Here begins the journal of my life, but only from January 2, 2008, forward. It’s not that the events of my 49 years prior are insignificant. Rather, my blogging takes place the day before my phone died, well, my ear. It was my ear that died.

My posts are random and so not chronological except by happenstance. When I say random I mean random as shet. Like my thought processes. Each story as I recall them is believe-it-or-not, if-I’m-lying-I’m-dying true. Some accounts may be a weeee bit questionable if, at the time it occurred I was, I don’t know, in the middle of a suspected thrombolytic event when the doctor repeatedly asked me for the name of our current United States President. I know you are but who am I? Or quite possibly it was the summer I tried to drink myself into extinction to escape what I thought was the anguish of sudden onset sensorineural deafness with tinnitus so severe I could “hear” the ringing in my ear over the roar of 43 engines at
Charlotte Motor Speedway.

Every now and then I will reference the little town where I resided the majority of my 49 years prior. Not a great deal will I speak of
Henderson, I claim as my hometown, other than to justify why I speak da-way I does. It is not a form of speech impairment nor am I from N’awlins or the Virginia Tidewater region. It is not a product of poor education as I had excellent English teachers and I could very well hold my own in class. It is a dialect exclusive to a tribe of 40,000 give or take, according to the most current census. (This is important information in the event I speak to you at a book signing provided you are not one of the 40,000 folks from my hometown dat speak my same accent most.) My birthplace I will mention so many times you will wonder what on earth you were thinking when you decided to get in a long-ass line for an autographed copy of my book in the first place. I mean, when it becomes a book. I was birfed at Camp Lejeune ( in Jacksonville, North Carolina, at danaval hospital dare. (This is important information in the event YOU speak to me at a book signing because I won’t hear your ass.)

At some point in my education I learned most folks are born with five basic senses: sight, touch, sound, taste, and smell. On January 2, 2008, I lost the sense of sound leaving me with a mere four. Not fair, I thought, and ohshet did I struggle with my loss. That is when I became a green dot collector at the psychiatric facility. If the green stickers were square-shaped I could have easily filled enough S & H Green Stamp books to redeem for dozens of pink melamine place settings.

I compensated the best way I knew how with only four senses until I discovered I could replace the lost one with a new one, the sense of humor. I certainly don’t mean I turned into a stand-up comedian. I’m a wanna-be-writer not a speaker. Besides, one of my newer diagnoses of epilepsy further complicates my ability to communicate. Like a scene right out of 50 FIRST DATES starring Drew Barrymore:

Patient #1: Do you know who that guy is?
Patient #2: Dude, I don't even know who I am.

Unlike the deafness which is permanent (likes when you dies, it be permnet), the epilepsy can be treated with helmet meds, a well-known household expression in our home unfortunately.

The simplest tasks of an adult hearing person with sudden onset deafness became and continues to be surprisingly difficult and frustrating beyond words. Yet, at the same time,something as effortless as pulling up to a drive-thru for a burger and a shake became and, law has mercy, continues to be a fiasco worthy of late-night comedy material. Iffn you don’t belief me, axt my baby girl.

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