An update so short it's not an update

I have a hard time juggling. No really. I have a hard fucking time juggling. When I was nine, my grandma Carol bought me a juggling set at some shopping mall outside San Diego (I think it was Carlsbad, to be specific). Back then, traveling carnivals and the circus were kind of cool, but this was 1990, so if I had any thoughts of running away with a traveling performance troupe, it consisted of me wearing parachute pants and living with the MC Hammer dance team. But, for a brief moment, and since my Grandmother was nice enough to buy them for me, I gave it a go. I tried to give it a go. Okay, I thought of an amazing routine and even had the outfit for it, but that’s as far as I got. In my mind, I would juggle a few balls in the air, listening to “You Can’t Touch This,” and ending the number by catching all three balls in my hammer pants.
One.
Two.
Three.

Applause. I would take that thought and carry along with it a win at the 1990 Amateur Talent Show Contest at the Idaho State Fair that year. Shyanne Tibbitts would finally be my girlfriend, and we would ride off together on the same motorcycle Tom Cruise rode in Top Gun.

I suffer from delusions of grandeur sometimes. I know this. I’ve known this since the 4th grade. I knew the phrase well before I knew what it meant. This may be why I decided to start a publishing business after my father died, despite the fact that I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. Most of the forty-year-olds I knew as a kid were old, but they also had a home of their own with teenagers and step-kids who call them by their first names.

I had a ninth-grade English teacher who would occasionally say, “All it takes is a dream to accomplish something big.” Maybe there was something else about a plan, experience, or something else, but if there was, it never printed in my playbook.

But that’s as much about me as I’d like to make it. 

Hey, Minnesota sports fans! The Timberwolves are in the second round of the playoffs, and it’s game seven tonight versus the Denver Nuggets. So there's that going on. 

Nobody gives a shit about cryptocurrency anymore, so I’ll save you the reading time by not explaining why I’m not yet a multi-millionaire and maybe I should have listened to Aunt Nan, who told me to invest in something more stable (Okay, Logan has mentioned this over and over as well, so shoutout to Mr. fucking Goldman Sachs down the road for his financial advice I might start listening to).

Let’s see…
The Trump trial still goes on. Unless you’re my mother, no one gives a shit about that either. 

Scotty Scheffler, a man of faith and a professional golfer, made history Friday morning, becoming the first professional golfer to spend time in jail and shoot five under par in the same 24 hours. Over four surreal hours, Scheffler, 27, a man of faith who once proclaimed his “identity isn’t a golf score,” was charged with felony assault for allegedly dragging a police officer with his Lexus while arriving at the course in the predawn hours. Following his arrest, he took a mug shot in an orange jumpsuit and rushed back to the course in time to shoot a stellar 5-under par that left him near the top of the leaderboard. You can catch the article here at cnn.com under “5 ways to prevent psoriasis flare-ups.”

The Associated Press reported that 706 people named Kyle got together in Texas yesterday. 

An attempt by the city of Kyle, Texas, to break the world record for the largest gathering of people with one name fell short Saturday despite 706 Kyles of all ages turning up at a park. The crown is currently held by a town in Bosnia that got 2,325 people named Ivan together in 2017 (I really want to follow this up with some snide wit, but I’ve already wasted enough time sitting silently alone for 45 minutes thinking of 706 Kyle’s throwing 705 fist bumps to other dudes who share the same name. Especially at the tail end of cold and flu season. SMH).

I should probably stop where I’m at and post this.

I know I tend to make this “Weekly wrap-up” more about me and my feelings. Moving forward, I would like to make it more about the world and the people who make it move. So, to wrap this whole thing up, I’ll say “Thank You” to those who follow us.

It's just that at 43 years old, I’m just now starting to feel the walls close in on me. I’ve spent a lot of life with great ideas and promise, but at the end of the day, there’s not a whole lot to show for it. I have a car taking up space in my mother’s driveway. My best friend and confidant is an 8-year-old dachshund named “Buttons.” And she’s not even mine. So, at the end of the day, if you’re even looking that is, I’m usually just left walking around the living room, wearing hammer pants with three plastic balls tucked inside.

Thanks for reading this,
Mike

By the way, Larry’s my actual best friend, not an 8-year-old dachshund named Buttons. That would be stupid.