Andrew J. Sheldon

writer, journalist, hired gun

He carried it on his shoulders, the knowledge that one day, the planet he calls home would be engulfed in a collapsing sun. All trace of anything he ever knew would be erased.

To know this and to still walk around concerned with trivialities such as the accumulation of his bank account or how others perceived him was the great absurdity of his supposedly modern life.

#excuseme teaser shoot. #nofilter #webseries #writing

#excuseme teaser shoot. #nofilter #webseries #writing

Got my name in #eastonpop magazine! #writing

Got my name in #eastonpop magazine! #writing

"Really? Carrot top?" - @pizzadate

"Really? Carrot top?" - @pizzadate

My phone didn’t autocorrect an apostrophe to “gods.” I guess that makes it Greco-Roman.

“Do you want to hear something my mother used to tell me?” Howard asked.

“Sure,” she said softly.

He closed his eyes and swallowed as he prepared himself to speak at what, considering his rapidly declining health, was a great length.

He started:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

The words just hung there for a moment.

“That’s beautiful,” Olivia said.

“Yeah. It’s a nice little fairy tale, isn’t it?”

 

Grant revered his son as a true sonuvabitch. For most, he elicited feelings of contempt in his blatant disregard for their well being or personal interests. He fucked with no sense of commitment and never worked for what was given to him. He was a certain breed of asshole that would eat an entire plate of fries apparently ordered for the whole table or flatulate in a crowded elevator simply because he liked the smell.

He thought his shit was ice cream and the world should eat it.

Grant saw this manifestation of freedom as a reparation for the sacrifices he had made, such as wearing a shirt and tie and working weekends and holidays, in order to provide that for his son.

Derek was a sonuvabitch, but he was Grant’s sonuvabitch. He was Grant’s gift to the world. 

And now #cats - #vh1bestdayever

Literally laughing out loud #reading Marc #Maron ‘s memoir “Attempting Normal” and eating #thai food so #spicy my nose is running. #lifeisgood #books

Literally laughing out loud #reading Marc #Maron ‘s memoir “Attempting Normal” and eating #thai food so #spicy my nose is running. #lifeisgood #books

Let’s do this #books #reading

Let’s do this #books #reading

There was a common perception to which she had constantly fallen victim: in moments of transition, she perceived herself standing in front of a closed door, her hand resting on the knob. She imagined turning it counter-clockwise, because to hell with convention. With a push it was open, and she stepped through.

Imagine the bitter taste of disappointment upon the realization that a slight geographical shift left her alone, the same unfulfilled person she had always been.

If there’s one over arching truth to it all, it’s this: tip your bartender.

A little #rainyday #painting project.

A little #rainyday #painting project.

She struggled absolutely with the issues that arose from her own human limitations. How could anyone truly know anyone else intimately without ever having known themselves? The years had places a dam in the synapses of her brain. The block prevented her from ever being honest with herself.

How then could she be expected to be honest with other people? Was she even capable of accepting such emotional honesty in the rare instance of its offering? Where is the connection in a social climate in which people guarded themselves as though honesty were a finite resource?