Story

On My Plate

I like to eat words.

Particularly my own.

You think I would learn by now.

But I have not.

I just keep saying things.  Making crazy stands on both important and non-important issues.

I don’t want any children.

I would never want to teach high school English.

No more dogs for the Keigley family.

I don’t want to live any farther south than Virginia.

Taking young children to Disney is ridiculous.

Like so many other times

I have found myself dining on my own litany of “never” and “I won’t” and “That’s crazy”.

And now

I have to dish up another plate.

At one point I thought they were over the top, too big of a commitment, for a certain type of person.

But now I have one.

A tattoo

that is.

Pass the plate.

I’ve already dished it up.

It says truth, written in Hebrew.

It’s on the inside of my right wrist.

Rachael went with me and let me hold her hand.

It didn’t hurt that badly, actually.  (Not nearly as badly as childbirth – something the chick before me tried to convince me that it would before I went in.)

In the Hebrew spelling, the first letter of the word is the beginning of the Hebrew alphabet and the last letter of the word is the last letter of the Hebrew alphabet – so it’s as if truth is balanced and is both the beginning and the end.

Nah – my mom probably would not have liked it, thank you very much big brother Dean for asking.

Any other questions?

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