There are moments in marriage that make you feel like you’ve finally cracked the code. The chaos is over, the kids are distracted, and your wife—battle-weary from parenting and life—leans in close, sighs, and whispers, “I love you.”

That happened after one of our legendary backyard parties. You know the kind: sticky cups everywhere, a mystery hotdog left behind on the fence, kids hyped up on Capri Suns doing laps like feral greyhounds. The neighbors had retreated, the folding chairs were scattered like an abandoned battlefield, and Jo collapsed next to me with that perfect, tired, “I just want to melt into you and forget the children exist for 30 minutes” kind of sigh.

She leaned her head on my shoulder, eyes half-shut, and murmured, “I love you.” It was warm. It was cozy. It was the kind of moment that makes a man think, This is it. This is marriage done right.

But perfection doesn’t last in this house. It can’t. We are not allowed to have nice things.

Because from across the yard came a scream that could only mean one thing: betrayal.

“NO! MY DADA!”

And like a cartoon villain, Moira came barreling across the grass at top speed. Imagine a toddler-shaped linebacker in a dress, powered by pure jealousy. She tackled my leg, climbed up into my lap, and with all the indignation of a Shakespearean queen, declared, “MY DADA.”

Jo blinked at her. “Excuse me? He’s my husband.”

Moira’s eyes narrowed. “No. My dada.”

Now, I should’ve seen where this was going. But I didn’t. Because I’m an idiot. And because I was too busy being secretly flattered that two women in my life were fighting over me. (It’s never for money or chores or the remote. No—it’s for ME. Finally.)

Jo wasn’t backing down. She sat up straighter, brushed her hair out of her face, and went full lawyer mode. “Moira, I married him. He’s mine. I’ve been kissing him long before you came along.”

Moira, without hesitation: “Don’t care. MY dada.”

The other kids started circling like spectators at a middle-school brawl. Logan’s in the back whispering, “Ooooh, Mom’s in trouble.” Kara’s taking sides with Moira because sisterhood is forever. Slayden’s just chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” like a hype man.

Meanwhile, I’m in the middle. One arm claimed by Jo—“MY husband!” The other arm claimed by Moira—“MY dada!” My face frozen in that dad-expression of: I don’t know what’s happening, but I know it’s bad for me somehow.

The debate escalated.
Jo: “Moira, I pay the bills. That makes him mine.”
Moira: “No. He gets me juice. Mine.”
Jo: “He sleeps in my bed.”
Moira: “He snuggles ME in bed.”
Jo: “Okay, but I kissed him first.”
Moira: “I kissed him LAST.”

And then—because no toddler has ever lost an argument in human history—Moira played her trump card: she buried her face in my chest, wrapped both arms around me, and with the authority of a Supreme Court justice, said, “No. MY dada.”

Jo, exasperated, actually begged. “Please, Moira. Can I at least kiss my husband?”

Moira didn’t even look up. Just tightened her grip, shook her head, and growled: “No.”

So now, here I sit. A grown man, a husband of 13 years, reduced to being the prize in a mother-daughter custody battle. On my left arm, Jo, who’s trying to remind everyone of the marriage license. On my right arm, Moira, who doesn’t care about paperwork because she’s got dibs. And I’m just in the middle thinking: Yep. This is my life.

They don’t tell you about this part of fatherhood in the books. They warn you about diaper blowouts, tantrums in Target, and how kids will bankrupt you. But nobody tells you that one day your toddler will declare war on your marriage just to claim sole ownership of Dad.

And you know what? These are the days I live for.

Because at the end of the night, I may not know whose side I’m supposed to be on… but at least I know I’m loved.

hope you have people lined up to fight over you,
austininva

Once a year, there are certain rites of passage that every Virginia family must endure. In spring, it’s cherry blossoms in D.C. where you spend three hours in traffic on I-95, four hours finding parking and two hours waiting in line for 10 minutes of “look, flowers!” In summer, it’s beach traffic where your odometer reads “stuck in tunnel…” and then laughs maniacal in squeals of overheating! But in fall, it’s apple-picking. You load everyone in the van and head for the mountains, because nothing screams picturesque family bonding like paying to pick fruit that costs less at Walmart.

And yet, we do it. Why? Because fall in Virginia is magical. The air is crisp but not yet biting, the mountains are painted in fiery reds and golds, and every fruit stand along the way looks like a Hallmark moment.

