10/7/2021

Shootingpotato Games

26

Prologue - Cat Plops in the Night

The game 'Super Columbine Massacre' was set to be released a century before the incident, in April of 1899 By Master of the universe Derek Smart. The release date was pushed back 100 years and it was so awesome that it actually became reality. In June last year, rumours speculated that Bully 2 would follow Red Dead Redemption 2 as Rockstar’s next game, and if such is the case there might not be too long to wait until we get to embark.

Why would an individual choose to write his own autobiography? Let alone an individual that's never led soldiers to any heroic victories, been a president, or even sampled an expensive steak? History so often shows that only stories of the most heroic/famous/rich are ever immortalized in such a way to be seen by generations. The rest of us settle for a small spot in the Sunday paper when weekly pizza outings finally whisp our souls into the great beyond. I've peered over enough obituaries by now to know if I were to be bitten by a rabie-infested groundhog tomorrow, and my family were forced into some 'Lassie-esque' putting me down, I'd be remembered only by inked lines resembling this: 'He was born, he worked, and he was bitten by a groundhog.' While I hesitate to disagree my life goes far beyond that lackluster description, I'm going to do my best in this small online memorial to go into further detail. Perhaps centuries from now, a historian of the common man will discover this and put me to the page of some great text. Perhaps. Allow me to begin from a point in my life of no real significance, and thank you all for enjoying this tale of my story thus far.

A cat's feet plodded softly by me while I lay awake one hot summer night. An old mattress on the floor was the throne upon which I slept in a home of no less than six bedrooms. They weren't my bedrooms, nor was it my house. That particular bedroom was used mostly for litter boxes, which the aforementioned cat now occupied in a closet to my right. Little plops and occasional little grunts filled an otherwise silent home. 'What am I doing with my life, man?' I whispered aloud to myself. Only one year prior, I'd been the sole moped rider in the small town of Buffalo I called home. In that short time frame I'd purchased my first car and been promoted to working at both Walmart and Pizza Hut. Humble accomplishments for having existed twenty years, to be sure, but at the time it felt as if I'd climbed Mount Everest. Friends and family were all migrating into stable, adult lives while I had only just attained my driver's license. Never once had I so much as went on a date. My sleepy eyes fixated on a weathered Spider-Man sticker above the bed, stuck there by a child who had become a teen and was writing his own life story only a few doors down. My thoughts were lost in the sound of paws scratching litter over fresh, hot nuggets. The smell would soon waft out to lull me into a deep slumber.

Part 1 - My Mom Names Me After Toilet Paper (Age 0 - 8)

Legends tell my mother struggled greatly with what name she'd bestow upon the child occupying her belly. An attempt to use the restroom in her single-wide trailer was foiled by an empty roll of toilet paper. Her hands had grasped frantically under the sink for any remaining brand, but found only empty plastic packaging long since consumed from. Just as all hope faded, the slightly scratchy texture of the modern world's least desirable tissue brushed her finger from a far corner. A wide smile flourished across her face as she brought that fortuitous roll out into the daylight much as she would with her approaching son. It was one-ply, but the name brandished across the front stuck would stick with her as the months passed by.

She was a woman of simple means, and most of the family hadn't fared much better. My grandmother had so often touted that we had rich, royal blood somewhere distant in the family tree. By the time I entered this world, those branches had long since been gnawed off by ravenous, capitalist beavers. Her home being paid off was all that allowed an Elementary School janitor's salary to suffice for raising a child. Little did she know her ginger babe would quickly blossom to over three hundred expensive pounds. My soon-to-be older brother and sister had already moved into fine estates nearby. My sister was in the process of starting a family of her own in another small, country house while my brother toiled to fill his yard with old muscle cars. This was the stage upon which I was set to enter. Absent on it was only to be my father. Little is known of Scott 'Diesel' Knox's father, and historians on the subject have uncovered few details over the years. By the time I was born, Papa Knox had already made his escape to a pirate island somewhere in the French Indies. It would be nine years before we crossed paths for the first time.

