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If you found interest in my life I promise you it probably isn’t by chance. I’ve come to the conclusion in life that nothing is by chance at all, and I have sadly received a great deal of karma for the things I did in my lifetime. I’m  not sure how karmic currency is measured or assessed, but I have sometimes found myself just plain out lucky to be alive. Do I believe in miracles? No, because I believe in fate, and I think fate was designed prior to our births. I believe we play a major role in our fate, and karmic interactions without knowing it. I believe when we stray from our purpose it’s all still apart of the design. I believe the pain that was created of my life, and taken from others is apart of a bigger plan meant to change humanity.

We were your typical young children, often venturing out into the neighborhood to play with other kids.  I was two and a half years old when my baby sister was born on January 26th, 1998. I don’t remember that day, but I sure can picture myself bugging my mom to pcik me up while she cuddled Whitney. I didn’t like Whitney all that much as a child, but I loved her quite a lot. We were always severely different. Whitney loved my mom to hold her (mostly because she was afraid of me stabbing her with pencils) and I loved to run around on the ground below my mom and demand things. Despite being jealous of my younger sibling, I needed a play mate. I regret all the things I did to her from the day she was born, although I was a kid. I always joked about how I wanted to be an only child. My dad was an alcoholic. He had various jobs and never had a college degree so he relied on local ties to score good jobs. We continuously ended up back to the town of Westfield, NY where both of my parents, parents resided. This was my fathers comfort zone. He had lived in Westfield since he was a baby and engulfed himself in all there was to offer, if not exhasuting those things several times over. By the time we were young children we had moved back several times. We were shoulders deep in our father monetary and emotional debts that lefted us in not-so-nice living situations. We were often in cheap apartment complexes that my father rarely paid on time, leaving the landlord to come knocking on the front door and only finding us kids and my solumn faced mother to contest with. My mother never really showed any sparks of admiration for my father, just frustration that fluctuated day to day. My mother was fed from a silver spoon in North Carolina. Her mother was a stay at home mother who went back to school and then did many different side jobs. She birthed three children; my mom, my uncle Tommy the 2nd, and my uncle, Chris. My mothers two brothers were ten years older than my mother. My grandfather, was a chemist with lots of schooling that once served in the army and traveled the world. He was orginially from England, but born in the US and spent his first 17 years of life in WW2. He did go on to write a book about his life that was published about 10 years before he passed away. My mother was still connected by the umbilical chord to her parents; as often as she’d like to say she was to proud to take anything from them. They often brought us groceries, lent my father money to gamble away and paid bills annonymously. I remember a time when my grandfather, whom we called, TD, had told me if we didn’t quit putting everything on my mother she would die. I’m thankful she didn’t. My parents were very different. Us kids knew our mothers side much more closely than our fathers. We had met our paternal grand-parents about a handful of times, and my father had three other kids about ten years older that we didn’t really talk to until we were adults. My mother, Jody, was a stay at home mom with a masters degree under her belt. Unfortunately, she decided raising my sister and I was her duty as a parent, and she chose to be oppressed by my father and not work. He worked everyday (if he heard his alarm while hungover in the bath tub), and then went to the bar everyday. We barely saw my father, I personally never really felt bothered by not seeing him. When he did come home, he would slowly walk in to my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She would be like a jaguar waiting to pounce on it’s pray, only to find out her pray was-another, bigger, jaquar. She would begin yelling and bantering on about how little money we had and all of his lovely vices. This was more hurtful than helpful, and it only gave him a wonderful excuse to keep the booze in his swelling round belly. I’m sure my dad was a good looking man in his youth, and my mother met him at 29 looking beautiful and ready to take on life as she knew it. She had moved to Westfield with her parents at 20. My mom is not the type to think things through, and easily manipulated. She never did drugs and rarely drank, rarely found herself apart of parties or night clubs. Of the few things my mother loved, it was school, animals, and dreams of businesses and ideas. My dad was different, he liked to stay in one town, wanted to marry a bar fly, and only liked one thing almost as much as alcohol ; money. Unfortunately he grew up poor, and as a child of six, this meant he was worth even less. I remember him telling us to be grateful at christmas, because all he got was a sled one year, and he sure did love his sled. I also remember him crying over a dog at three am while my mom, sister and I laid awake waiting for the drink to lay off him. We often found this to be the way of life as we knew it, and the same routine everyday.