I had us on the perfect plan: a drive through the mountains, windows cracked just enough for that sweet autumn air, but to keep out the last of the summer mosquitoes. Enjoy the drive, and then straight to the orchard for apple cider donuts, caramel apples, and the kids posing with pumpkins larger than Slayden. Mom was even smiling, which, if you’ve ever packed kids in a car for a road trip, is its own small miracle.

We wound our way up the mountain, marveling at the view. The ridges stretched like a patchwork quilt of God’s best handiwork. The Blue Ridge has this way of looking painted, like someone dipped a brush in a mix of sapphire and mist, then finished it off with a golden highlight. I was in my element.

Then it happened.

From the back seat, Kara at the time 6 years of age, and already a mastermind, my child who never touches dirt, the one who thinks hand sanitizer should come in a spray bottle for maximum coverage—let out a phrase no father ever wants to hear.

“Dad… I feel… sick. I’M GOING TO PUKE!”

Time slowed to a crawl. Birds scattered from the trees. My hands locked on the steering wheel. The problem? We were on a mountain road with sheer drop-offs on one side and rocks on the other. No shoulder, no pull-off, no chance. Stopping wasn’t an option unless we wanted to reenact a scene from Final Destination.

The car erupted into chaos. Logan started yelling “DON’T PUKE ON ME!” I immediately began gagging in sympathy. Slayden, sweet baby director of family chaos, clapped his hands like she was watching a circus act.

Jo scrambled like she was on The Price is Right, frantically digging through the car for anything—anything—that might serve as a receptacle for the unworldly substance about to erupt from Mount Karasuvius. Finding nothing, the one day our van was actually empty of all everything, she steeled her nerves, cupped her hands and shot them under the rushing river of yesterdays meal. I went limp, and almost feinted. Logan said what we all were thinking… ” EW GROSS!” Yes Logan, we all agreed.

“Here!” she shouted, thrusting it backward like Indiana Jones offering the Holy Grail.

And Kara… oh, Kara. She didn’t just puke into Jo’s outstretched hands. She performed a feat of precision under pressure that Olympic sharpshooters would envy. Every parent knows the nightmare of kids missing the bucket, the bowl, the bag. But not Kara. She nailed that landing like it was her life’s calling.

The rest of the car sat in stunned silence, broken only by the sound of Logan still muttering, “Don’t puke on me” like a soldier chanting a foxhole prayer.

By the time we found a flat spot to pull over and regroup, the damage was contained—but my soul was not. Nothing prepares you for the smell of warm french fries and cold mountain air mixing with your child’s breakfast. Nothing prepares you for holding your hands at arm’s length like it’s a live grenade while yelling at the other kids to “stop breathing through your mouths.” Ending this tale of woe, Jo threw the remains out the window, providing a meal to some forest creature. Even in chaos, we must be mindful of the animals.

But here’s the kicker: we still went apple-picking. That’s the parental law of sunk costs. If you’ve already risked life and limb on a cliffside road and witnessed projectile betrayal from the backseat, by George you’re going to pick some overpriced apples.

And so we did. We picked apples, we ate cider donuts, and Kara—because kids are resilient and slightly evil—was back to skipping between rows of trees like nothing had happened. Meanwhile, I was left with the memory of my wife holding a days worth of regurgitated food, who freely gave her sanity in service to the family. I watched my family, who I love running back to the fruit stand to get a refill on cider, while i lugged 800lbs of apples up the side of a mountain.

Parenting, they say, prepares you for anything. Wrong. Parenting just makes you realize that “anything” is far worse, grosser, and funnier than you could ever have imagined.

So, lesson of the day? Take the mountain drive. Pick the apples. Enjoy the beauty. But for the love of Virginia, pack a bigger cup.

hope today is puke-free
austininva

There are a handful of moments in a young man’s life that stick with him forever. First movie in a theatre. First moped. First time you accidentally turn a turtle into mulch with a push mower on a hot Tennessee afternoon…

I was fifteen, already half-baked by the summer sun, wrestling our old push mower across the yard. It made noises that no self respecting mower should make. Granted many of them came from prior instances of lawn-mower abuse. Running over a 4×4, running over a Car Tire. Running over 150ft of rope. My father ever amazing fixed it through them all, (the joys of being middle class.) That mower had one setting: angry. It rattled, shook, and smelled like burning oil, but it was mine to command. Or so I thought.

