Some brutal honesty and refreshing candor written in poetic words that are a real treat. Check this out.
Photo by Gregory Culmer on Unsplash
I used to have a big bucket. So big in fact, I never bothered making lists. I just did anything I wanted.
I scuba-dived, trekked across rainforests and jungles, climbed Mayan temples, honeymooned in paradise, sailed yachts, piloted airplanes, wore gold watches, built financial empires, cavorted with prostitutes, powdered my nose with blow, briefly retired at age 36… that kind of big.
Fate smashed my bucket two decades ago.
I now have neither bucket nor pot to piss in, but I’m happier than ever… how’s that possible?
Because my bucket, you see, was riddled with holes, that no list — no matter how long or exotic— could plug. It took me years to figure out I was scratching the wrong itch. My thirst for adventure was masking a yearning to reconnect with my wild side. The bling and blow were desperate cries for attention…
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