Flight #22 to Denial

By Sean A. Donahue © 2008

I was driving on the way to pick up my kids and the skies opened up. Down the rain came, washing my car but making it impossible for me to make any progress. I pulled over to the side of the road and saw a man.

I drove up to him as the rain continued to pour; my eyes were amazed as he sat on the only dry area around. It rained everywhere I set my foot as I got out of the car, but he remained sitting surrounded by bluebonnets.

"Why are you sitting here? And how are you staying dry?" I asked as the rain poured down my face.

"I sit here because I can," he said, "and I am dry because I choose to be."

I looked at the freak, but something was not right.

"You choose to be? It's pouring rain out; you can see the people, all on the side of the road. How is it that you are in the only dry spot around for miles?"

"Because I am dry and I choose to be."

The rain began to let up and I walked back to my car as I couldn't make heads or tails of this man.

I got in and started to think.

I couldn't figure out what he meant. My trip continued and the sun finally came out as the rain faded away.

I drove on and on with not a sign to tell me where I was, or where I was going.

Mile after mile I drove; looking at the gas gauge and seeing it was still full I continued.

After what seemed to be hours, I looked again and it was still full. I saw a sign for fuel and pulled off the highway to this small grocery store in the middle of nowhere. There were people everywhere as I tried to pull up to the gas tank.

I watched as a girl of ten, wearing a pink dress and her hair in pigtails came up to my car.

I rolled down my window and said hello to her.

"Welcome, my friend. My parents will be glad to take care of your needs."

I was tired, hungry and wanted to check my gas tank because it felt like I had been driving for days.

I was directed by the girl to an empty pump and was surprised to see a boy of 17 in a white uniform come out.

"Fill it up and top off the fluids sir?" the boy said as he started to take the gas cap off.

"Take care of it son. Where can I get a bite to eat?"

"Inside sir, mom's cooking up a helping of Love Loaf," the boy said to me

"Love Loaf?"

"Yes sir, she puts a lot of love in that meat loaf, so everyone calls it Love Loaf!"

"Can you tell me where I am son?"

"You are off the highway sir, at the station of the Henry's. We've been in these parts for years."

"And what state am I in son?"

"Denial," he said as he popped the hood.

I looked around and was puzzled, but didn't think to answer his confusing answer with another question. I went inside and sat down at the counter. My senses were on overload. The colors were so vivid, the smells so wonderful.

"Can I get you something, son?" the grizzled old man said to me as I sat on a stool that was ripped from a 30's diner.

"What's the special?"

"Well that would be Mama's Love Loaf, best in the entire county!"

"The entire county? Which county are you speaking of?"

"Denial County, the best county nobody ever thinks of."

I sat puzzled and ate the meatloaf that was presented to me with a heaping serving of mashed potatoes and brown gravy.

"Hun, did the loaf fill you up?" an older woman had come in front of me asking. "I make it fresh every day."

"Sure, I guess." I had eaten the entire plate but never really remembered swallowing anything. I felt full and it was just what I needed. "How much do I owe you?"

"Well hun, you can get the bill from Minet, over there. Come back now, ya hear?"

I walked over to the cashier’s stand and saw her. Her eyes were black as the night. Her black hair cascaded near her high cheekbones and tanned complexion. Her body wasn't made for sin but for pleasure, and the glasses she wore on her head framed her face perfectly. The only thing that didn't make sense was that it was raining over her head.

"Excuse me? Is there something wrong?" I asked as I looked at the clouds that shadowed her.

"Wrong? Why would there be something wrong? Why does everyone think there is something wrong?"

I looked at her, took the bill from her and paid.

"Have a nice day," she said sarcastically as I walked out the door.

I got into my car and started to try and find the on-ramp for the highway. But it was nowhere to be found. I took the feeder roads around and watched the sun slowly start to set.

For hours I drove next to the highway looking for an entrance and I was exhausted.

I drove up to a hotel and got a room.

I couldn't sleep. My mind was going a mile a minute and I didn't understand anything, or everything.

I took a shower and dried off. The lone tear that fell from my face couldn't be stopped.

I lay down and fell asleep.

When I woke up I checked out of the hotel and found the entrance to the highway. I got back on and started to drive.

Slowly, the signs that were blank the day before were filled with words, but none of which I could understand.

I filled up the car and drove the day, without a reason in the world, and without knowing where I was. I drove to keep going, not knowing what I was running to or running from.

Finally the signs started to make sense to me and I arrived right where I had intended to be.

Then I looked up and saw my gravestone.

I wasn't looking at the date of birth, but of the date of death. It moved and changed, like an old airline departure board. It moved forward and backwards, went blank and started over again. It slowly came to a stop... when I woke up.


Sean A. Donahue is a radio personality and freelance writer. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, TX. His writing can be found on Instant Tragedy.

Their Father's Love

By Sean A. Donahue © 2007

It wasn't my kids' fault. My ex-wife and I had troubles after she had given birth to our son Ryan. We were going in different directions, me up the corporate ladder and her, a mile and a half down the road from her parents. Unfortunately her parents live 1,145 miles away in Indiana. My children, Shelby now six and Ryan now three, didn't understand the problems and the disagreements. All they understood was that they were going to live eighteen hours away in Indiana with their grandparents while their "Daddoo" lived in Texas.

“Why did you and mommy's marriage get canceled?" said Shelby.

"Sometimes things just don't work out princess, Mommy is not happy and I want her to be happy and you to smile," I tried to explain.

