Something happened to James leading up to his fortieth birthday—sounds like a mid-life crisis, doesn’t it?—where he began to wonder who in the actual fuck he was. It felt to him as though he had been dropped into the world by a higher being for his own wicked amusement.
So, after many evenings mirror-gazing at the bearded fat face glaring back and quantifying his half-way-dead life, he chose to do something about it. He went to find himself. James crossed the countryside, climbed mountainous terrain, swam stormy seas, and spent forty days and forty nights living with a shaman who guided him into his unconscious where he inevitably spaced out only to return woke and understanding his only purpose for being alive.
Of course, all the above is bullshit. It’s far less exciting than that. One evening, after having a beer, then a wine, he began to rant and ramble and complain about his half-way dead life to his wife, telling her all manner of things that she was clearly not interested in. He knew this because she told him she wasn’t interested in it. She huff’d then puff’d then said, “why don’t you write this stuff down. I’m sure there are far more people who would enjoy reading it than I do listening to it.” He took another slug of wine and ignored her because he’s lazy.
A few months later, however, he decided to do as she suggested and write something that his future Grandchildren would be proud of, but probably, in all reality, wouldn’t be the slightest bit interested in.
James works full-time as an electrician, living somewhere pleasant by the sea in England where the cool Atlantic sea rolls in and the rich build glazed robotic homes to move the poor out. If he’s not riding his motorcycle, lifting weights, reading, writing, or playing the guitar like a hand-less deaf and blind mute, he’s spending as much time as possible with his wife and sons.