Echoes of the Garage

📓 Saturday, November 22, 2025 — 7:38 p.m.

Today, Simba — my orange fur ball — was running amok in my small studio.

Slight fuzzy vision and the damn phone saying it was 4 a.m.

“Simba, shut the fuck up! Let me sleep, you fuck. I’ll take you out later.”

5:40 a.m.

Today — be the man you will become.

Alarm goes off at 6 a.m., and by that time you could smell the aroma of coffee being brewed.

Now Simba, you will get your walk, cabrón.

I put on his little green harness with the constellations on it.

Sometime during the day I had a moment of emotion.

Not sadness —

but a realization of why I had failed.

I had never held myself responsible to myself.

I always thought motivation was the way.

But motivation is always short-lived.

I always sucked at school… well, not always.

“School might not be for you.”

That’s what my high school counselor told me.

I married that sentence.

Probation, probation, probation every year in high school.

Then kicked out of two community colleges.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I tried all kinds of motivation.

“You have 5 years to get your shit together.”

Those were the words spoken to me.

No excuses — I had to do this or she leaves.

She eventually did.

But the contract stayed.

I didn’t get it done in 5 years — it took 9.

I graduated community college, made up 7 F’s, and got myself into CSULB.

I graduated from both with honors.

And yet I stood at CSULB graduation in Angel Stadium with extreme sadness.

Now what?

It’s been 3 years since that day, and I deliver bags —

same shit I did while going to school.

What the fuck.

So… am I done? Quit?

Nah.

I finally realized why I did well in school in the end:

I took responsibility.

Accountability.

Non-negotiables.

So now my writing might annoy some people —

but it’s non-negotiable.

And the drawing shit?

That’s becoming non-negotiable too.

I owe that responsibility to my future self.

And today, on my plastic-bag route, a strange calmness hit me.

I guess that’s what happens when you’re told you have a shitty liver,

eat with portions,

take your medication —

and when you write every day.

Writing has helped more than I realized.

It helps me offload.

And learn.