So, right now, I'm in the "best shape" I've been since my diagnosis.

What does this mean?

The eye of the hurricane? The calm before the fucking storm?

"I've got time."

That's not really something I can say. In fact, it's quite the opposite.

And if you've been reading this blog and my other online Journal—or you know me personally—you know TIME is an important thing to me and wasting it is a "crime" in my book.

Yet, I can sit here in the yard and 'babysit' my cat while she stalks a bird or just sits herself and enjoys the shade, and I can be quite content with that.

Not a waste of time, at all.

So, let it be noted, if I were to go into a fucking choking fit, right here, and fall over in my chair and die—I'd be quite OK with that.

'Just watching my cat.

Yet, ANOTHER fucking music night canceled!

The Walter Mittys got cancer when I did.

The music is fucking dying!

Yeah, so here I am. Another fucking day where I have blood in my shit and I cough up half a lung like Aqualung. But hey, then I go through all the motions of setting up my kayaks for a day on the lake and it fucking rains.

So, we end up in a bar, drinking beers and watching the World Cup. GOOD TIMES!

Then we go back to my house and drink Single Barrel Jack Daniel's.

YEAH!

Now, I'm fucked up watching The Beatles Anthology years 1964-65

Hell, yeah!

Or is that Hell, Yeah!, Yeah!, Yeah!(?)

A year ago yesterday a doctor tried to make two years sound longer by calling it 24 months.

fuck.

Well, one down, one to go. Yeah, I feel like crap this morning but I do most mornings and today with a good reason: I went swimming yesterday!

So, so be it. Here's to "one to go!"