So someone said I needed a journal, that it would help keep me sane and give me an outlet. I don’t know about all that. But I haven’t been sleeping too well, so I thought I’d try it anyways. Maybe at least by putting my life down on paper I’ll be remembered once I finally lose my face to one of those fucking dead pieces of shit.

To know me, you gotta know about my dad. Most important man in my life, or at least he was. My pops was the nicest drunk you ever met. It wasn’t even until I was about 8 that I figured out it wasn’t normal to walk around with a beer in your hand constantly. I love my dad, he was always good for a laugh and he taught me everything I know. Everybody brought us their fixer uppers. We was always out in the garage working on something. It’s cause of him I got my hands dirty at such a young age. I was always just into that kinda thing, and loved taking things apart and putting them back together. Especially when it got a “Atta girl” from my pops.

By the time I was about 10 things started to get real fucked up. I never spent much time at school, I liked staying home and fixing things with dad too much. And he was usually just too drunk and lonely to care. Truancy officers started showing up at the door, and when it’s 11am on a Tuesday and the man who answers the door is already two sheets, it doesn’t look so good. Then the DUI’s started rolling in. I wouldn’t even know what was going on ’til a cop knocked on the door in the middle of the night so he could bring me to a social worker for the night, cause dad would be killing time in the drunk tank. I hated those old bags, they always thought they knew what I needed… always trying to get me to go back to school, and giving me these little frilly dresses and shit. And they were always so old and acted like they were my grandmother. Like I needed them or something, but all I really needed was to go home with my pops.

Eventually the time I spent with those social workers got longer and longer, until one day they wouldn’t let me go home anymore at all. I’d runaway of course, but they always knew I was at home. But that’s where I should have been, with my dad. He needed me. And I needed him. Sometimes dad would get all cleaned up for a few months, and go to them anonymous classes and stuff. They’d start letting me go see him more. But he’d always fall off the wagon. So I didn’t get to stay with him for long.

That is, not until I got myself emancipated at 16. But by then it was too late, dad was sick… like real sick. His liver was failing and he was basically bed bound. He really needed me then. So I took care of him, and took over his little shade tree business. But if I’m honest it’s not what I wanted to do. I was saving up to start my own garage, where we could do more than just repairs. But full on restorations, like those crazy reality tv car shows you see on MTV and stuff. It was hard though, dads medical bills were adding up… but I didn’t have to worry about that for long. By the time the biters came, there wasn’t much left for them to feast on. I tried to fight them off, but… he was gone, if I’m being completely honest he had been gone for a while.

I hid out for some time, waited for the herd to move on. And as soon as I got the chance I packed what few belongings I could and jumped in my car to get the fuck out of dodge. I’ve been roaming ever since getting odd repair jobs here and there, and trying to avoid the death and drama. Had to ditch my old beater once I got to the ocean. See I heard about Arkley… and thought maybe I could make it my home.