But trying to explain the differences and the complaints of a failed marriage is too complicated for a four-year old to understand. I think I heard the phrase, "But why daddy?" more than I ever thought I could. But it wasn't my kids' fault.

October 19, 2002, I watched from down the road in my car as my life drove away in a U-Haul truck. The night before I tucked them into bed and gave them a kiss and each time before I send them back with their mother I tuck them in and kiss them goodnight. It is too tough a moment to watch them leave every time. I thought that I was a tough man, nothing could hurt me, but I was wrong. Watching them leave that October morning was the hardest thing I ever thought I could do. Watching them cry for their Dad and watching them drive away tore my heart in two. No amount of counseling could fix this rift, no amount of "I'm sorry" would ever do. Just watching the truck drive away in my mind still hurts to think about. But I move on, to have my heart hurt every time I kiss them goodnight, the night before they leave.

Many times after I first pick them up I watch them sleep the first night. Such innocence and peacefulness, such a holy sight to see. My children, whom I love so much, are just watched that first night. The night before they go back with their mom I usually spend with my mom and dad in Bedford at their house. It's a closer drive for Angela (my ex) and it's great to have my family support me when I am at my emotional lowest. I usually kiss them goodnight and then after they are asleep drive back to Lubbock. It is hard to see them say goodbye, for I tried once to do it. I watched the tears fall from both Ryan and Shelby that would break the hardest of men. I promised myself that after that moment of weakness, that I would never watch them leave again. I want to see the joy of them running to me in the airport yelling "Daddy!" at the tops of their lungs, I want to see them laughing and crying at their greatest successes and failures. I just don't want to see them leave.

People ask me if I love them so much and it hurts so much why don't I move up to Indiana? Tough question. Good Question. Not an easy answer. The best explanation is that with my business that it would be tougher to find a position in Indiana than it is for me to keep the job I have here. I've been working for NextMedia for close to ten years and I have family in Texas. It is a hard thing to pick up all your roots, all your friendships everything and start over. There is a part of me that says after each time the kids leave, I should move up there. But then does Angela win? Do the kids win? With me closer I could be used as a pawn by my kids to bounce like other friends I know that bounced between Father and Mother during their childhood to see which one "loved them more." I don't think I could play that game. As I told a friend recently, I think that I couldn't change the way my kids think about me in forty days a year in comparison to the 325 days that my ex has them. Leaving would be tough, but it is closer in my mind every day.

I love Lubbock, and everything about this city. It is big enough that you can hide without people (most of the time) knowing all your business, but small enough that if you do great things and help people that your achievements will be recognized. It is a town of great want, great need and great desire. It's my town.

Being a father than 1,100 miles away is tough. I rarely get pictures of the kids at their T-ball or Soccer games and if I want a picture I have to take it myself. Most of the time when I do get to talk to the kids on the phone they are playing with either their "leapster" or "game-boy" and it is quite frustrating. I want them to miss me, talk to me and fill that conversation with what they did that day, how they hurt their knee or what they learned at school. But unfortunately the communication is reduced to "I miss you dad, can we talk later I wanna watch my movie."

There are sometimes I want to drive to Indiana put their toys in their toy box and say "I'm here, talk to me, tell me what I've missed, tell me about your loose tooth, tell me about the boy you hit in the face, Shelby." But then I realize that being six and three that I will have to wait till they need me. God knows I need them now.

It's frustrating being a long distance dad. It's more frustrating than dating again ( a subject for yet another time). I feel worst about missing all the firsts with my son and daughter and resenting my ex-wife for taking them away from me. But then I realize, it wasn't my kids' fault. It was partly mine and I will have to live every day with the hope that both my daughter and son know that their dad always shows their pictures to anyone and everyone (it's a great date killer, by the way).

I live with the hope that they know that the first thought in the morning is that I hope that they aren't hurt that day and that they grow and learn and discover. I live with the hope that they know that the last thought every day is a prayer for their continued safety and a prayer of unconditional love being sent 1,145.21 miles from their dad every day. I live with hope that they know of their father's love.


Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker player. He is the author of Instant Tragedy which looks at his life and those who he has touched and been touched by. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, Texas.

What Might Have Been

By Sean A. Donahue © 2007

The struggles of life are few and far between. We walk through life looking for the elusive, looking for the elite, or looking to be the elite.

Sometimes in our search for what we want, we find what we really need. But we are too self absorbed or blind to see it.

Again, I think the big guy upstairs has it right. You want A, I'm going to give you B and you're going to hate it, but its better for you in the long run. You want B, I'm going to give you A and make you hate A, though A is better for you.

So I look back and examine, "What Might Have Been."

I once thought that marrying my high school sweetheart would have been the best for me. But we had just those moments together and though we can look back and see what we had then, we can never go back and see what could have been. We reminisce on old stories and jokes but cannot find common ground now. I used to be able to talk to her about anything but it seems awkward now. Both of us have closed that chapter on each of our lives. We were good then, but not now. Somehow, the big guy got it right.

I once thought that marrying my high school crush would have been the best for me. We once met up in a hotel room in Bedford; her wish was to show me that she was the best for me and that my ex-wife would have been a mistake. Wow, what a mistake I thought I first made. How I looked back during the first couple years of my marriage and thought I screwed up, I should have married her. But then I see my daughter Shelby and my son Ryan and though Angela and I have moved on and apart, the love and the commitment of our love will always be shown in these two wonderful kids. Again, the big guy got it right!

