.

So maybe, when I’m running, I’m not bracing myself for work. Instead, as I run, and my breath quicker, and my heart rate accelerates, I’m preparing for that one last fight. The one last fight that every great fighter has; where they step up against an opponent who takes them to their very limit before falling to the ground, defeated.

And then I realize I’ve been legitimate for two years now. I always feel as though I’m standing above this great abyss, peering over into what my life was, and could be again. I look back behind me at the rising sun and the endless land that represents everything I’ve done, and I know that my last opponent is, indeed, Busterwolf – taking me to my very limits, threatening to pull me down into defeat by tempting me into going back to the old ways.

Quitting this job, stuffing what will fit into a single bag, and heading back into the wild blue yonder.

But I won’t do that. I can’t do that.

And so I turn around, head home, and get ready to get on the phones.

The tenderloin area of San Francisco is not a nice place to be, and for this, you don’t often hear about it unless you’ve experienced it, or you’re being warned to stay away.

It’s not a large area; a triangular-shaped piece of land that runs behind Market street to Leavenworth. It’s the dirtiest type of ghetto; not even the grime is fresh. An inescapable, sour odor is present throughout the entire district, like week-old garbage. Last week’s newspaper tumbles aimlessly down the road, caught in a California breeze. A man who has been homeless long enough to resemble the building he lays against slowly reaches for the paper, buying himself a few minutes of amusement. I feel no pity for him; I’ve been hustling here for a long time. If you’re homeless and starving in the City, then you’re doing something wrong.

Or you don’t want to get caught by the wrong people.

Adult stores are adjacent to dingy, pay-by-the-hour motels. I always imagined this made it easy for the prostitutes to make money. People would leave the adult stores looking for a quick fix, the prostitutes who looked the best and charged the least didn’t have far to take their customers. Yet, four blocks up the road, there’s a large, gated park that comes to life with the sounds of excited, happy children. If you focus on the children, you’re won’t see the crack-addicted single mothers who come here looking for a fix. Nor will you see the toothless homeless men who act as middlemen for the crackheads.

But if you focus on the children, and the four-story Virgin Megastore down the block at the corner of Powell Street, this can almost be a happy place. If you know everyone, you’re fine. I used to come up here once a month, pick up my monthly allotment of food stamps, and unload them just as quickly. Sometimes I would enforce for the homeless, collecting outstanding debts.

Ironically, across the street from an adult bookstore and equally adult movie theater is a police station. It may as well not even be there.

It’s morning, thirteen years ago. I’m staying at one of these hourly motels, courtesy of the City. I attend school once a week and work nights as a security officer at the local Carl’s Jr. (referred to as Hardees in the Midwest). This morning, I’ve been up all night; as the sun rises, I want is sleep. At this point, my parents and I are not on speaking terms.

These are Busterwolf’s humble beginnings; I’m untested, inexperienced, and only my associations with the right people keep the killers from coming after me. Although Daune, my friend and mentor, often tells me; I will be tested soon enough. At this point, I’m foolish enough to look forward to it.

I enter the Aranda motel. The Iranian immigrant who knows just enough English to collect rent nods, grunting as I pass the bulletproof glass he lives behind. This place has been robbed four times and three people have been killed in the very spot he stands. I don’t blame him, but secretly, I wonder if the glass is enough.

The elevator is one of those ancient ones, where you have to jerk open the heavy iron accordion-gate and then watch your surroundings as the elevator struggles to raise you, shaking and shuddering every step of the way. I take the stairs. It’s only three floors. I need the cardio.

I use the common bathroom at the end of the hall (these rooms don’t have bathrooms) and then ignore my loud, angry neighbors as I make my way to my room. Sleep comes quickly, but two hours later, I’m roused just as suddenly.

What happens next, I will never forget.
A girl is screaming. Not the playful, happy screaming that comes from being with ones friends or even the uncomfortable scream that comes only when one is unsure what else to do. No, this is a scream for help, echoing from the depths of her soul, without the slightest hint of playfulness. This girl is screaming for her life.