Back and forth mops would swing as I observed my mother at work each weekday afternoon. It was convenient for both of us that I could wander straight from my last class in elementary school to the janitor's closet she worked from. Her world had seemed so alien to me while playing with little dinosaur toys on the floor. Coworkers passed by with rumblings of current events and personal troubles. Words of drama that would surely send Long Lane Elementary into financial ruin were whispered quietly in the corner. None of those things seemed to matter within the confines of my innocent, Jurassic playground. What did matter was work. Being an apprentice janitor at my own elementary school was strange, as I'd often scrape my own boogers from under the desks. Mom would be mopping or lifting things that didn't seem physically possible for her nearby. It was from those humble beginnings she would later see me crowned kindergarten king upon my grandpa's lap. My grandmother, a retiring teacher there with many years behind her, had joined us. The Diesel is a man of few regrets, but I do often wish I could go back and spend more time with ole gramps. He was a huge part of my childhood, but for some reason I thought everything he did was lame throughout my late teens, which is when he passed on. Ironically, I now share all the same interests.

It wasn't long after I took my place as ruler of that small school that my mother determined it was time to move on. So many films depict parents uprooting their children and moving them thousands of miles from their friends for a career change. In small-town Missouri, a school about ten miles away was much the same. Second grade saw me leave the tiny town of Long Lane behind, as my mother moved on to be a Janitor at Buffalo Prairie Middle School. Buffalo was a sprawling metropolis of nearly three thousand, and the children of its schools were merciless at times. Aside from acquiring massive stockpiles of Pokemon cards in shady transactions involving M&M's and bubble gum, I had little success with my new student body. Indeed, my popularity waned significantly over the years. Yet, were one to cup an ear and truly listen, they'd hear the whistling of the Diesel train down yonder on the tracks.

Part 2 - My Brother Makes Me Fat (Age 8 - 10)

'Real men have meat on their bones.' My brother informed me over lunch at grandma's house while pointing a fork at the muffin tops hanging over my jeans. 'You're too skinny, boy.' For being about nine, 190 pounds seemed more than manly enough, but this sibling enjoyed sending me after pursuits that would take me years to realize were for his own humor at my great expense. My brother's approval was first and foremost in life, so despite my increasing jean size, I would eat and rush to the scale each day. When we weren't carving teeth into the grills of his muscle cars and old trucks, our time was spent on 'pranks' like these and watching funny movies together. We were nearly inseparable in his early 20's. No sooner would mom have me home from school, than he'd have me pinned to the floor sucking a line of spit in and out of his mouth above my face. My laughter/screaming was only calmed by focusing on his curly mullet bouncing delightedly about while praying the saliva line wouldn't break, sending the giant wad of hamburger and Dr. Pepper nutrients hurdling into my freckled eyes.

Despite growing up with no siblings at home with me, I was far from an only child. My sister would drop my two nieces and a nephew off most nights before she worked. We'd spend that time constructing great wonders on the acre of land nestled behind the trailer home. Were a lost opossum hunter or rabid coon dog to wander into those mystical woods, their senses would be overwhelmed with what seemed like a lost world. Shoddily constructed forts surrounded trees in every direction and stick arrows and throwing rocks from various wars were strewn across the many ancient trails that zigzagged among them. Old car tires rested at the edges of numerous, towering trash piles. We often used these as restrooms that could simply be rolled off into the setting sun.

As I grew, so too did the number of things my mother and I quarreled over. Her financial situation was in a constant state of being overstretched, and I was doing little to help her dating life. In a town where boys were raised to feed cows and confidently drive large machinery, my mother's potential suitors were surely displeased to find their possible future son-in-law awkward and covered in empty TV dinner trays. Were any grease-covered man of rippling biceps and country raisin' to enter my room at the time, they'd have found stacks of Playstation games, trading cards, Dragon Ball Z action figures, and Star Wars memorabilia. Poverty and stress had a way of making two people cooped up together say and do regrettable things. Little did we know our trials and tribulations would one day form a perfect bond between us.

At the time though, we both took a brief pause from those toils to invite my father back into the home and life for the first time in nine years. He'd been at sea for nearly a decade, laying waste to numerous seaside villages with his pirate bands. The Spanish treasure they'd hauled back filled the undersides of whatever large, wooden ship he captained to the brink of overflowing. As there were (and still aren't) any seas to sail upon to the small trailer his son resided in, he instead pulled up in an old, beat up car that fateful day we finally met. The trunk surely dragged in our gravel driveway due to the overwhelming number of jewels and barnacle-covered gold dubloons that filled it. He made his way through our squeaky screen door, and I shared with my dad the first hug we'd ever had the chance at.