So now I look back and wonder why my last serious relationship failed. I allowed myself to fall for someone who wanted to run my life and not love me for who I was, mistakes and all. I thought that walking away was a mistake. But now I get comments and letters and I see what a mistake it was. I see her as the troubled young woman that will still be my friend even though she hates who she thinks I am now.

Sometimes you just can't argue with three for three.

I could show about the friends and family who remind me about who I am.

"Always try to help others, but never help yourself," my mom brought up the other day.

"I never think about myself, just about others because it's who I am. It'll pay off in the future," I replied.

But now I wonder what does the Big Guy have in store for me next? I am always in a wondering mood, what pitfalls, and what great successes does he have in my future.

I could ask for the Cliff Notes version of what's going to happen, but I don't think it's out yet. I think that Mom saying I need to explore who I am and what I can do for myself is first and foremost on my mind. Some nights I look at the ceiling and wonder what will happen to me tomorrow.

I guess I just will have to take a chance and get out of bed in the morning to find out!

Thanks for the ride big guy. I'm leaving the directing to your hands, I'm ready for my cue Mr. De Mille.


Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker player. He is the author of Instant Tragedy which looks at his life and those who he has touched and been touched by. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, Texas.

The Confetti of Life

By Sean A. Donahue © 2007

I spent this weekend with my parents in Hurst helping them move my grandmother into their new smaller house. With all of us kids gone, there was no reason for the five-bedroom monstrosity in Bedford. It is time for them to think of retirement and to think of time better spent than cleaning the monstrosity. But with my grandmother moving down from her own house in New York I felt a loss. A loss that I wanted to share with no one until today.

My grandmother is a very intelligent woman. She was strong, and proud. But her body is failing her now. She no longer has the movement of a gazelle. She is 86 and the proud woman that I admire so much has to have help doing even the mundane things to us like use the restroom, shower and dress. But her mind, oh yes her mind is still sharp as a tack. She remembers all the little things that none of us can remember. I can remember when I was six or seven and she would take me to her classes to be used as an example of some child psychology or something. All I can remember is that there was nothing better in the world when you are a seven-year old boy than to have cute coeds smiling at you and moving their skirts to show you a little leg. How I remember those days.

However this weekend I spent with her taking over 50 years worth of "stuff" and compacting it. Shredding everything from letters to Con-Edison that my grandfather had written about the lousy meter reader to pay stubs from my grandmother's job was how I spent most of Saturday.

I told my sister Kiri how amazing it was that grandma had such a ton of stuff. Grandma kept blaming her deceased husband for not taking care of this stuff before he left. I guess he never planned to leave you grandma. I guess he planned to outlive you, but he didn't. There was no malice in him leaving. There was just love.

I read the love letters that my grandfather sent to his wife. I could see the tears in my grandmother's eyes as she read them, touched them for one last link to him. I shed many a tear today, ones that no one saw, because I left the room before they fell. I blamed allergies but I truly know what it was. It was the realization that my grandmother was on her last legs. She is my last link to New York, and my last link to my mom's side of the family. I will miss her when she is gone.

So there we were, grandma and I, shredding bills and making sure we didn't throw away things that had memories for her. They all had memories for me. I don't know how she did it, "Toss, Shred, Toss, Toss, Shred!" she cried. "Sean, it's just stuff," she told me. But it's your stuff. Stuff that some of it should have never made the twenty-eight hour trip down to my parent's house. But the boxes upon boxes were opened, kept, shuffled to the attic or divvied between members of the family.

I came home with articles from my grandfather, calendars from 1958 and 1959, stamps from everywhere, silver dollars, seven Susan B. Anthony's, one of my grandfather's flight bags and a lost heart. I lost it as we sorted through things and through them away. I looked, as there was a part of my grandmother that had died that day. I felt a sadness that I could never explain to anyone.

We created enough confetti to make a New York ticker-tape parade. We have bags and bags and bags of stuff that some of us will never need or use sitting out to be thrown away. It may not be valuable to anyone. But it was my grandparents.

Today, I gained stuff, but I lost a link to the past. Yes, I have my grandfather's watch to keep an eye on and yes, I have stuff to give to my kids.

But am just a gatekeeper, as their stuff will pass on from me to another.

Because in my eyes, the stuff is still not mine. It will never be mine.


Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker player. He is the author of Instant Tragedy which looks at his life and those who he has touched and been touched by. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, Texas.

The Tulsa Incident

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

I was on my way to my World Series of Poker, the Amateur Poker League National Championships back in April when I had reached the wall. The moment we all hit when driving long distances by yourself. The portion when your legs are cramping, you need to take a piss but you won't and can't until you reach some meaningful milestone.

My milestone was the rest area outside Tulsa, Oklahoma.

I had driven from Lubbock since 11 A.M. that day and at about 6 P.M. I had reached the wall. It was beyond dreary with nothing but rain from Amarillo all the way to the Tulsa rest stop. It poured and poured and I felt just waterlogged though I had been in a car for over 500 miles. I wanted to drain the lizard, get an overpriced snack from the vending machine that probably wouldn't take my dollar and get back to the road so I could make it to St. Louis by 1 A.M.

I approached the rest area and I know, why stop in a rest area, why not pull over to some store, some McDonalds on the way. Well, I had been on the turnpike in the middle of God's truly forsaken land, Oklahoma, and I really didn't want to wait in line and get away from driving, for once I stopped my adrenaline kick would have been gone and I would have probably spot welded to any soft surface that my head connected to. I wanted to get and go, a quick strike almost like a two-minute drill down the sidelines.

