Well, this year - his fortieth, he is alone. He is now living in the house where he used to have to drive 600-700 miles to get to through all kinds of miserable weather; It is the house my grandfather built, my grandmother spent her last forty years in, my father retired and died in, and I inherited at that moment. I own it free and clear.
But it's empty.
I have all the family heirlooms; ten thousand photographs of all the good times I once had here, but no one to have them with.
If you've read my diaries and comments, you may have noticed I have a bit of an edge. It's a rough edge, it's sharp, and it tends to drive people away. It appears that it must be sharper than I realized, for I am now that lonely, angry, misuderstood guy at the end of your street who nobody comes to visit any longer. So this is a diary about God, the lack of God, and what happens when you put the importance of always being right before the importance of being amongst friends and family.