In the same month I hugged the man that had so successfully avoided child support throughout my life, I also bore a ring in my twenty-two year old brother's marriage. So many years I'd listened to his expectations of a young damsel in an old Dodge to break down by his front yard, to be saved only by his mechanically-savvy hands. Rather, the woman that would be his wife found him by falling head over heels in love watching him jump through the window of his rusty old truck in a church parking lot. My spite for this woman would quickly grow to unthinkable levels. I watched as my brother became happier and happier while hanging out with me less and less! In a matter of months, I'd seen my brother's visits decline to a trickle. Afternoons went from shooting potato guns through car windows and drinking endless Dr. Pepper in his backyard, to sitting at home playing video games alone while they deviously smooched and spoke of new home furnishings. From that point on, my main point of contact with him became Sundays at church and the occasional Dairy Queen Blizzard.

On Christmas Eve, the day I dreaded, but expected finally came. It had been a month since my father escaped the dreadful life of a pirate and returned home. In that time, he'd realized that fatherhood was a difficult reality and the son he'd bore was annoying and smelled like roadkill perfume. There could be little doubt those swashbuckling marauders would call on his service again, and between raising what seemed a foreign son and the allure of new treasures, the choice was easy. For what would be his final act of fatherhood, he purchased for us a large telescope to look at the Christmas stars together on that clear night. His old vehicle never dragged its way back into the driveway though, as the pirates made off with him to their ship that was presumably docked at one of Missouri's nearby lakes. I fiddled with various telescope knobs on the back porch outside until midnight, when my mother came to inform me he wouldn't be returning home.

Part 3 - Home Schooled To Super Cool! (Age 10 - 16)

Much to my surprise, rubbing boogers on people and shouting about Pokemon cards on the school bus wasn't a ticket to fame in middle school. My popularity existed solely among lunch ladies, the cafeteria monitor, and some kids that I occasionally stole Yu-gi-oh cards from. Few today would find it overly useful listening to Al Capone explain the art of smuggling liquor into America. Similarly, I'll spare the details on how one applies gum to their shoes, bumps into nerds to knock their cards on the floor, and then steps on them to later peel off. We all smelled bad, and our hair spread dandruff like dandelion seeds in a Summer breeze. Genetically speaking, I was shaping up to be a dud in the lot. For reasons I'll never know, my sister-in-law regarded this person of slumped posture, annoying demeanor, and lazy etiquette with the makings of greatness. 'Look at you!' She cried out while I likely picked at my psoriasis during Sunday family lunch. 'You could change the world!' This woman that had so hastily taken my brother from me years prior, was shaping up to be my saving grace.

Her wish to change me for the better would be granted when, in my last few days of middle school, Big Bully Bob decided to make a death threat. As I flopped around on the leather bus seat making butt noises and my long hair sent dandruff fluttering into the face of every child, he informed me of his plan to bop me hard on the head and feed me to his starving chickens back at home. Their parched beaks had too long pecked only at the dusty surface of Buffalo. All green grass had been consumed, and those flightless birds hungered for something real. Big Bully Bob had decided only my massive body would suffice, and my sister-in-law would be the one to pull me out of school just in time.

Homeschooling changed something deep in what would be my soul, were I not a ginger. Seeing no other children, aside from a few church kids that also saw no other children, made me rethink my social mannerisms. My brother had just brought his first of four children into the world, and it was my task to assist with his rearing. For two years, my sister-in-law dealt with a young man that would drive anyone weaker than my mother into the cusp of insanity. I can only imagine the hopelessness she felt while listening to me make horrific honking noises and sing songs of her struggles while her child reached his terrible twos and got into everything that wasn't bolted down. Yet, she never gave in to the growing despair. Her efforts to teach, and my minuscule preview of fatherhood and time spent recollecting on what it meant to be a functioning member of society led me to be exactly that. By the time I was ready to return to High School, my brother proudly hired me for my first summer job as a 'Tool Getter' in the family HVAC business.

Shootingpotato Games

Part 4 - I Can't Get My Driver's License (Age 16 - 22)

Shootingpotato Games

When I once again began to wander the halls of Buffalo High School, faces that had scowled only a few years prior struggled to even recognize me. The strange, unpleasant boy of days past had been forgotten. The humor that had been so relentlessly annoying was now focused. The dandruff that littered my otherwise glorious hair...was actually still there, but I had purchased some Head & Shoulders. Over my first few years back I quickly worked my way across the various lunch table cliques in the cafeteria. The unpopular kid table I remained glued to through middle school gave way to the nerdy kids. Arduous efforts landed me spots with the dirty mechanics all the way through the big-truck country boys and sports jocks. I became known as a floater, and for the first time, friends of all kinds started making their way into my life. My brother's advice of 'You have to be a friend to have a friend' became my first golden rule that I still follow to this day.

