Folks often say I should write a book.  I’m not sure why; I mean I’m only 50 what do I have to say?  I’ve gained and lost weight; I’ve worried about my weight and ignored it.  I’ve had children both mine that I did not raise and someone else’s that I did.  I’ve loved, lost, loved again, run away, saved myself and loved yet a third time, well enough now I guess.   I have pets, dogs and/or cats, a bird here or there.  I’ve struggled with ADHD, I’ve ignored ADHD.  I’ve had depression or so I thought. I’ve smoked, I quit, I smoked again and quit again.  I’ve buried a parent.    I’m lazy yet driven.  I’m thin, yet fat, I’m fat yet thin. I’m stable yet insane.  I’m neat yet messy. I’m neurotic and yet magically in touch with reality and right and wrong.   I think that I’m amazing and boring all at the same time.