Today sucked. Mostly in the fact that I messed up in an article that was published last week.

I said that someone was the owner of a local establishment when he was, in fact, not. His brother was.

When I called the place for the interview, I asked for an owner. The response was, "Sure, he's right here, his name is Joe," and the phone was passed on. The guy had the same last name of the establishment I was calling, so I put two and two together and there you have it. A mistake.

I should've double-checked. I almost always do. That time I assumed incorrectly and it sucks, because someone sent an e-mail in to the paper about it.

I hate mistakes, no matter how minor. I remedied it best I could. In fact, the actual owner kind of laughed it off and didn't care. But, we are running a retraction.

Blegh. This week is off to a shitty start.

At least I get to train again tomorrow. I don't so much mind that.

Oh and, forget that 30 day challenge, obviously. I got turned around on it.

Plus, I already answered the cool questions.

woooweeee.

Hold on.

Wait. Do you hear that?

I think it's...

Yes. Yep. I'm breathing. For once. I've had no time to ALL. WEEK.

Not that this is a bad thing, my friends. Let me just explain to you the timeline from last Thursday, to now.

Obviously, I've been corresponding for the Times Leader writing features articles (Hello, awesomesauce!) and have had hopes of getting my way in there full-time. Now I have a foot even further into the door - I chill with the dead on Sunday and Monday nights.

I'm a part-time obit clerk (whilst still writing features). Last Thursday I lost my freelance job editing acronyms because they could no longer afford to pay all freelancers. That SAME day, when I worrying myself over bills, my editor at the TL asked if I wanted to hop into the company doing obits part-time.

Of course, I accepted. In all caps through email.

So now I'm all TL work. It's wonderful. For the next week or two I will be training in obits and then taking on that weekend night shift.

Needless to say, the past seven days have been WOOOOOOO. Now they're more like WEEEEEEEEE.

And now I must write two home improvement stories I've been working on all week, as well as prepping for another on hula hoops that I'm interviewing someone for tomorrow.

Oh hey. I'm a JOURNALIST. : )

Day #24 - A letter to your parents.

I hope that you know how much people appreciate you. And I’m not just talking about me.

I know you both have had a hard time catching a break on ANYTHING as of late, but I hope you see that your work is not for nothing. Particularly in the past weeks when we lost Grampie.

You have many, many wonderful friends who are here for you. You had many people that you never in a million years expected anything from sending food to the house and cards and showing up at the viewing.

You are not only wonderful parents, but wonderful people. You never hesitate in helping others, you are always very considerate, you’re level-headed – I’m extremely proud to say you’re my parents.

I only hope that one day, I can be half the parents you are.

Day #23 - Something you crave for a lot.

Domino's cheesy bread. That stuff is the devil. It's just the perfect mixture of everything. And it's wonderful when you're drunk.

Clearly, I have not been holding up my end of the 30 day bargain. Before you start debating on whether to quarter or stone me, please hear this:

I lost a family member last Monday. My grandfather, to be exact. I now have no grandparents left to me on this earth.

Needless to say, these past couple days have been horrible.

I sat here and tried to write something about my grandfather, but it’s very hard. Not that there’s a shortage of things to say about him; God no. I’m just having a bit of a hard time. It’s a weird thing to deal with right now.

So, let me switch gears.

I did find a bright spot in this dreariness. In the passing of my grandfather, I found a reaffirming of myself. Inadvertently, my gramp helped light a fire under my ass. (Thanks, Grampie, I owe you one.)

At the viewing there were many people who I had never met before, but became close to my grandfather in the past years. The hospice workers that took care of him, for example.

When every one of this type of person was introduced to me by my father, three words escaped their mouths that brought tears to my eyes and made my heart stop with pride.

“You’re the writer!”

My grandfather saved every story I wrote and kept it on the kitchen table. Every nurse or old friend that walked through his door was treated to every single one of them. He bragged about me to everyone he knew.

Yes, gramp, I am the writer, and it’s all thanks to you.