This isn’t going to be very funny, or witty, or humorous, my friends, but I still think you’ll relate to my son-of-a-bitch of an inner critic. In fact, I daresay you have one too – possibly a bit less crass, a bit nicer, but you’ve got one nonetheless.
I’m heading in to surgery the day before my 41st birthday. While finishing up my last semester of college I found a lump in my throat which I blatantly ignored as I studied for finals, wrote my senior thesis, and waited on the edge of my seat to find out if my Valedictorian nomination would mean I had to give a speech to thousands of kids, twenty-some years younger than I, wearing green gowns and caps with yellow tassels.
While I ignored this lady lump on the surface, my subconscious was busy deciding that I needed to move home to be closer to family. Everyone in my circle asked after my plans “where will you live?” or “what will you do?” I had no idea and, for the first time in my life, I didn’t see a clear vision of my future or of what I wanted. Read more