A while back my stepmom sent me a note from my dad. He'd been thoughtful enough to leave messages to all his loved ones in the event of his death. I thought it would be a good idea to do the same, so I spent some time a couple of weeks ago doing just that.
Have you ever written something meant to be read after you're dead? Mark Twain demanded that his autobiography go unpublished until a hundred years after his death to ensure that everyone he wrote about would be dead. It's not quite the same thing, though, when you're writing something for a specific person to read.
The first thing I noticed was the list of regrets I'd built up without ever realizing it. I have more regrets than I ever thought I would, and I'm not a regretful guy. Not usually. But it was odd how quickly they came pouring out of me when I started writing them down. I was surprised to find I was tearing up while writing some of these. I certainly didn't expect that.
Actually, I *have* written something before meant to be read after my death. I wrote a final GF for you all to be posted as a last message. It didn't feel quite the same, though, as writing to specific people. I hope I've made it easy for my survivors to find everyone I wrote to. These are, after all, physical letters in actual envelopes.
Nature turns to wrapping up another cycle of its life. The leaves fall dead, and the trees are lined with snow. The earth curls inward. The creatures sleep. The end of the year approaches, and we wrap up everything we can. Everything we can't? That's next year's problem.
And yes, I'm wrapping up Goodnight, Fuckers for the year. Next week is Thanksgiving, so my writing vacation officially begins once I post this. (Kind of. I still have GMF on Sunday.) I'll see you all in 2025. I fucking hope. And it's got to be better than 2024. It can't possibly be worse.
Can it?
(Cue the apocalypse . . .)
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