My twenties are gone. Forever.
I’ve often been accused of being too dramatic, both on this blog and in “real life.” I’m too emotional. Too heavy and melancholy and not enough amounts of light-hearted and sunny.
I’m a sarcastic fellow. A dark fellow. A sad and sickly fellow with a twisted sense of humor that must often be tempered among the sunny masses.
The older I get, the more cynical I’ve grown — or devolved. However you look at it. More and more frequently, I tell myself there’s just no point in reaching out to others, again and again and again, just to maintain a friendship that will ultimately prove fatal. read more . . .
I recently went home to celebrate my mother’s 60th birthday (she doesn’t look a day over 38). It was a weekend of laughs and meals and car rides that reminded me how blessed I am to be a Zuniga.
And yet part of that weekend pricked a wound still in me. As part of our collective gift for our mother, my siblings and I converted a dozen home movies on VHS to DVD. We watched one over the weekend, featuring a 1-and-a-half year-old Tom toddling around with his blonde mop and quizzical facial expressions. read more . . .
As the grotesque mass of space garbage we call 2016 hurtles toward oblivion, people everywhere are cheering the prospect of a new year. Myself included. We’ve proclaimed this the worst year ever, what with a most bizarre election cycle, the deaths of numerous beloved celebrities, raging wildfires and natural disasters, and the opening of the first seal of the Apocalypse.
2016 wasn’t that great a year for me personally, either. I lost my first car. I lost my second car. I wondered where in the world my story was going, though, to be fair, that’s every year. read more . . .