.  This is the story of a guy who started a tradition by accident, and how it’s grown to defining the lives of future generations.  Okay, not really.  But the guy did accidentally start a tradition by being a cheapskate.

.  This was actually written early 2008-12-07 on my blackberry while I was on leave back in Missouri.  I haven’t really read it, but I did scroll through it briefly.  And yeah, I really did write all this shit on a tiny-ass thumb-keyboard. It was late, I was slightly drunk, and I couldn’t sleep. Just another semi-lucid depressive rambling. Enjoy.

.  When my dad was in the Navy and out at sea, phone calls overseas were still quite expensive, so he sent quite a few postcards home. At one point, he realized that he was spending quite a bit of money on them, and came up with a pretty unique way to save money on postage; he started making his own postcards out of cardboard. He would take a box from saltine crackers, cut each side down to the correct size, draw a line down the middle, and affix a fifteen cent stamp. Instant postcard that essentially costs fifteen cents.

.  This practice grew into a habit that long outlived his eventual retirement. Now driving a semi truck, he still writes on random scraps of cardboard in order to keep in touch with his more distant family members. Recent boxes turned into postcards have ranged from septic tank treatments to irish spring soap boxes. Everyone not familiar with this practice displays a marked level of confusion when first seeing one of the cards, but those of us who get them regularly treasure them greatly. All the ones that I’ve been sent share space in the box with baby pictures of ‘Lexi and Caleb.

.  In deciding that 2009 will be the year that I finally put a priority with writing and communicating with family, I’ll be taking up the “weird post card” tradition as well.

.  Or that was the idea I had, anyway. Looking around, I realized that the immediately available candidates for card making consisted of a carton of Djarum Blacks, boxes from camera lenses, and various liquors. My first thought was to just scratch the idea or find other postcard candidates. But then I realized that all I’m doing is hiding who I really am from my parents and friends. Sorry, Mum, but I really am just a guy in his mid-twenties who somehow managed to be divorced with two kids before most people ever consider getting married at all. I smoke. I drink constantly; every day, unless I run out in the middle of a work set and forget to run by the store on the way home. I get depressed and drive ridiculously fast and recklessly, hoping something will make me flip the car or bike; I think I’m supposed to stick around for a while longer simply because I haven’t actually died yet.

.  Waking up in the morning for me is an exercise in figuring out which part of the nicotine/caffeine/alcohol/painkiller cocktail is missing the most out of my system.

.  The only real happiness I have going on is caused by Cat or the bittersweet videos of the kids’ first steps and fire

.  Okay, see that bit right there? Those were the last words that I typed before I finally passed out sometime after 0400.  I don’t know where “and fire” came from.. I think I was going for “first words”.  I’m not really sure, though.

.  Seriously, other things make me happy; I’m really quite well-adjusted.  Not always when I have to go back home, though. Oh well.

out.