Turns out, getting told you’re dying is a hell of a way to find out you’ve been living half-asleep. When the doc said stage four prostate cancer with bone metastases, I thought I knew my road. I didn’t. What I really had was a shovel — digging myself into a hole of old habits, denial, and half-baked dreams.

So here’s where I landed: I don’t need more time to pretend. I need the time I’ve got left to strip the BS, say the quiet stuff out loud, and quit acting like tomorrow is a guarantee. Spoiler: it isn’t.

I call myself a Simple Man, but don’t get it twisted. I wasn’t simple before this — I was complicated as hell. Angry. Distracted. Always chasing the next shiny thing. Cancer didn’t make me holy; it made me honest. Now I write because it’s the only way to get the chaos out of my head without putting a fist through drywall.

This whole mess stands on three legs:

• Survival Through Storytelling – Writing is my chemo for the soul. Without it, I spiral.

• Truth in Disguise – You’ll laugh at the sarcasm, then realize I just sucker-punched you with reality.

• Don’t Wait for the Wreck – I hit mine at full speed. You don’t need to.

So, no, I’m not here to preach. I’m here with a coffee cup in one hand, middle finger in the other, saying: Life hands you chaos. Choices are endless. Own them — or they’ll own you.

— A Simple Man