If you can sit down, take a deep breath, and make a list of every fucked-up thing that’s ever happened to you—every disaster, every betrayal, every gut punch life has thrown your way—and somehow, somehow, you’re still standing, still moving, still trying to make something out of this wreck of a world…
Then congratulations.
You’ve got something in common with every hero, every bastard, every survivor who ever clawed their way through the trenches of life.
Because here’s the truth—life doesn’t give a fuck about your plans. It will run you over, back up, and run you over again. And yet, here you are.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
Still you.
That’s why I tell these stories.
Not because I think I’m special. Not because I want sympathy or some feel-good redemption arc. I tell them because they happened. Because they were absurd and brutal and hilarious and dark, and because if I don’t put them down on paper, they’ll just sit in my head, rattling around like loose change in a pocket, waiting to be spent.
And maybe you’ll see something of yourself in them.
Maybe you’ll read about the time I got yanked out of civilian life and thrown back into the Navy like some bureaucratic joke, or the time I woke up on a cold jail floor with no memory of how I got there, or the time I stood on the edge of a decision that could’ve changed everything—and maybe it reminds you of your own moments.
Maybe you laugh.
Maybe you wince.
Maybe you shake your head and mutter, Jesus Christ, this guy’s a fucking mess.
But maybe—just maybe—you recognize something.
Because we all have those moments.
The nights we barely survived. The mornings we woke up different. The choices we made, the ones we didn’t, the ones we wish we could take back but can’t.
This isn’t some Hallmark bullshit about life lessons and silver linings.
This is about the real stuff.
The fights. The fuck-ups. The mistakes that haunt you at 3 AM. The things you did just to feel something. The people who broke you. The people you broke.
But more importantly, it’s about what comes after.
Because if you’re still standing after all of it—
If you’re still here—
Then you’re already the kind of person worth reading about.
The kind of person who has stories buried in their bones, waiting to be told.
So if you’re looking for something polished, something safe, something that ties up neatly with a bow—this ain’t it.
But if you want the truth—
The blood, the sweat, the whiskey-soaked regrets—
Then sit the fuck down.
We’ve got some stories to tell.
