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Trust me, these bored games are far beyond your standard massive recall.  Mainly because they’re homemade.  Authentic crazy brain activity reminiscent of the turn of the second millennium.  Mind sets that I worked tirelessly on, day after day, refining and tinkering and polishing, only to watch them explode, crash and burn on their maiden voyage.  I’d blame the wind.  I’d blame others.  I’d blame myself.  And I’d build it again:  the exact same thing, to the exact same specifications, and with the exact same results.

Step One: we admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.

An endless pile of defective thoughts and dice and game cards and misunderstandings that I’d dump into a bag and heave up above the garage, thanks to the program.  There they sat, fermenting in the summer and keeping the mice alive throughout the winter, until spring comes along and the pile upends itself off of the randomly placed wooden planks and onto the Chevy Impala’s windshield parked below.

In the morning I go out into the garage and spy the damage, followed by the offending bag of rotten goo that’s on the cement by my feet. It’s barely recognizable, my crazy from a year ago, yet undeniably familiar.  It’s definitely my brand of stink.  I grab a mop.

Today: Don’t be surprised when old crazy feels brand new.  But now, I know enough to clean up the mess.  Hopefully.  God willing.

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