Despite my growing fame among alumni, I was failing at the quintessential goal of every rural child. I'd saved up over the Summers working with my brother to purchase a 1981 Firebird for only $300, but had no license with which to legally operate it. The small-town cops that delivered tests had grown up watching The Dukes of Hazard religiously, and my inability to stop at a stop sign or even stay within a lane didn't impress them. I failed the test so many times that they required I take driving courses before attempting again. Had I somehow managed to attain that magical plastic earlier, I can only imagine my life would have carried me into the shoes of Chris Pratt or perhaps even the country's first ginger president. (Fact-check needed) Instead, I traded my beautiful gas hog for an Xbox 360, and my butt became permanently molded to a computer chair. A place it has mostly remained ever since. Having only left the state of Missouri once, traveling at speeds over what a foot could carry seemed a small price to pay for the latest video game graphics.

A mere year before both choice and circumstance would lead me out of the house, my brother presented what would be a life-changing offer. Years of my summers had been spent with him beneath spider-infested homes and crawling through muck. Throughout them, I'd endured my brother spitting things on me, whacking me on the head with insulation tubing, getting cut on sheet metal surely covered in the most terrible of AIDS, and other unspeakable horrors. So many times my brother had called for me under those grisly homes, that I'd loyally turn only for him to plant a wet fart directly in my face. The promotion he so graciously offered me was given as we huffed and puffed from being chased by angry bees. A raise from $3 an hour, to $5. Some foolish hand must have guided me that day that I instead decided to pursue a new career path at Walmart, for the early-retirement maker pay of $7.75 an hour.

It was those years that would become some of the best in my life. I took over the payment on a home my mother had intended to flip right as the 2008 financial crisis began, and from there on, my legacy began. It was in these years 'The Scott Diesel' was truly born. The loving bond I spoke of earlier between my mother and I would also begin to flourish in those times. What started as a 600 square foot home with little else than an old recliner that smelled of cat urine and a bed full of possums, became Buffalo's foremost party pad. I was one of few with a home in 12th grade. A rap studio was built. The dreadful box television that had been my cinema so long was tossed to the wayside as my now-minimum-wage earnings helped acquire the latest flat screen technology, and a surround sound to boot. Only my lack of a license held back the storm of average greatness that was brewing.

It was at this pinnacle of my existence that I decided the ability to drive could wait no longer. No simple car would do for a man of my accomplishments, and lack of ability to legally drive one. As a now 250 lb or so senior in high school, I purchased my first hot rod with a $1500 bank loan; a 49cc moped from the local auto repair shop. Over the nearly three years this beast served as my sole mode of transportation, I learned how much fun doing something different in life could be. I had no insurance, a small 'car' payment, and spent $3 a month on gasoline. Obviously, I was one of coolest drivers on the streets, but that goes without saying. My muffin tops exceeded the weight limit ever-so-slightly, which made it unable to reach the max speed of 50 mph. Sometimes people would throw sodas at me while I slowly puttered down the highway, but purely out interest in understanding the 'scooter man.' This was the name given to me as I provided excellent customer service at one of the few remaining Walmarts not yet evolved into a Super center.

My moped began to achieve its max speed as the massive bottom that eclipsed it each day decreased in size. It turned out that not having money made it difficult to purchase food, and not having food made one's weight decrease substantially in a hurry. I dropped from my original 330 lbs to a mere 160. The moped could suddenly do burnouts, and not just because I was too heavy for it to move. In these years I hit my dream weight, had more friends than I could manage, and had just enough money to have fun. Work was still something one did no earlier than mid afternoon. Television and video games were consumed in disturbing amounts while my friends and I engaged in endless tomfoolery. With some, I'd wander the woods surrounding their homes drunk after movies, looking for ghosts. Others would cackle with delight as I drove my scooter into a plastic wall they'd created as a trap behind my home. The simplicity and community this age brought with it have been unmatched ever since. I owe all of the friends I had during this time more than they'll ever know, as they shaped the happy person I am today. The innocence I had listening to adults argue while playing with my dinosaur toys so long ago was only now beginning to fade, and I learned that maintaining such a childlike joy and curiosity in adulthood was truly one key to happiness and success in later life.

P.S. - Coming soon! Be sure to check out 'Scott's Favorite Memories' at the end of this masterpiece literary work. Many of them are from this part of my life.