Instantaneously awake (you learn not to sleep hard in unfamiliar surroundings) I go to the window right of my bed and hoist it up. There is a young girl barreling around the corner, from the right. I remember thinking that she was way too young for me to think she was so pretty. She could’ve been Native American; tan with long black hair that went to about her elbows. She was dressed in tight pink pants, and it was hampering her ability to run. Still, that wasn’t stopping her from trying. She was fading fast; screaming and the too-tight pants were taking their toll. That’s the youngest hooker I’ve ever seen.

A gaudy pink Cadillac that could’ve been stolen from Prince’s lot also barrels audibly around the corner. It cuts her off, tearing up its underside as it plows its way onto the sidewalk and ramming into the dilapidated chain-link fence. A-Pimp-Named-Slickback’s dark side, looking like an extra from a seventies blaxploitation film, angrily gets out of the car even as the girl presses up against the fence, her hands raised with her elbows tucked to her ribs. The scream has become a squeal. I can’t understand what the pimp is saying, but I’m sure it’s about money. I can’t stop watching.

He grabs her by the hair, leaning in close, shaking firmly; he owns her. I can’t hear it, but I can read the body language. Her face is shining, she’s crying so hard. With her face raised to the sun, I finally see how young she is; can’t be older than twelve. What is this guy doing with her?

My arm hurts and I don’t know why. I realize that I’m clenching a fist, squeezing so tightly that my muscles are strained. Fuck this, I’m going down there—

He pulls something from his pocket, something black and reflective. He steps away from her, presses it to her head, and with a deafening boom the entire city can hear, something wet blows out of the back of the girls head, and she falls limp to the ground.

It’s as though I took a punch; I fall back to the floor and land hard, and I know I’m saying ohGodohGodohGod over and over again, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t know what I’m thinking, nor feeling. I’ve never seen anyone murdered before. She’s dead. She was there screaming just a minute ago and now she’s dead, it was a gun, he had a gun and he killed her—

I don’t know how long I sat there. When I returned to the window, she hadn’t moved. I was hoping she would. But she just lay there as if sleeping, feet outstretched onto the sidewalk, palms up,  head listed to the side, the chain link fence now a deep red.

Hours later, the Tenderloin has come to life. People walk past her as though she’s not even there. It’s not the first dead girl they’ve seen. It won’t be the last.

When I compose myself, I’m able to go down and look. I can’t take my eyes from her, and she would’ve been beautiful had she reached adulthood. I wonder if I should’ve done something. Could I have done anything? I thought I could. I know now that I couldn’t have.

I’m sorry.

Daune is the only person I tell this to. He advises me to keep my mouth shut. First rule of the street; mind your own business.

The tenderloin area of San Francisco is not a nice place to be, and for this, you don’t often hear about it unless you’ve experienced it, or you’re being warned to stay away.

Or you don’t want to get caught by the wrong people.

It began about a month ago…by happenstance, I came across two settings prominently displayed on my CRT monitor. When I first saw them, I was stunned, because I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Avery’s Documents
Busterwolf’s Documents

Unable to take my eyes from the monitor, I took a seat at my desk and investigated further. It turned out there were entire settings devoted to both halves of my psyche. The settings weren’t so disparate as to warrant me looking into some couch time, but I did note that Busterwolf preferred Windows Media Player. Avery, me…I preferred Zune.

Most importantly…I didn’t remember setting that up.
People have told me that my eyes are different in every photograph I take. Two different people.

This isn’t going to be some long-winded drawn out BLAH about me vs. Busterwolf. That battle has been fought.

One of the vows I made in 2008 was to make it through the entire year without being arrested. It was difficult at times, I even got messed with my local law once, but I did it. I have never seen the inside of a Mizzou holding cell, and God willing, I plan to keep it that way.

Something else happened along that road, and I wasn’t even aware of it until I realized I had stopped taking so many chances…I went straight.

I found that I had a hard time blogging because not much happens to me anymore. Jefferson City is not really a town where things happen.

Switching to present tense now.

I write. I work out. I talk to my children. I have a relationship. I shop (speaking of which, this is a good week to snatch up Hamburger Helper at Wal-Mart. They tend to go on sale towards the end of the month). Oh, and I cook. I find it therapeutic…and I enjoy working with knives.

