Hang Up The Mudgeons

Reality checks sometimes bounce.

Sometimes, they clear.

There comes a time though.

When a curmudgeon's gotta hang up his mudgeons.

He's gotta just say thank you.

What is a mudgeon?

I learned a new term the other day.

One I've lived and live but never knew there was a term for.

PTG.

Post Traumatic Growth.

Focus on the G.

Something sheety happens.

And you transform.

Into something, into someone, better.

Like a mother motherin' snake doc.

Now, I ain't perfect.

But I kinda thought I was.

I kinda did.

You kinda did.

Boy, did I get a reckoning.

To the bone.

Humble pie was served.

That sheet came on a big sheet.

Here's the weird part.

The pie tasted good.

This is some good pie!

🥧

I needed it.

Sure, it made me skinny then fat(ish), took my muscles, made me age, but I am still here, y'all.

Still ticking.

No tocking.

I still walk around like old (young) me.

But I know that's just me fighting a ghost.

I want to tell you how great grateful I am, but it's hard to say.

What doesn't keel you, makes you stronger.

Embrace adversities.

Revel in chaos.

Embrace the suck.

That's a lot of hugging.

Now I'll be the first to tell you, I ain't gone through sheet compared to a lot of you.

But there's another way to go after the PT.

You don't have to go SD.

Don't stress disorder, learn to welcome it.

It has no idea who it's messing with.

Welcome to the Chungle.

Invite it in (it's coming in anyways, might as well welcome the beech).

And then serve it some pie.

🥧

You dirty mother...

Thank you.

You know where you are?

You're in the Chungle, baby.

You're gonna live.