Part 5 - I Get My Driver's License! (Age 22 - 29)

The age range you've just entered will always be the strangest to write about. My mostly uneventful story has nearly reached the limit of what can be written, as God (or whoever/whatever you believe in) and myself are still writing it. Rather than send the car she'd driven through a good portion of my childhood to the scrapyard, my mother bestowed it upon me as a gift. The Red Dragon, named so by one of my closest friends for the smoke that rolled from beneath its hood, became my illegal daily driver. The back roads I once used to avoid traffic on my moped, now served as a means to avoid the law as I drove this vehicle to and from work for months. By setting up pop bottles on dirt roads deep in the Buffalo wilderness, I taught myself to expertly parallel park. When I later kicked through the testing center's doors, several elderly within watched in astonishment as I blazed through all sections like one of the Duke boys. My face and personal information were finally put to card. It was this newfound legal agility that allowed me to take a second job at Pizza Hut, and stack money like a rural Rick Ross.

At age 22, I'd inhabited my small Buffalo home for over four years. As I watched my neighbor whack his kid in the face one morning, it seemed fitting that there might be more to see in the world. With the savings my 17 hour days and overnights at Walmart and Pizza Hut had earned me, I began to attend community college in the truly massive city of Springfield. My fear of driving was still going strong, and only a network of back roads allowed me the confidence to make it each day. Many times, I'd simply pull over into a parking lot and hyperventilate while watching what I imagined were Los Angeles levels of traffic crisscrossing violently on north Glenstone. Little did I know I'd actually be driving in LA after a few years' growth, and even footing my way across London with only a map to guide me. Something Scott at this point would never have conceived while gnawing his dirty fingernails off.

Chaos and adventure had been the polar opposites of everything my life stood for thus far. Even leaving the house had often taken multiple friends to pry me from the living room couch. My boldness had grown greatly over the previous years, and suddenly my mind started coming up with new ideas. When my friend offered to let me live alongside him in a mansion spare bedroom full of cat litter, I didn't hesitate to accept. I left the confines of my cheap Buffalo home behind to take up residence in a room that cost virtually nothing. This is where we reach the point at which this tale began, and I consider those nights of staring at the ceiling another part of what created the person I am today; unafraid and always willing to try something new. The Scott Diesel.

Surely some record was broken by managing to make it entirely through high school with nothing even remotely resembling a relationship. Not only did I begin my first at the age of 22, but I also slowly learned the next golden rule of adulthood from those years. There are no bad experiences in life, only those you learn and grow from. The relationship would last through my college years.

During all of this, I left my job of over five years to transfer to a Springfield location. Only then would I know how great I had it fooling around with a bunch of country friends all night in a small town Walmart. It wasn't long before that big city life drew me in, and I found myself moving into a low income apartment above an old woman that beat on my floor with a broom. Were one to cough, fart, or type too loudly she would stomp like a withered hippo and screech like a banshee. One friend was bold enough to stomp back, and the hippo managed to use its hooves for calling the cops on us. I found little reprise in my new place of employment as I quickly realized the employees surrounding me were only surviving city life by the use of hard drugs and alcohol. 'Yer a funny fella.' My fellow inventory associate told me one night. 'I'm thinkin' bout killin' myself.' I survived two weeks at that rancid Walmart, and hopefully succeeded in convincing the poor creatures that inhabited it the value of life. I made my leave to work at a Kum 'n Go instead, which proved even more dastardly.

Shootingpotato

The gas station I chose was far from the worst in town, as many horror stories told by employees would reveal, but it still had a reputation. My first words with a manager were a story he shared of almost getting shot in a robbery. I had many favorite customers. A barefoot old woman, upset that we couldn't sell alcohol past midnight that purchased all of our NyQuil as a substitute. A dude that stole alcohol and warded me away only by flapping his arms and squaking like a bird, which subdued me in laughter. Even a homeless man who sneakily made his way behind me with a trench knife, only to run and hide in the bathroom when I caught him. He stood across the street for many a night, making calls to my store from a payphone to inform me of his plan to kill me. The police did eventually nab him one morning, as he made his way in to do so. Another homeless man, with no shirt, would come in most mornings to hang out with me while I provided him free soda. Sadly, being the person I was becoming, this ended up another of my favorite jobs.