Then it happened. Thunk-crunch.

The kind of sound that immediately makes your stomach lurch because you know whatever it was, it didn’t deserve that. I yanked the mower back and looked down. There it was. A large… turtle? Most defiantly, no longer among the living.

I froze. My mouth went dry. My teenage brain screamed, I have committed reptilian homicide. I didn’t even know if you could go to jail for that, but I was ready to turn myself in to the local sheriff. I imagined the headlines: “Boy With deadly Briggs and Stratton Emulsifies Beloved Neighborhood Turtle.”

I couldn’t take it. I left the mower sitting in the sun, ran inside, and found my dad.

“Dad,” I stammered, “I…I ran over a turtle with the mower. I feel sick. I don’t think I can finish the yard. This is…traumatizing.”

My dad looked up from his chair, raised one eyebrow, and delivered a line from some ancient text, wisdom of the ages. “Well, son, you’re gonna have to move that turtle carcass and get back to mowing. Grass ain’t gonna cut itself.”

That was harsh enough, but then he added the kicker. “And I’m gonna need you to just mow till I get tired.”

Cue my internal teenage meltdown. How exactly is he gonna get tired? He’s sitting in the lovely A/C, flipping through a book, while I’m outside in 538-degree heat, committing war crimes against the local wildlife!

It was the great unsolvable riddle of dad logic. Somehow, until he got tired in the recliner, I was obligated to keep pushing that mower until kingdom come. It was as if our household operated on a mysterious union contract that only he had signed and I was bound by.

So I did what teenage boys have always done: I muttered under my breath, gagged a little while moving the turtle, and trudged back to the yard to finish the job. Every push of that mower was heavy with guilt and grass clippings and sweat.

That day left a scar. To this day, I slam the brakes anytime I see a turtle crossing the road, like I’m protecting the last dinosaur on earth. Meanwhile, somewhere deep inside, fifteen-year-old me is still mowing “until Dad gets tired.”

Moral of the story? Teenage trauma is real, Tennessee summers are brutal, and dads will always value a finished yard over your emotional well-being. Especially if they can supervise your character growth from the comfort of central air conditioning.

hope today is a good one!
austininva

There are a lot of things I didn’t expect fatherhood to teach me. For instance, the average couch cushion can conceal more snacks than a 7-Eleven. Or that toothpaste is apparently multipurpose—good for brushing teeth, hallway wall art, and hair styling gel if you’re really desperate.

But nothing—nothing—has prepared me for my children’s absolute dedication to chaos as a lifestyle.

Logan once led his siblings on a “covert mission” to raid the pantry for some kind of junk food, which ended when Kara came and tattled because they forgot to include her in the op the way she thought they should be including her. Slayden, for reasons only he and possibly God understand, tried to “eat” one of our ducks, while it was very much alive, but grabbing it by the neck and going for the jugular. And Moira? Well… Moira has her own brand of madness.

This last weekend, I was outside cleaning the workshop. The kind of sweaty, muttering-to-yourself job where you keep finding tools you forgot you owned. I had the garage wide open, broom in hand, and was actually making some progress when—BAM!

Out pops Moira.

Not through the door. Not by yelling my name. Oh no. She launched herself through the dog door. Like a feral jack-in-the-box in pigtails. She flung the flap open, grinned like a maniac, and shouted “BOO!” at a volume only toddlers and malfunctioning fire alarms can reach.

I nearly dropped a hammer on my foot.

I sent her back inside. She giggled. Thirty seconds later—BAM! Out she came again, shrieking with glee, this time hanging halfway through like she was auditioning for a horror film titled The Cursed Chihuahua Portal.

We repeated this cycle five, six, maybe seven times. Me, trying to sweep sawdust and an ever growing pile of “useful” things, in peace. Her, proving that stealth is less fun than giggling in your dad’s face every time he tells you to go back inside.

And honestly? I gave up.

Because at some point, you stop asking why and start admitting the truth: my kids don’t need doors. They’ve already demonstrated that dog doors are faster, funnier, and way more effective for surprise attacks. You realize that while yes, it is annoying, one day my little Moira will be 16 and slamming the door, and not cutely popping her head through the dog door, to “surprise me” for the 50th time in 12 minutes.