The next rest area wasn't going to be for about 70 miles so I pulled in and got pumped, "Get in, get done, get out, and get going!" I kept saying to myself.
But when I approached the men's room, which was surrounded by a puddle, with the rain continuing to pour down beside me, I heard voices.

"Somebody's coming." I heard someone say with an Arabic accent.

Now since 9-11 we've all been super overprotective against anyone that isn't a WASP so I thought maybe somebody was trying to do some pills, hit a line or two, and didn't want to do it out in the middle of Noah's Ark.

I walked in and saw what I'd heard: two men of Arabic decent, one going into the shitter while the other washed his hands.

Another boy came in right behind me, who couldn't have been more than 12 and while I surveyed the situation, took the only working pisser in the place (the other two had plastic over them). While I waited I anxiously heard the patter of Arabic going between the two men.

The twelve-year old left in a hurry and I took my piss, being careful to watch my back. Turban 1 wasn't doing a thing, just waiting and looking around which made me extremely nervous. I finished the deed, washed my hands and walked outside to look at the candy machine. I wanted to get the hell out of there.

All my fears...

All my bad thoughts...

All the things that the government wanted me to watch out for...

Those "Terrorists."

I had to alert the authorities, I had to let them know that something shady was going on here, something wasn't right. I slowly started back toward my car, careful not to make any noise as I passed the men's room.

Why is it that when we are so nervous about those who are different than we are, we end up being the same?

I passed the restroom and on the way back to the car I smelt the sweet scent of Marijuana.

And then it hit me.

The two "terrorists" turned out to be a couple of stoners trying to get a hit in the restroom of the Tulsa rest stop without anyone knowing. Their wives were yelling at them to come to the car as they ran past my car to their families.

I got to St. Louis, spot welded to my pillow and finished 6th in the nation in the tournament.

But I stopped back at the same rest area on the way back and smiled.

Instead of fear, I felt nothing but laughter as I remembered how my fears preyed on my subconscious and my brain got the best of me in the "Tulsa Incident."

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker player. He is the author of Instant Tragedy which looks at his life and those who he has touched and been touched by. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, Texas.

Grounded

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

Sometimes you need to be grounded.

I always thought when I was young that my dad got some strange kick out of grounding me. Fight with my sister, grounded. Kick my brother, grounded. Look twice at the last piece of cake. Yeah, yeah I know.

I didn't understand what he was trying to teach me, he always seemed to have some sort of mystic story to tell that ended up like most of our father's stories, walking to school uphill, both ways.

Whenever Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid was created I thought they had made Pat Morita an ethnic version of my father. He would speak in tongues and tell me to, "Listen to your mother."

When I started radio I abandoned my business major. I thought, "Go for your dreams and forget all the sage advice Dad told you."

After all, it was my life. After my grandparents paid for my first year at a private school, which was a nightmare in itself, I decided to pay my own way into school. It was the absolute worst decision of my life. I partied too much, didn't care about life and was a typical immature college student even though I was 21.

But Dad was always there watching. Never approving, just watching, for he had given me his advice on life and it was my life to screw up if I wished but he was going to watch me fail. It took me leaving business because it bored me, and getting into radio that finally got his attention.

He never approved of me leaving business school. And he hated the idea of me being poor the rest of my life. When I started out in my first full time radio job in Lubbock, Texas I was paid $12,000 a year. I was ecstatic; I was getting paid to talk on the radio.

Dad wasn't happy. He wanted me to be responsible and after the incident at the hotel room where I watched him tear my credit cards in two and pay half of my debt he knew that sometime in the future I would come to him searching for help like all the other males in my family.

But there was one weekend where he came up to see me, or actually came to see the University of Nebraska play football. I had to work the day of the game from midnight to six in the morning and though I had worked all night, Dad had me up doing things for my mother.

"You can sleep when you're dead, Sean," he'd tell me.

I was pissed, madder than anything, I was tired, grumpy, knew that I had to try and sleep before the game cause after the game I would have to go back up to the station to do the overnight once again. I just wanted to rest. But Dad would have none of it, from the yard work being done to taking me out to lunch, we did everything but sleep.

I was exhausted. We went to the game, watched Nebraska kick the living dog snot out of Texas Tech and then went to the station. I crashed on the couch and slept for an hour and a half. I did my shift and went home, trying to crawl into bed before anyone noticed me.

But as I opened the door to my apartment, Dad was awake and reading a book. He said nothing to me as he watched me collapse in my room.

It took weeks later for my Mom to explain.

"Your Dad is ever so proud of you, he listened to you and he couldn't be prouder," she said.

"Then why hasn't he told me," I asked?

"It's not his way."

I was so used to not talking to my Dad after the times that I had disappointed him that I never even thought about it until my ex-wife pointed it out.

"You never talk to your dad long, Sean. Why is that?"

"I guess he doesn't have anything to say to me. He'd always talk about a sentence or two always cursing Charlie McBride or work and then say, 'Here's your mother' and I'd never hear from him twice in the same phone call," I'd reply.

Fast forward a couple of years...

We are celebrating the best book that Rock 101 has ever had. While champagne corks are being popped I call the two people I want to celebrate this great victory with, my parents.

"Dad, we did it, best book ever, #1 in demo and #5 12+. I couldn't be happier," I told him.

"Sean, I want you to take a moment and celebrate this great achievement in your life. Here's your mother," my father said.

