I found this little ladybug climbing my fan chain, which apparently is in severe need of dusting. I didn't have the heart to kill it, so I just let him keep climbing. He eventually got to the light, presumably to warm up...or roast to death.

Update: I captured him and put him on the porch, where he is free to live a life of religious fulfillment.

When I was 8, the shit hit the fan.

That was the year my parents divorced.

I don't remember much about my life before that age except a few things.

I remember being 5 and sitting next to my mom when she got the call that my 21-year-old cousin was found dead in his dorm room with a gunshot wound to his head. I remember being at his funeral and watching his casket to see if I could see his soul float out of it and into Heaven. I wasn't sure what a soul looked like exactly, but I imagined it was translucent and heart-shaped. I cried at the very end, only because everybody else was crying.

I'm still that way at funerals (sans waiting for translucent hearts to pop out of caskets).

I went to my step-aunt's funeral this past Wednesday and was fine until I got in my car to leave. I broke down in tears, yet I barely knew the woman.

I knew she played an inordinate amount of Bingo and had three daughters, but that's it.

It was a combination of things that made me cry. I cried for my step-dad, whom I'd only seen cry once before when our dog died. I cried for his 90-year-old mom, who suffers from Alzheimer's and didn't know she was at her own daughter's funeral. I cried at the thought of death in general, knowing that I will have to face the day when the people closest to me  become cold, empty shells rotting in the ground.

Death isn't very pleasant, but I think we all know that.

I remember my first day of kindergarten and having to wear a giant, bus-shaped name tag so that the driver knew where to drop me off.

I faintly remember a cruise my family took to the Bahamas when I was 6. My mom was seasick the entire time and told me to stop spinning around on my stool.

I have flashes of various camping trips we took with our church.

Then I turned 8, and that's when I start remembering things. Like when the shit hit the fan.

It's hard to be emotionally competent when the two people you trust most are constantly manipulating your thoughts and feelings.

It's hard to be proud of yourself when you're the subject of endless courtroom battles, all of which had to do with money.

It's hard, but I never blamed myself for anything, contrary to popular belief that children always blame themselves for their parents' divorce. I just knew life was really fucked up, and  that there was nothing I could do about it.

When my mom remarried and we moved to a new town, I did my best to make friends. I remember walking home with a heavy-set girl. We talked about Tomb Raider. Talking to  heavy-set girls in fifth grade was socially unacceptable, though, and my peers told me it would be in my best interest to not be her friend. Being new and absolutely desperate to  be accepted, I foolishly listened to them and ignored her.

Kids can be insatiably cruel.

Things only got worse in junior high. I was socially awkward, unathletic and good at typing. It was the perfect storm.

There were two guys who made my life a living hell. One of them moved away during the summer between 7th and 8th grade, and I remember how grateful I was. The other one continued to be a nuisance, but he eventually matured, and we even almost became friends when we were on the track team together.

I actually saw the guy who moved away at the gym tonight, which is what prompted me to write all this. It was the first time I've seen him in 10 years. I don't know if he recognized  me, but I couldn't help but laugh to myself when I saw him. I'm taller and more muscular than he is now. He also had a chin piercing, which makes me think he doesn't have any  sort of substantial job. Looking better and being more successful than your junior high bully is damn sweet revenge. But there was still a part of me that made me nervous to be in the same room with him. Old habits die hard, you know.

High school got progressively better as my physical appearance improved, which was a wonderful feeling at the time, but in hindsight is just pathetic. I cried at my high school graduation - not so much at leaving my so-called friends, but rather at the passage of time, which ultimately led to the thought of death. (I promise I'm not suicidal. I'm just an emotional extremist. You should have seen my reaction to the letter I got from my grandma who wrote about how lonely she was and that she was "waiting for the sweet embrace of death".)

The relationship my sister and I had with our dad grew increasingly worse as his bitterness grew unbearable, and he stopped speaking to us altogether when I was 18. I haven't even bumped into him anywhere in the five years that we haven't spoken. He essentially died when I was 18, and I suspect his actual death will be the next thing I hear about  him.

It took me until recently to realize that I don't have to love my dad just because he's my biological father. More people need to know they aren't required to love somebody just  because they're related to you. The truth is I love my step-dad, the guy who once told me he wasn't going to take the place of my real dad, but in reality, has done a far better job at  being a father.

I wish I could visit every junior high and high school in the country and convince all the social misfits that things do, in fact, get better. I wish I could get my mom and dad in the same room and tell them what kind of shit they put me through, even though I don't think I'd be capable of expressing it. I wish for a lot of things that aren't possible. I should probably stop that.

I can't cherish my past like a lot of people, but I can appreciate the effect it's had on me. I'm still socially awkward at times, unathletic and a good typer, but you know what? I like it that way.

"Just picked up some Diet Cokes and sleeping pills at Sam's Club. Life is good!"