So the next time someone asks me why the front door is still locked but the toddler is already walking down the street chasing the ice cream truck with my wallet and a hammer, I’ll just point to this picture.

Hope today is a memorable on,
austininva

There are places a man carves out in life that are supposed to be sacred: a throne room, a fortress of solitude, a quiet wedge of time between dish duty and sock-matching. Mine was the garage. Not the two-car jumble of stuff—my new garage retreat. A chair that hugs your spine like it knows your sins. A desk where cables behave. A reading nook whispering “peace.” A board-game table that demanded adult conversation. This wasn’t storage; it was a manifesto.

Enter Moira.

She’s two, sweet, slightly feral, and loud enough to rattle the drywall. She burst in like the Kool-Aid Man wearing a tutu and the subtlety of a marching band. For an hour she treated my “sanctuary” like an Olympic venue—sprinting, flopping, giggling, and inventing new ways to demonstrate that proximity is love. Then she discovered I was trying to read.

Normal toddler closeness is not a thing in her vocabulary. She perched at my elbow like a small goblin, breathing directly into my personal bubble and performing what I can only describe as an elbow taste-test—lick. Lick. Lick.

I adore that kid, but I’ll swear on my DeWalt tool set: one more lick and I was Googling whether super-glue counts as temporary custody. At the very least a super glue infused time out! (I did not glue anyone. The thought is my therapy.)

She almost did get a craft-project–adjacent glove the night before, though. While I searched for an extension cord, she found a glob Play-Doh and waved it like she’d discovered fire. Jo wandered in, watched the chaos, and deadpanned, “She’s testing the structural integrity of your patience. Looks like it’s failing inspection.”

That’s the rub right there: there is no retreat. Your “man-cave” is just another jungle gym with better mood lighting. You can outfit it with ergonomic chairs and tasteful shelving, but if you have kids, it will double as the free daycare of the home improvement world.

Eventually Moira settled—briefly—next to me, whispered some made-up toddler poetry, gave my elbow one last audit-lick, and sprinted off yelling “MIO MAO!” into the void, leaving a trail of tiny footsteps and approximately three hundred unresolved nuts-and-bolts.

Conclusion: my next retreat will be soundproof. And in another county.

hope today is a secluded one,
austininva

There are few things more humbling than sitting down with your spouse to discuss the budget. It starts as a simple conversation about money and somehow morphs into a grim strategic war council where every expense is a battlefield casualty.

Jo had that “we-need-to-tighten-up” look on her face, which, if you’ve been married long enough, you know means bad news is incoming. I braced myself. The power bill? New brakes? A subscription service the kids secretly signed us up for that ships glitter slime from Finland?

Nope. It was the dreaded phrase:

“Our taxes went up.” Cue the ominous thunder.

Now, when Jo says “taxes,” what she means is we are being financially mugged by the local government for the crime of existing. And we were mid-sentence, her calculating with a pen, me quietly weighing the cost of raising free-range chickens on a city lot—when Logan walked in.

My oldest. Eleven years old. Still thinks Pop-Tarts are a food group and that jobs are something people do for fun.

He hears the word “taxes” and, without missing a beat, goes full soapbox:

“I hate taxes!”

Now, let’s pause here. He said this with the conviction of someone who’s had to itemize deductions on a Schedule C. Like he’s just finished arguing with the IRS about his 1099. Like he’s felt the soul-draining ache of April 15th.

But Logan doesn’t even know what gross income means. He just knows “taxes” sound like something you should hate.

So naturally, I asked:

“Do you even know what taxes are?”

He shrugs. “No. But it sounds bad.”

Reader, I almost stood and saluted him. Because while the boy has no clue what taxes are, he instinctively understands what they do, and that’s the kind of generational trauma you just can’t teach.

He’s never had to pay property tax. He’s never stared at a pay stub and asked, “Who’s FICA and why is he stealing my money?” He doesn’t even know we pay a tax on snacks that the state has decided are “luxury items.” (I’m not kidding. Doritos are apparently decadent now.)

And yet somehow, through osmosis or maybe just watching me sigh dramatically every time I open a bill, he’s internalized the deep truth of adulthood:

If it says “tax”, it’s probably awful.

I laughed. Jo laughed. Logan stood there beaming, thinking he’d just contributed meaningfully to our adult conversation, when in reality, he just summed up the entire American tax code better than most politicians.