Here's your mother? Here's your MOTHER? Where's the, "Attaboy?"

Where is the... "I knew you could do it?"

I was hurt and searching for approval, vocal, visible, anything that could make me feel more of a man and less of a boy.

Mom was there with the "I'm so proud of you!" and "You're my boy!" and all the approval I needed and wanted.

"Sean, your Dad wants to talk to you," Mom interrupted me in my recovering glory.

NOW THAT'S WHAT I WANT! This is where I am going to get the glory I deserve, I want, I need. My Dad was finally going to give me the props I wanted.

"Sean, have you taken a moment to celebrate this great achievement in your life?"

"Well Dad, we're popping champagne and having a party..."

"Moment's over son. What that survey said is what people thought of you three months ago, you have to earn their trust all over again. Get back to work."

(Click)

(dial tone)

And then it hit me. I need to stay grounded. I can't have the great highs and the deep lows. I have to maintain an average, slightly higher than everyone else, but never the less an average.

No matter how hard I try to keep my head in the clouds, I'm glad my dad taught me how to remain grounded.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker player. He is the author of Instant Tragedy which looks at his life and those who he has touched and been touched by. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, Texas.

Until I Am No Longer Needed

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

Those words echoed in my head today but years ago - close to one hundred years ago - I thought I was just being cute. You see, on my trip to Hawaii with my parents I had gone on a tour of an ancient volcanic site. I was excited to see the power and fury of a site that was once feared.

As I backed up to take a picture I tripped and fell into a hole.

"We're coming to get you Sean," they said as I brushed myself off.

I hurt from everywhere, the fall from ten feet caused me to have pain from the tips of my fingers to the tips of my toes. My back felt the brunt of the pain and as the dust settled I examined my predicament. I was ten feet down in a hole of an ancient volcano with my right arm broken and my left leg shattered. I felt with my left arm what was causing my pain in my lower back.

Now, you know it's hard to believe, but I'll try it anyway.

It was a bottle.

Now me being the sarcastic S.O.B. that I am, I immediately opened the bottle to watch the smoke rising from it. Coughing, I threw the bottle away and looked as the smoke cleared.

It was a man. Dressed as if he had been stuck in there since the twenties. He looked like he was one of the Rat Pack. I laughed.

"I discovered Frank Sinatra in a bottle," I laughed.

"Come, come, you should be nicer to me in the predicament you're in," he said smugly.

"Let me guess, make three wishes and my life will be different," I laughed trying not to move as I felt light headed as blood rushed from my leg.

"Let's take care of an immediate wish, consider this a freebie," Frank said as he touched his tie.

My arm stopped bleeding, my leg was still broken, but not as bad as it was before and my right arm felt no pain.

"I've gotta be in shock," I said.

"Nope, but choose the wording of your wishes wisely. Void where prohibited by law, you must be 18, I cannot hurt anyone or kill anyone no matter how much you try. Carpe Diem," he sputtered in quick legalese.

"I want to win the largest lottery in history, 1 Billion Dollars," I said.

"Yeah, yeah the money thing," Frank said as I looked around.

"Where is it?" I asked.

"Check your wallet when you get home, the rescuers will be here in 4.73 minutes. Let's get going with your second wish," he urged.

"I want to be able to know when people are trying to take advantage of me and be able to not let people take advantage of me," I stated.

Frank thought for a second.

"You want to be able to limit the ability of people to use you without your own consent," he restated.

"Yes!"

"Done."

"And I want to live until I am no longer needed," I finished.

"Unusual, you want to live until the people you are around no longer need you. DONE," Frank said in a puff of smoke.

When I woke up I was in the hospital.

I had been in a coma for 164 days.

They called me the Maui Miracle. When I returned to the states I went to my home and found my neighbor Tina there. I found Tina attractive but she had never given me the time of day. I thanked her for watching my dog and she seemed to have a white halo around her. I thought to myself, "That's strange, never noticed that before. I better let the doctor know my prescription must have changed after the accident."

I returned to my house to find it barely dusted and cleaned. Mugsy had been taken care of but nothing else had been. There was a pile of bills that had been separated by my family I think into junk mail, bills, more bills and even more bills.

I laughed to myself as I thought boy, was that one crazy dream I had.

I decided to clean out my house and start my life over again. I cleaned up and started the long road back. Now I am a very meticulous man. I have a place for everything and everything in its place. So I entered all the bills into my computer. I was deeply in debt and my job was gone. I checked my wallet to see that I had $42 left.

But I found a Mega Millions ticket. I went to the nearest 7-11 to check out how much it was worth.

The clerk just started shaking. "You’re the one they are looking for," he said.

"Yeah, yeah I know the Maui Miracle."

"No. Sign here. I’m calling the papers. You better head down to Austin. I'd guard that thing with my life," he said as he shook uncontrollably. "Yeah, boss, I have the Mega Millions winning ticket here," the clerk said as I walked away. I was shaken as I saw a green aura come over the clerk.

"Don't leave, I'm calling the papers next," he said as I ran to my car.

Everything became a blur to me. I was still having colored flashes as people came up to me. Everything was crazy. I slowly learned the colors and their meaning, red for anger, green for envy, white for purity, orange for confusion and black for evil.

Funny, I didn't think I would see so many men of the cloth with black auras, but I digress.

I went to Austin and claimed the $963 million prize as sole winner of the Mega Millions lottery.