With my financial aid fiasco finally behind me, I’ll be back in school in the fall. I plan to pursue something Business Administration/Creative Writing, but I’m not sure in which order. I’m doing this because I’m sick of being broke. I enjoy business, I love writing, might as well get something on paper that says I know what I’m talking about. And, let’s be real. Wits, cunning, and drive can only take you so far. A degree can certainly increase your earning power, and I would like to have a family…

Well, it’s not just that, although I had to realize the power of an education on my own…

I have a teenage son and a very angry six-year-old. I hope that when they doubt whether or not they can accomplish something, they will be able to look at their father and say that he worked full-time while attaining a degree and gave us a good life. After being gone for so long, I owe them that.

”Hope” is a word I like the sound of. I think I’m going to start using it more often.

On a side note…HOW IN THE NAME OF CAPCOM VS. SNK DID I BECOME THE FATHER OF A TEENAGE BOY?!?!?!?!?!

I talk to him and I wonder if they make a “Teenagers for Dummies” book. Was I this monosyllabic when my mother tried to find out what was going on with me?!

He doesn’t owe me anything. I’m grateful I get to talk to him.

And then there’s my writing…which I am throwing myself into while I have the chance. I figure I haven’t much else to do now…and by the end of the year, I may be scraping for minutes to get words out of my head. Universal Warrior has a fan base, something to build from, and I will not neglect that.

So that’s it. Presuming the worst in every situation doesn’t allow for much hope, and without hope, dreams die. Instead of expecting to become someone’s adversary upon first meeting them, I present myself as I am and take things one day at a time.

I am not Busterwolf, but nor am I Iron Man, insofar as the name establishes a new identity to hide behind.

My name is Avery.

This is Life As I Play It Now.

Out of the corner of my eye, in the rear view mirror, I see the road behind me. It is littered with those I have hurt, beaten, broken, and left with nothing. Some of these people tried to hurt me, some of them did nothing but try to love me, but none of them deserved what I did to them. I look back with knowledge won by experience and a heavy heart—I am sorry.

I comb over the past a bit more and wonder…no, I dare to hope…from events long ago, the pain I’ve suffered and survived, the sacrifices I’ve made, the things I’ve lost…have I paid my price?

I look to the sky. Is it square now? Am I even? Can I trust the good things You give me…is it finally okay to stop fighting?

Hypocritical question, of sorts; is it okay to stop fighting…even though I don’t know anything else?

Everything in my possession I earned. Everything I ever held onto someone tried to take from me, and every good thing I’ve ever dared to want, I fought for all I’m worth to attain. I have felt better when I fought for the good things in my life. My father, for all his faults, was right when he said that nothing in life worth having is free.

So when something comes my way, I don’t give it a second thought, I just enjoy having it—because I worked for it.

Nothing good in life comes without a price—right?

Feeling secure enough in my current situation led me to shed the Busterwolf persona, leaving the weaker, considerably less confident Avery in his wake—and there’s a lot about the world I don’t know. For example; I haven’t the vaguest idea how to work Photoshop. Just opening the program is daunting to me.

For now. I have books.

My point is, the sheer, unadulterated confidence that came with fighting, and the ability to stare into the depths of human darkness, and come away (relatively) uncorrupted—all that’s gone now. I don’t think I’ll be on the street again, and there is no need for it.

So what now…?
How does life go on without Busterwolf?

I look upon some of the people I follow on twitter, and the people of the writer’s group, and I feel as a child among giants. If I was more active in social networking, I’d never get anything done. I only recently learned who Nancy Grace was and the inability to carry an intelligent conversation frustrates me to no end. It’s like being back to square one.

I feel as though listening to people is an excuse to cover up my lack of knowledge.

And then there’s—one more situation.
It is the one good thing in my life that I did not have to fight for.
Instead, I’m fighting an internal battle to make myself believe I’m worthy of it.

What’s the catch? What’s the drawback? Why me? Where’s the game? Where’s the shadow to the light? Where’s the lie? Where’s the–

I need to stop.