So here we are. Logan’s officially on record as hating taxes. He joins a list of Virginians he can be proud to be amongst. His newfound hate of taxes that he doesn’t understand, and doesn’t care. He just knows they sound bad and probably want his money all twelve cents. And honestly?

He’s not wrong. He’s just… early.

hope today is a taxless one,
austininva

There’s a little-known rite of passage in the world of Boy Scouts that separates the boys from the dehydrated boys hunched over a questionable latrine—it’s called Merit Badge University. It’s a magical gathering of hopeful young scouts, clipboard-wielding adult leaders, and a buffet of overly ambitious merit badge opportunities, all crammed into one Saturday with cafeteria pizza and the scent of Axe body spray hanging in the air, if your lucky. More likely, its just 12 year old BO!

It’s the kind of place where dreams are made and gastrointestinal systems are ruined.

If you cannot see where I am heading today, its going to deal with gross food challenges.

I went in with the wide-eyed optimism of a 12-year-old ready to conquer obscure badges like Nuclear Chemistry, Architecture, or Bugling (which, let’s be honest, nobody actually earns). But instead of filling my sash with hard-to-get accolades, I found myself in an unaccredited extracurricular program—”Advanced Dumb Dares 101,” led by my fellow middle school masterminds.

The curriculum was simple: “Do something dumb and see who lasts the longest.” And like the proper geniuses we were, we decided to create our own badge: Soda Resilience.

The challenge? Chugging the Dr. Pepper we purchased at the Food Lion during lunch break.

Now let me pause here and say, at the time, I loved Dr. Pepper. We were besties. I drank it like water (because actual water was for suckers). But by hour three of Merit Badge U, someone brought in a two-liter bottle… and someone else doubled down. Before I knew it, I had four liters lined up like bad decisions at a frat party for 13-year-olds.

You know that scene in action movies when the hero realizes they’ve made a grave mistake, but it’s too late? That was me, halfway through bottle number three, surrounded by a gaggle of cheering tween idiots, one of whom had already thrown up in the fake tree after his own horrendous badge… Taco Bell Hot Sauce over load, A delightful game of putting somewhere around 45 of the hottest taco bell sauce packets into your stomach.

I don’t remember much of the following hours, just that I spent a full two hours doing my best impression of a Civil War cannon. Every five minutes, a staffer would poke his head into the bathroom to make sure I hadn’t gone to meet Lord Baden-Powell in person.

To this day, when I see a can of Dr. Pepper, my body shudders. My brain flashes back to that sticky, over-syruped taste and my stomach contracts in a PTSD spasm of teenage regret. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs—but instead of a bell, it’s carbonation.

The moral of the story is this: Pre-teens need adult supervision at all times. Not sometimes. Not just when they’re near sharp objects or matches. At. All. Times. Because whatever part of the brain says, “Hey buddy, maybe don’t drink a gallon of liquid sugar in a hot school gymnasium?”—yeah, that part doesn’t form until like 25 or 37.

So next time you hand your kid a soda, just remember: you might be holding the first ingredient in a very stupid science experiment. Only you can prevent another Dr Pepper incident… and I suggest you do.

Hope today’s a fizzy one,
austininva

There are a lot of things in life that I look back on and think, “Well, that was a choice.” Chief among them is the time I went to scout camp in Tennessee, and, in a moment of both optimism and utter disregard for my own epidermis, decided that every single water-based activity offered was a good idea.

Now, scout camp is one of those places where parents drop off their children, wave lovingly, and drive away laughing because they know what’s coming. It’s seven days of dirt, heat, questionable food, and rites of passage that usually involve rope burns and regret. But I was young and foolish, and water seemed like a great way to beat the heat. Which, sure — until you run out of sunscreen on day one and still have six days of full sun ahead of you.

Swimming? Check.

Canoeing? You bet.

Mile swim? Because apparently I thought I was a Navy SEAL.

Lifesaving merit badge? Oh yes, because what screams “I want to survive” more than volunteering to wrestle a panicked 12-year-old in deep water while your back is actively blistering?

Let me describe the Tennessee sun for those who have never experienced it: Imagine a hairdryer set to “lava” pointed directly at your soul. Now toss in 90% humidity and the sweet, tangy scent of bug spray mixed with boy sweat. That’s the setting. And there I was, floating through it like a rotisserie chicken on a lazy Susan.