My life changed immediately. I made college funds for the kids, went and paid my bills and took care of my family and friends. And I still had $800 million left. You see, I had $578 million after the taxes were paid off and I invested here and there. I couldn't give away the money fast enough.

I gave money to charities with my foundation, giving $20 million to my favorite charities each year, which increased to a $100 million when my money grew exponentially.

But as the years went by I watched as loved ones slowly turned from white to orange with one friend going from white to red to green to orange and finally black before he killed himself.

I grew older and watched my loved ones die one by one.

I watched my parents leave this earth. Followed by my brothers and sisters, then my children.

But I lived on…

I couldn't live on; I was tired. I wanted to just join my family in the everlasting.

But the interest of my accounts grew and the money grew. I established a living will where my pet charities received $100 million a year until I died. Then the rest of the money would go to my heirs.

But I didn't die. I kept living and living.

One day as I lay on my bed praying for the end to come I had a vision.

It was the members of my pet charities, all their auras black hoping I would live for yet another year so they would get their money. I saw members of my extended family long past grand, grand, grand children all their auras black with evil. All hoping I would die.

And then my words came back to haunt me. I would live until I was no longer needed.

Both sides tugged at my soul.

And then everything went black.

"Sean? We're coming to get you..."

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker player. He is the author of Instant Tragedy which looks at his life and those who he has touched and been touched by. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock, Texas.

Dining with a Celebrity

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

This afternoon I went to go see an old College "roommate" at Denny's. Now the quotes around roommate were for reasons other than the obvious.

You see KristiE and I were good friends, we had become friends in classes and in hall council and when I left the dorms we would still talk. I wanted to get cable so bad, but at that time I was watching my money so I didn't have to borrow any from my parents to live.

So KristiE came up with the idea of sharing cable. We ordered cable for my house and split the cost. She'd come over to watch Quantum Leap among other shows and she had a key to my apartment. Many days I'd come home from classes to see KristiE crashed out on my futon watching some sappy movie. It was a weird yet wonderful relationship.

Years later we both moved on, me with my soon-to-be wife, now ex-wife, her to other things.

Yet recently we just found each other again. We hooked up on e-mail and I told her to call me sometime.

She called while I was driving the kids to Ft. Worth to see my mom. We had a great conversation and decided to get together for lunch.

I always like finding old friends. The only key is will the friendship that we had still strong enough to last through my divorce and her marriage? Obviously it was because we got together at Denny's for a quick lunch. She told me about her divorce. We shared war stories and stories of friends in the past.

But now here is the deeper story.

I love Lubbock. It's small enough that if you do great things you are recognized and yet big enough you can hide out in...

Unless you're at the Denny's at 2:30 on a Sunday, which must have been the meeting of the Sean Dillon Fan Club.

I walked in with my sunglasses and got a table.

"It's him," a woman said.

"No it can't be him, why'd he come to Denny's?" another woman said.

"Excuse me sir, you wouldn't be Sean Dillon would you?"

"Yes, it's very nice to meet you," I said, smiling. In a way I am glad that I was recognized and then in a way it made me very self-conscious. Did I dress the way they thought I would dress? Was I polite enough?

I gave the first woman who recognized me a Rock 101 T-Shirt and watched while laughing to myself at the waitresses who were fighting to serve the "celebrity."

Hell, I put my pants on the same way as other men; just have a little radio show.

So KristiE got there and was amazed how I was being treated.

"It's like dining with a celebrity," she said.

"Minor celebrity," I corrected.

So we talked, ordered and ate. I told the waitress I wasn't in any hurry to order.

Both KristiE and I ordered at the same time.

But my order was delivered first.

I waited until KristiE’s order had come and was trying not to laugh as KristiE smirked, "You get your food first, I see how it is when you dine with a celebrity," she said.

We then had to endure the worst dressed woman in the world.

Now, I understand eating disorders and people with metabolism problems, but this one woman eating had to be at least 350 with gusts to 400 lbs. She walked by and dropped a piece of paper. Now it was bad enough that her shirt didn't cover her belly, but it was a little nauseating when I saw the bright yellow thong that glowed as she bent over. I don't mind women who are big; I just have a problem with women who dress inappropriately.

Just ask KristiE about the man who came up to her wearing nothing but spandex pants and she could "just about see the vein."

"If I ever dress that way or get that big you have permission to slap me," KristiE laughed as she saw the look of horror on my face.

If it wasn't right in front of me I could have ignored it. But there was a partial moon at Denny's this afternoon and I had to wash my face and look at a picture of Jessica Biel to purge the spectacle that I'd had to endure.

It was great to see KristiE and we promised to get together more often. But while I was being served like a prince, KristiE was being ignored.

KristiE was talking to the cook and joking that she wanted Rum and Coke instead of just a coke to drink since the waitress didn't check to see if she wanted anything else to drink.

"You'd get your food first," the cook said pointing at me. "Her's would have never come if I had Rum in the kitchen."

I tried not to laugh.

"That's what I get for dining with a celebrity," KristiE said.

It's just another case of Instant Comedy: Just add Sean (scratch that). Just Add Minor Celebrity.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker amateur. He is the author of Instant Tragedy a website looking a life, liberty, and the ability to have Instant Tragedy when you just add water. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock Texas.

