Happy Fucking Birthday to me

*Not actually me or my mother's vagina*

It's July 8th, which means that 37 years ago my mother was in agony and horrible, disgusting things were spewing from her swollen and ruined vagina. One of those horrible and disgusting things was me. It was a hot summers day in 1976 when I came into the world and even though I can't be sure, I imagine lighting crashed and killed a virgin somewhere close by. Hell wept and heaven shuddered a collective gasp and the world would never be the same again.
I came into this world naked, screaming, and covered in someone else's blood which is exactly how I want to leave it. I am sure there will be the flash of gunfire and cordite will fill the air, terrified on-lookers will watch in horror as I am shot down in a hail of bullets and then someone who doesn't know me will look into a TV camera and tell the stoic reporter that I was such a nice, quite neighbor. Then one of my drunken friends will interrupt and push the innocent witness away, probably with a hand to the face, and tell the shocked audience that he always knew I would die like this.
But enough about the future, what about the now?

I don't really get the birthday thing. Why do we celebrate the fact that we were born at all? Every day we don't die is enough reason to celebrate but most people don't live enough to make anything worth celebrating. Most people don't live life to the fullest so why should they take time out to commemorate their birth? Why should they get to feel special one day when they live the other 364 like it's expected?
I've been almost killed several times. Mostly it's something stupid I did to myself but a few times it was someone else that took my death into their own hands. I don't use this as a reason or excuse to live my life every day, but it's good enough. I know what's waiting for me on the other side. I make no delusions about it but why should I let that slow me down? If anything it should speed me up and get me psyched to run out and get covered in someone else's blood. Not to the inevitable hail of gunfire, but just for shits and giggles.

But I don't, no matter how much I want to. Instead I write about it. I write about blood and gore and sex and perversion because I like it. I love it. I want some more of it. None of us have enough perversion, pain, or pleasure in their lives. None of us walk that dark road enough and get into dangerous adventures. None of us look into the empty eyes of the reaper and laugh.
But I am going to start. Care to come along on a ride down the highway to hell with me?



I write, it's what I do and what I always wanted to do. I've been working at it for nearly 30 years. I have more than 40 books available all over the inter-webs and in print, but the one I want you to buy and read is Paranormal Reality. I'm really proud of it and I want it to do well. Instead of buying me a gift, please just pick up Paranormal Reality.
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