EPIC

I'm fucking epic. I have an epic name. Cory Will. I live an epic life. I live in the raddest city in the whole of civilization. I know the most interesting people. We are collectively observant and effortlessly engineer the best fucking hypothetical scenarios to ever exist. Our conversation is unrivaled and airtight, rhythmic and fluid. Unceasingly thrilled and inspired. I threw the best traveling-road-show-party last night, ever...without any help. A girl made me boob-shaped cupcakes for my birthday. I have tomorrow off. Today is second Saturday. I have a head full of glorious, multi-colored hair. I wear v-neck shirts, and I look fucking amazeballs. I sometimes stare in the mirror at myself and agree to myself that I would make-out with myself. My chest is proportionately streamlined to my waist-line. I'm sweet and I have a good heart, and all the while I can ride a horse, change my own oil, field dress wild game with a pocket knife, roll my own cigarette, and I've never lost a fight I've been in. I'm not apologizing for any of this. I'm a shot of whiskey and a Bible verse. I'm a walking revolver. My momma likes my songs. She says her little boy is the greatest. I've spent the last 30 years being unnecessarily hard on myself. I've listened to other people for too long. I'm not arrogant. Far from it. This is just my "naked rain-dance" phase...to paraphrase a dear friend. If we're going to hold to the theory that we're all unpredictable, complex, multi-faceted beings, well then...I'm owed this. If someone had an intervention with me, I'd say, "I saw this coming."

Is that what you look like now???? Jesus. Herbert. Christ. You age well. Too bad looks don't really mattah anymore. I've been making eyes at you.

The Windmill At Which I've Lowered My Lance

I'm finally to a dedicated point. A plateau where I feel comfortable buying what you're selling. I don't feel like I'm sliding down the shiny edge of a thin razor, nervously looking over each side hoping not to fall, but longing to get off all the while. I am finally beginning to come to understand what I already know. The horses are comfortable in the stables and the need for furious running is only shown in flashes of white-knuckle focus now. Rested and weary, I can reload with efficiency now. You can't stop progress, and you can't deny preparation. I've rattled off long enough, headstrong throughout a vacant southern land, looking for my place at the table. Suddenly, a chair seems pulled out for me and a plate has been set. I am terribly focused right now.