Training Camp, the Cleveland Browns, and My Father

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

Training camp opened today for my favorite team, the Cleveland Browns. Many people wonder how I, someone born and raised in New York, rooted for the Cleveland Browns. Well let me tell you the story:

The year was 1985, my dad worked for American Airlines and he was promoted to the Hopkins International Airport to be the General Manager of Cleveland. My mom, the entire family and I wanted to be anywhere but Cleveland. When we first got off the plane I smelled the smelting of the iron and metal that was my first example of a true blue collar town. This town had soul, passion and had never known what winning was. The Cleveland Indians were perennial losers and the Browns were also rans every year. As we walked to my dad's rented van for the trip to our new house all I could think thru the snow and the smell was "What the hell am I doing here?"

I didn't want to be there, I was fifteen, thought I knew it all and was routinely wrong. I was away from my friends in Hurst, I was missing my sophomore year at L.D. Bell high school and I'd always wanted to be a Blue Raider. Now looking back at it maybe it was fate that I became a Red Raider, but I digress. Back to the story I'm intending to tell. We moved from the warmth of Texas to the cold, cold air of Ohio. I resented my dad for moving us. I resented him for spending too much time at work and not enough time with us kids. I just resented my father. I had no respect and no love for him.

Fairview Park, Ohio is a small community in the outskirts of Cleveland. The entire town is no more than a few miles wide and a few miles long, but it was to be my home for the next four years. I hated everything about it, from having to ride the public transportation to school, to the inability to drive, or even get a learner's permit. I was in teenage angst and hell. I didn't know how my life could get worse.

You might be wondering, how does all of this deal with the Browns? Well I have to give you the background before I set the hook. One of my father's perks of his job were season tickets to the Cleveland Browns. I had grown up a New York Jets fan, remembering the great games against the Raiders that my mom's father and my dad would take me to see. I remember the joy I had seeing games as a child. But I was in Cleveland. Ugh, Cleveland. I hated it. I hated having to be there as well as having to deal with this "second rate team." But dad made me go. I had to keep peace in the family and that was dad's way of making up with us boys. One time my sister Tara was even taken to a game.

I remember the games like they were yesterday, 70,000 fans packed into old Cleveland Stadium. What a lousy stadium, falling apart and just pitiful. I remember the walks we would make from dad's secret parking place that always found us in and out quickly. I remember getting lucky one week and having our pastor move services back, so we could all go home in time to see the Steelers game.

But the thing I remember most is the way my dad and I saw eye to eye. We would argue on the littlest of things, but never about the Browns. We could argue about me helping my sisters or not fighting with my brothers and especially about school, but never about the Browns. There was something sacred about the team. I remember the days where we were frozen and cold yet dad always had a thermos of hot chocolate. How my dad’s eyes would glare at us to not try to take our clothes off and be like the morons two rows down with no shirts on.

"They are trained professional fans, Sean, you are just a visitor."

And so I was. I remember going to see Big Daddy Carl Hairston, Chip Banks bruising people on defense. The Wizard of Oz, Ozzie Newsome, making catch after unbelievable catch thrown by the least nimble man in the NFL, Bernie Kosar. Bernie’s scrambling is best described by Clevelander Drew Carey by saying "Bernie’s scrambling, he's at the 31, the 32..."

Behind Kosar you had the running tandem of Mack and Byner. What a team, I remember the games like they were yesterday.

As we went to each game my dad's personality rubbed off on our neighbors and we were slowly accepted.

"Hey Tom, how's Tatiana?"

"You think we can beat the Steelers again, Tommy?" said the season ticket holders around us.

My dad had the loudest bellowing voice and he would never hesitate to give Marty Schottenheimer a piece of his mind.

"What are you thinking about Marty? You're an idiot. I saw that play call from here and I'm just a fan," he'd bellow.

My brother and I would join in. It was the time that I bonded with my dad. We barely spoke back then, rather than starting a fight, silence was golden. I could never do right, or good enough. My father was a tough taskmaster and I hated him for pushing me. But he never had to push me on weeks of home games. If I did well and kept out of trouble, I was rewarded with tickets. If I didn't, my brother, sister or one of my dad's work colleagues would get the tickets. I disliked the days I screwed up, because slowly but surely I learned that if I did, I wasn't going to the game. The ride to, during and back from the game was when I bonded with my dad. I treasured every game where he explained the minutia of the option and how the run and shoot was going to ruin the game of football. And then came the game in which my allegiance changed forever.

January 3rd, 1997. My brother, my dad and I were all at snowy Cleveland Stadium for the playoff game against my first team, The New York J-E-T-S, JETS, JETS, JETS!

It had snowed and was freezing. We watched the most exciting game in the world and it looked like we had lost. I was sad beyond belief and we slowly started the long walk to the car when a giant cheer rose from the crowd. My dad had the portable radio, listening to Nev Chandler call the miracle. The Browns were going to overtime. We rushed back to the game, to our seats and watched the Browns drive in overtime and beat the New York Jets to advance to host the AFC Championship against John Elway and the Denver Broncos. My dad and I celebrated the entire way home. How we were going to see "our" team win the AFC title and go to the Super Bowl.

January 11th we watched the Browns fight one of the greatest fights ever. And then a punt put Elway and the Broncos ninety-eight yards from the end zone for the tying score. You know the rest of the story, and how the game ended in overtime. But what you didn't know was my father's reaction. "Son, that’s how you lose. You give it all you got, if you win that's good. But never give up, give it all you got"

I had become a Browns fan and a fan of my father.