I didn’t write this blog looking for sympathy—I will come to terms with this on my own. I have too. I’m the only one who can make myself believe I’m worthy of the good that’s come my way lately.

Putting these things in writing allows me to deal with them, and as always, I hope that anyone else reading who may be going through something similar realizes that they are not alone…or those that know can pass on some advice.

Busterwolf is indeed gone, a relic of the past.

Only Avery—Iron Man—remains, and this is my ground zero. From here, up is the only direction.

There’s this new dream I’ve been having lately…
There is a torrential rainstorm in a barren land. The rain is coming down with such force that I can’t see but three feet from me.

Thunder and lightning strike with enough force to make me think the ground is coming apart.

I’m dressed; black button-up short-sleeved shirt, black jeans. No hat, no gloves, no do-rag. This is me, Avery K. Tingle.

This storm seems to call the end of the world forth, but I’m not affected. I keep walking, unsure of where I’m going, until I see a dark figure ahead, moving towards me.

It’s me. Well, sort of. It’s…who I used to be.
Blue jeans, black sleeveless T-shirt (which I still own), the trademark blue jean jacket with the black star on the back, and the hat I gave to Drea almost four years ago now.
The gloves are there too. I remember there was a time I did not nothing without them. The gloves are running with fresh blood.

For some reason, I’m not surprised.

Today (real life now) I’m at the desktop, trying to get my two computers to like one another. While going through the desktop I’m surprised to find two sets of users, both with very different settings. In one folder, there’s Avery…in the other, Busterwolf.

Chilling to the bone is that I do not remember setting this up.
Also chilling are my friends telling me that my eyes are different in almost every single picture I take. I know why.

Busterwolf is not a monster, although he can be. He is a shell I created to protect my weaker self. I find myself no longer needing this shell, which refuses to go quietly into that good night.

So it’s time for us to face. In my heart, right now, I know I can’t beat him. I know just how strong he is; I made him.

This past week, I began exploring a photography hobby, tried red wine for the first time in life, I got to meet up with some of the smartest literary minds in the city, I landed quick work setting up someone’s computer, ranked in on a writing contest, and I even forgave a friend.

Even the martial arts have taken on a different perspective for me; my chi is much more aligned, time seems to slow down when I go through a form, punches and kicks find their mark with much more fluidity. It’s like I’m more fluent than I’ve ever been.

For all the fear I’ve overcome, there is still one more hurdle I have to face, and this is where Busterwolf awaits. I have yet to confront my own rage.

An interesting tidbit is I’ve always gotten a much bigger rush from fighting than from sex. With sex, I care very much what my partner likes and in fighting…I don’t care about anything but being better. I think less and go almost entirely on emotion. Going deeper into my emotions eventually leads me to rage, at which point I no longer care if my opponent lives or dies.

With sex, there’s always that point I will never go beyond, no matter how much I get into it. I don’t think I’d ever kill the person I was sleeping with, but I don’t know what would happen if I gave that deeply into my emotions, either. I think it’s because I’ve held back so much is the reason I’ve never gotten a rush out of the experience.

I take extreme measures to keep my temper in check. Very few people have ever seen me angry, and the few who have don’t talk to me anymore. It’s not something I’m proud of.

I look at everything I’ve screwed up in my life—my kids, people that loved me—and I have come to realize that what I have now—my writing, getting my children back, Molly—is my second chance. I am letting the past go, but I still have no idea how to healthily deal with rage.

I know that I won’t overcome—or make peace with—Busterwolf through some fight in a dream, that would be too easy.

No, overcoming Busterwolf will involve me earning the right to raise my children, finding literary success (my goal is to do it full time, for a living, but if I have to choose, I would rather be respected), and finally, at long last, get on one knee to the girl I’m supposed to spend my life, ask that very fateful question, and she says “yes”.

Yeah….I can freely admit I want a home and a family. And I would like at least one more child with the one.

When I start to find those, that’s when Busterwolf will walk away, taking the storm with him.

But right now, he’s waiting for me.

(It’s not about me, it’s about my sons)

Alright, Wolf…let’s you and me go….