Riverfront Seafood Company.

Sitting by the Holston, upriver of I-26 bridge and Netherland Inn, first dinner with mon ami, my spouse, after two weeks of my mother in-law telling me the (her) end is near and baring her soul to someone before she dies.

In my final year of secondary school, a career aptitude test said I should be either a priest or a chemical engineer.

The latter career choice didn’t work out as planned.

And now I find myself receiving confession, unable to repeat the deepest spoken thoughts of my spouse’s mother because the living should be able to keep their innocent views of their beloved friend/family member while they’re alive, even after she’s gone.

A request to hunters:

If you pursue beings that mate for life, kill the pair and spare the one from a remaining life of loneliness.

In the small world department, our server, Leif, from Detroit, met his wife who was a bartender at Rush Street restaurant (where I worked 30 years ago while dating my wife) who served Leif a pint “shot” of Jagermeister the first time they met.

Although now separated, remaining friends, they share the love of their eight-year old who can read at the eighth-grade level.

Thanks to Heather at the Colonial Heights Dollar Tree and friendly folks at the automatic/express car wash next-door; Rebecca, Cindy, Martha, Melissa, Sharon Huff, Dr. (not Gate City mayor) Mark Jenkins and beauty shop hair stylists; Kingsport Fire Dept.; City of Bristol Rescue Squad; Betty Denny and her granddaughter Ashley (hope your dog’s inner ear infection clears up); Betty’s pastor at Marvin’s Chapel Methodist Church on Boone’s Creek Road; Spotless Car Cleaners; Rev. Robert White; Joerns Easy Care 2002 bed; LG LCD TV; Prevail adult care large washcloths; Jolene at MeadowView Eye, Ear, Nose & Throat Specialists for rushing the hearing aid repair; Rogersville BP petrol and full service shop; and whomever else I forgot.

Question to self: is it really the end for her, as physically healthy as she is?

Do I take her confessions to me with me to my grave?

When my wife is gone, I hope I won’t have long to live because I trust no one else alive with the totality of my spoken/written thoughts, not even you, dear blog, spread across the anonymous multilanguage word trails of the worldwide web.

Humour will go with me to my last breath, one final sarcastic sigh escaping my lips.

I like the line, “Journalism is not a profession but an art because anyone can do it,” but not everyone can do it well.

How many species understand loneliness?

I meant craft or craftiness, not art, in the quote above, didn’t I?

I did? [rofl]

If you sacrificed your dreams to have kids and you hoped your offspring fulfilled your dreams but didn’t, what else is there to look forward to but the afterlife you’ve been promised?

Judge not lest you begrudge.

Every journalist is a spy.

Every spy lies.

Therefore, does every journalist lie?

I retired in 2007 for this? I’m tired. Time to stop rambling.