Shooting the M1 Garand (in terrible form).
He loves dropping bombs on bad guys, from out of nowhere.
Pictured from left to right: Jono, Matt, Chuck, me and Wayne.
Manville, NJ (Summer, 2003)
It's been a little more than three months since I lost my little brother. The third month has been much different from the others. The constant, unrelenting emotional pain has given way to a cyclical pattern that begins with apathy and ends in despair.
As depressing as that may sound, within the cycle, there is a brief period of acceptance and a sense of normalcy. This is progress. Ironically, it's also the transitional period between the beginning and end of the cycle. Normalcy leads to guilt (How can I be OK when my brother has died?), which leads to depression (My brother is really gone.), which leads to despair (Why Jono, why not me?).
Finally, the pressure valve opens to release a cocktail of emotions which can't be adequately described by someone with creative writing skills as lacking as mine. The cycle has reset.
Half of me has an awareness, that, with time, the cycle's middle period will become predominant. Then, there is the other half -- the self-loathing, guilt-ridden man -- who feels guilty for wanting what his brother can't have: a future.
I hope God and Heaven are real.
I hope this suffering is worth it.
I hope desperate, hope-fueled faith will reunite us one day.
Look, I am not a blogger. Why? Because I suck at grammar. And sentence structure. And that one level in "Call Of Duty: World At War".
Obvious solution: ?. I understand that these are trying times and, thus, I am willing to entertain any offer north of $20MM. Originally, I was firm at forty million (cha-ching, bitches!), but then I remembered that I don't even own my domain.
That's all,
JCred
I wake up and piss excellence.