When I graduated from community college and made my way to Missouri State University, I had a good savings built up. I left my dangerous career to pursue random jobs throughout schooling, just to see what they were like. At one point, I was a newspaper delivery boy for the school. Another, a computer geek for the school's accreditation committee. Community college had felt like home, as I was surrounded by my fellow impoverished man. MSU proved to be an entirely different world. Children complained of needing money while siphoning the GDP of a small country from their parent's bank accounts. One fellow on the shuttle bus even spoke of his parents giving him $1000 per job he sent an application to. I struggled to contain a growing animosity for those people over the years, but managed to survive and get my B.S degree in Computer Information Systems. While it was very much a 'BS' degree, it served to land me some pretty dope jobs over the following years.

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I found my way into a position as a web developer for a large Fireworks company, which proved to be explosively cool. Sellers from all over would visit my office to learn the ropes of working with the marketing systems I built, and the (like 8 total?) people I worked with were super awesome. Before even leaving college, I had a large office, jazzy furniture, and a salary that was starting to feel pretty sweet. Graduating college led me to a job with Expedia working on the various systems that drove their B2B sector. The people at that company will likely be the best I've ever worked with. I traveled to London with my team and fell asleep during numerous important meetings from the jet lag. Yelling random things across the office was the norm, and it felt like I could get away with anything if it made people laugh. I sang our Chief Technology Officer a musical in front of the entire company across the world. One could write a volume biblical in size just from the experiences I shared with those people. It wasn't long though that I began to crave something I could take a little more seriously, and escape the endless meetings the corporate world gave in abundance. This led me to a remote job at a government contracting company called Mobomo based out of Washington D.C.

I think the most important thing that developed me as a person through these years was having a mid-life crisis. There was a confidence I'd never known, that I'd find in traveling America throughout those years. By this point, I had still only been out of the Missouri area perhaps four times in my life. In the three remaining years to 30, I'd travel alone in California twice, the Rocky Mountains, Yellowstone, and many more hiking locales closer to home. I became extremely active, and lost the weight I'd gained during the preceding years. Once I joined the relationship I'm in today, it would see us travel through the Smokies, the entire Olympic tip of the Pacific Northwest, the Southeast coast of the Atlantic, and the deserts and mountains of Arizona and Utah. Not to mention, my goofy humor (literally only that) would bring me to a salary level I'd dreamed of since childhood. Indeed, these years of adulthood would begin to match the incredible times I had in my early 20's.

With these increasing delights of adulthood also came a great cost, as so many things in life do. Around age 27, I noticed my toes were ballooning into little sausages and turning redder than the devil's butthole. It took a few years to find a specialist that could inform me I had severe Psoriatic arthritis. By the time I was prescribed Humira, my body was covered in Psoriasis (as it had been since childhood) and my joints were so extreme in daily pain that I could hardly get out of my chair without wincing. Walking up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, I'd often hobble like a really ripped dude in his 60's. As a person that had shunned modern medicine his entire life, Humira made me do a 180. While I have no doubt I'm injecting frog genes into my gut, it took only days to completely eliminate the growing agony I'd been in for years.

Earlier in this grand text, I mentioned my interests today are almost identical to that of my grandpa. History, traveling, and ironically enough, working on vehicles have all become obsessions for me. I have no doubt one day I'll make both him and my brother proud by filling a yard with junky old cars. For now, the eleven vehicles I've owned since attaining my driver's license will have to do. After moving into an apartment to pull my life back together, I moved into a large mansion in the city of Nixa. This was done mainly just to see what it's like being a rich person. (Hint: It's a lot like Lord of the Flies, but with more boats and adult men wearing flat-billed hats) While I may have lost the chance to connect with my grandpa, the time I've spent with my mom, brother, and the rest of my family in these years has meant the world to me. Life has led me full circle from one of great stress, lonliness, and stagnation, to one of countless friends and incredible experiences with them and family alike. I never would have imagined the personal development I'd achieve by the age of 30, and I have everyone I've met along the way to thank for it.

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Part 6 - The Diesel Today (Age 30)

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Games

We unfortunately have reached the end of this tale for now! It is most unexpected that I already must return to update this text. As always, things change, and the pandemic has greatly affected multiple aspects of my life. Who knows what will come next? I could be carried off by some large bird of prey tomorrow. I could strike it rich on a pickle-juice stained lottery ticket I yank from a McDonald's dumpster. Coronavirus could tank the entire economy and have me living in my Chevy Astro Van. I could just randomly decide to live under a bridge. Who knows! Until next time, farewell readers. May your lives be as interesting as mine has been thus far, and good luck! I'll be back in a year or so!
-- Scott Diesel