“THAT’S  NOT HOW YOU SPELL “FORTNITE” YOU MOTHERFUCKING BOOMER TRASH” is how I’d imagine a gen z punk motherfucker would approach me about this blog title. Joke’s on any potential gen z strawman motherfucker I just stitched together in this post, because I’m a millennial (1988 BITCHES!!!!), But if that were the case, then I would have to assume that you motherfuckers aren’t getting a proper education in those damn schools our tax dollars pay for. We spend more on war than we do a proper education, but that’s a rant for another day. Until then, I think I need to give an English lesson on what a “Fortnight” actually is.

A Fornight a measure of time referencing a span of two weeks, roughly the amount of time I have until I’m a married man. Two weeks! Two weeks! Two weeks! Litterally everyone at the family party I went to this weekend uttered the same thing, or some variant of it. “Two more weeks” they said, “We’ll see you in two more weeks” they said. “Y’ALL ARE GETTING MARRIED IN TWO WEEKS! AREN’T YOU SO EXCITED?!” To which I’d respond with some variant of “yes”, and “sure. We’d often get asked if we were ready, which to that I responded “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be”. As I made a beeline for the kitchen to stuff my face with more food, I’d get stopped by a member of my Fiancee’s family who I hadn’t seen since last year who’d ask the same fucking questions. I was so overwhelmed, and tired that I really didn’t think anything of it. As you know from history, the morning after is quite an affair once I’ve mentally processed some shit.

NIGGA WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN I’M GETTING MARRIED IN TWO WEEKS?! WHERE IN THE CRISPY, GOLDEN, KENTUCKY FRIED FUCK DID ALL THAT TIME GO?! Seriously though, yesterday we looked at the venue, got an estimate followed by a lecture from my fiancee about being more financially responsible right after I spent $500 on a 4K TV, followed by her laying down the hammer when my spending got out of control (this is a story for a blog I plan on writing soon on the subject of money). Seriously though, this year just flew the fuck by. One minute, we’re just getting started; the next, we’re about 12 days away from getting married. You wanna know how I really feel? I’m pretty excited, but there’s also one emotion I didn’t feel like conveying to people. I’ve been feeling it for a couple of weeks now.

I’M PRETTY FUCKING TERRIFIED!

I sometimes sit back, and wonder

“Are you sure God chose the right guy for the job”?

The last few months have really made me come face to face with insecurities, and wounds that I’ve attempted to bury in the mess of life instead of getting help for them. The ugliness of said wounds has come full circle in my though process, my general mood, and in things said on social media I wish I could take back. The years of my dad’s emotional abuse still haunt me more than I’m willing to admit. There seems to be this long history of that abuse from his bloodline. I’m essentially tasked with break a generational curse, and I some days wonder if I’m up to that. Sometimes I wonder, what if I fail? What if I fight so hard not to be my dad, I inadvertently become my dad? What if I go the Anakin Skywalker route, and my obsession with being better, and more efficient leads me to the darkness.

I look in the mirror, and at old pictures, and are faced with the fact that I’m pretty much a spitting image of my dad. In many ways, I’m him without even trying. I have an uncanny proficiency in electronics, I know how to Jerry rig many things. I have some of the man’s stubbornness, and to be fair, all men are inherently stubborn; but he was something special. Children will come eventually, and I some days wonder if I’m cut out to be a good dad. I’ve only ever learned how not to be a dad. While that’s good, I don’t have a crazy amount of blueprints on how to be a better dad. I suppose I can lean to my St Joseph devotion, a man of no recorded words in the whole bible; of course, actions speak louder than words.

I’m pretty sure I’m over reacting. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I guess I’m 31, and still fear failure. I have a beautiful fucking woman I’m about to say “I do” to, and I fear fucking that all up. God seriously entrusted me of all people with the great task of being this woman’s husband. To be fair, I’m sure the task of being my wife will be a massive undertaking in itself. Seriously, she’s getting married to some quirky Autistic guy who has an interstate highway obsession, is obsessed with electronic, craves visual and auditory stimulation, and has a crazy beard she’s about to put an end to.

Entering into marriage is like filling shoes that look like they’re several sizes too big. You know you’ll grow into them with time, but that growing will take what feels like an eternity. I don’t entirely know where I was getting at with this blog post except to say I can use some reassurance. I’m not the first guy in my position to walk into a marriage that feels like the equivalent of not simply walking into Mordor. I somehow have to dodge Sauron’s gauge, and hope the Calvary will arrive with the battle cry “FOR FLEMMINGS!”

Life is just too damn short. I blink, and we’re about to get married. I blink again, and we’ll probably have a couple of kids. I blink, and we’ll hopefully old and gray while sitting in an RV off the grid somewhere. I blink, and then one of us might be gone from the world while the other gets left behind wondering where all the time went. It would be nice if time slowed just a bit, or maybe I need to get better at enjoying the moment. I just needed to vent a little. I blinked, and now we’re nearing a place that has only played out in dreams. Hopefully the next time I blink, I’ll be where I currently am, and I can just savor the moment.

Stay classy…..