By midweek, I no longer looked like a child, I looked like a medical diagram in a warning poster. Red, cracked, flaking. My friends, to their credit (and with mild horror), would sit on either side of me in the backseat of the van on the ride home, gently peeling my skin like overcooked wallpaper. One had a bottle of aloe vera he referred to only as “The Green Savior.” The other offered scratch support. My shirt had fused to my back. I’m pretty sure I left a full imprint on the seat upholstery that summer.

The best part? I had the audacity to complain. As if it wasn’t entirely my fault for choosing every aquatic option in the hottest part of the South with SPF Nothing. I remember groaning in pain and turning to my dad and saying, “I think I need a doctor.” And he, ever the loving and supportive father, responded, “You need a brain.”

Looking back, I learned two important life lessons that week:

There’s no such thing as too much sunscreen. Don’t trust your 13-year-old self with medical decisions.

I could’ve taken pottery. I could’ve taken archery or wood carving. I could’ve done literally anything under a tree. But no, I went with “sautéed like shrimp on the bow of a canoe” as my summer memory. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Except maybe for a gallon more aloe.

Hope today’s a sunny one,

austininva

They say deployment builds character. I say it builds trauma—and back muscles, from clenching everything you’ve eaten for six to eight months straight.

This day marked the halfway point of my last deployment, which means I’d been sweating in the Arabian Gulf, just long enough to be cooked medium-rare. The heat index hit 153 degrees this day. That’s not a typo. I sat in what they call the “air-conditioned” section of the ship (which is just a slightly less angry oven), and wrote this in my diary, while trying to rotate my body like a rotisserie chicken. Half-baked, all I got to do is flip once an hour and I’m done.

Now life on a Navy ship is… rhythmic. Loudspeakers tell you what to do. You line up for food like it’s Black Friday at Best Buy. And most important of all, you listen when someone tells you not to go into the head (that’s the bathroom for all you land lubbers). Because the head… the head holds secrets. Horrible, squishy secrets.

This particular memory, permanently seared into my mind like overcooked Navy meatloaf, started like any other day: with a blood-curdling whistle and a man whose dream job must’ve been fairground loudspeaker yelling “REVEILLE! REVEILLE!” into the 1MC, or PA system, like he was paying us back for some ill conceived prank. This is your cue to wake up and pretend to function like a normal person.

I shuffled to the head to attempt what we call “morning hygiene.” The shower had all the water pressure of a dying camel’s sneeze, and by “water,” I mean steam so thick it could braise a pot roast. Brushing my teeth? No dice. The sinks were as dry as my humor. So I thought, hey, at least I can pee. That’s the one thing the Navy can’t take away from me. Right?

Wrong.

As I neared the toilets, I noticed a… rumble. A slight shudder in the deck beneath my feet. This happens all the time. The ship’s always creaking and groaning like your Grandpa getting out of a recliner. But then it happened again. This time, from the toilets themselves. That’s when my gut whispered, “Son… don’t do this.”

First stall: out of order. Second: occupied. Third: no door on the hinges. Of course. So I stood there waiting, while the ship gave one final Jurassic Park-style tremble… and that’s when it happened.

Stalls one and three exploded.

Not with fire. Not with gas. No, friend. With the fury of Old Faithful after Taco Tuesday.

Now, if your stomach’s weak, skip this part. Seriously.

Imagine cake batter. Now imagine it’s been left out in the sun, mixed with expired seafood, and then fired from a pressure cannon. That’s what erupted from those toilets. With a sound that defied God and physics, waste water (a term that doesn’t do justice to the actual horror) shot out of stall two like a demon had been exorcised through the plumbing.

And out of stall #2? A man. A hero. A victim. He stumbled out, soaked, dazed, bare-legged and broken. Covered in… well, let’s just say it wasn’t conditioner or lotion. He staggered past us, eyes hollow, straight into the “shower,” which, of course, offered only steam. I think he’s still in there. Still scrubbing. Still crying, maybe.

As for me? I turned right around and waddled back to my rack. Ain’t no way I was risking my backside in that warzone. I’ve seen combat, but I ain’t built for whatever that was.

So yes, I was halfway done with that deployment. Halfway fried, halfway roasted, and now… halfway traumatized.

So now, I hover over the toilet. You never forget the first time you almost became Old Faithful’s next geyser victim.

Hope today’s a clean one.

— Austin in the Gulf
(See what I did there?)