Dear Tuesday,
I messed up. Beyond words of yours and my own comprehention, and a simple apology can't fix all those years of pain and suffering I was tourtured to live. I wish saying 'sorry' could fix it, honestly, I do. But what's one to do if everything they've ever known is uncertain? If every move they make is second guessed by none other than themselves on the simple fact they lost their confidence...their drive? Nothing. They can't do anything.
As you probably don't know, I'm no quitter, but I need to get away for a little while...taking a pause? Yeah. Sure. That. I'm taking a pause from what I call life, and someone would call 'misery'. If I'm not back within the next year or so, I can garuntee I got shot by an insane thug and some meth addict is butt-raping my corpse in a ditch somewhere. . .
How else can I put it? Me dying isn't very likely. Life won't fire me, unless it it's torchering my body while I'm finally relaxing in Hell. You of all people wouldn't know that I'm a horrible person; nobody knows the life I lives, Tues. And the only thing I will say sorry for in my life is not being around for YOU. You're eight years old, and I seen you for the first time yesterday...and I already love you.
I'm guessing you probably don't understand half of what I'm saying, and all I can say to make it clear is: I'm leaving, and I love you.
Your dad,
Grey Lewis III
"Clay Walker."
YOU ARE READING
Journal of Clay Walker~
Random"My preferred use to this waste of trees is to write mubo jumbo that comes out as impaired lyrics. But whatever happens, happens, I guess." Clay Walker is in a band. He feels...well, he doesn't nessisarily know how. He's not trying anything in creat...
