Such exquisite torture, this writing humbuggery. Dear Mom, before I sat down to write this, 42 years went by. Together, we braved a world confused by a white, single parent and a mixed-race kid in the 1970s. I existed in a cloud of gap-toothed uncertainty. Got in fights with boys. Played baseball in the street. Asked you about the rules of football. Wanted to be called Roger. We meet again in some far-off place,. I took a trip to my.

My brain thinks differently than the rest of the world. Almost 25 years on this earth and I just cannot understand country music.