We don't talk much, which is ironic, for even though my father runs a reservations call center for American Airlines still, he hates to be on the phone. A normal conversation with him is "Hi, how are you doing? Here's your mother." This year he and my mom are finally moving to a house they are renovating in preparation of his retirement. He packed up plenty of things to move from a four-bedroom, two-story house to a smaller house, but he gave me a box. Inside the box was an autographed AFC Central Division Championship Cleveland Brown Football from 1985, '86, and '87 . "Your dad wants you to have it. He knows that no one else would appreciate it more than you," my mom told me.

My dad said nothing as I gave him a hug. "Thanks Dad, I love you," I told him. "Go help your mother," was his reply. He didn't have to say a any more. I knew what he was really saying.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker amateur. He is the author of Instant Tragedy a website looking a life, liberty, and the ability to have Instant Tragedy when you just add water. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock Texas.

Rain

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

I used to love to listen to the rain. It was peaceful and wonderful. Then severe weather and my responsibilities at the radio station took over. I couldn't enjoy the rain anymore. All I could do was curse as I was stuck in a studio giving important, yet boring information to the listeners of my station.

But tonight was something different. The severe storms were nowhere near and I got to go out and just listen to the rain. Listen as each patter of rain hit something different and made a slightly different noise.

I heard the fire trucks roll as the lightning flashed and as the thunder rolled across the plains of West Texas, I found myself loving listening to the rain again.

I remember the day I first hated the rain. Angie and I had broken up in one of the many fights that littered our relationship. I had invited a friend over for a drink and to watch the storm. We sat in my candle-lit apartment and she and I just watched the rain.

Then Angie came over to "return something of mine." Yes, it was an excuse to see who I was seeing at the time but there was something about it that bothered me.

"We used to listen to the rain together," Angie said.

"And now I am listening to the rain and Mozart with her," said I.

“Asshole," was Angie’s quick comeback, which caused my date to quickly leave.

I sat there as Angie walked away in her smug, "I spoiled that encounter!" mood and tried to listen to the rain.

But all I heard was her words. We used to...

Such hurtful and painful words to me they were, but they had no meaning. There was nothing in the listening of rain, just something we used to do when she first moved here to Texas.

Why does listening to rain mean I am cheating on her?

I was defiant and tried to hear the same sounds, smell the same smell, and feel the same emotions that I used to.

But it was lost.

I had lost the touch to smell the rain, to hear the splatter on a leaf, to be able to anticipate the thunder, to be able to choreograph the lightning. For that was the greatest feeling in the world!

But I had lost it, until tonight. I had lost the adrenaline flowing as the thunder approached but tonight it flowed. I had lost the ability to smell the lightning, but the acidic smell filled my nostrils. And the sounds, the wonderful sounds that I am hearing engulf me as I sit in my car typing this. It is such a great thing to do, get something that is lost and find it again.

I have found things that I thought were long lost and gone in these last couple of weeks, some slowly and surely, some with passion. There are issues in my life I am addressing. I am taking care of my responsibilities and needs of family and myself. Some things cannot be solved in one sitting. Some will never be solved. But instead of racking my brain, making myself miserable, I am just taking one thing at a time.

Love? Not looking for it. Can’t help it if I don't find it, and will deal with it when I do.

My kids will be coming to see me soon and I cannot change the way they feel about their mother or me in nine days. So why try? Just give them unconditional love and the benefits will come.

I could look at all the improbabilities of my job and the issues I have to deal with daily.

But, instead I am taking my time, enjoying the moment and smiling, for sometimes you just have to turn off the lights, open the windows and listen to the rain.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker amateur. He plans to move to the semi-pros with stops in Topeka and Albuquerque some day. He has been published in For Kids Sake Magazine, Sunlight through the Shadows and is the author of Instant Tragedy a website looking a life, liberty, and the ability to have Instant Tragedy when you just add water. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock Texas.

Violent

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

I swear your honor; I am not a violent man.

Let me explain.

I really didn't like him in the first place, and I know it sounds bad but please let me finish. He was my good friend's brother, a necessary evil in my life. Wherever my friend went, his brother wasn't far behind. I couldn't stand him for whatever opinion he misspoke he infuriated others and drove me crazy. All Ken did was pick at people and give them a reason to hate him.

But that wasn't the thing that hurt me the most.

It was how others, because of my friendship with Ken's brother, caused me to be linked up with Ken's creative storytelling and lies. When people started to link me and Ken together I couldn't take it anymore. Whenever he did something stupid it was "Where's your idiot friend Ken?" or "Did you hear what your buddy said?"

He wasn't my friend or my buddy. But I tried to be patient and just ignore his stupidity, let him dig his own grave. But, alas he would find away to jump out before the dirt would even start to cover him.

Yes, he was a thorn in my side, yes, I hated him but I tolerated his actions to keep the family peace with my friend. Boy was that a mistake.

So he came by my house drunk one day and I offered him a chance to sleep on my spare bed, use my laundry to clean his clothes, and take a shower, (immediately after which I planned to bleach the entire bathroom) and just start over fresh.

But he chose not to. He crashed on my futon and threw up over my Chinese rug. He didn't offer to clean it up, just walked out. He didn't apologize for the coffee table that he broke or the picture of my daughter that he knocked down; he just opened the back door and collapsed in the middle of my back yard.

Yes, I was mad. He destroyed things in my house, not caring for a thing that was mine and was muttering about how pitiful I was. I thought if I could get him up and out of the yard that he would traipse over to his brother’s house and leave me alone.

But he wouldn't go, he just kept talking about my dead wife, how ugly she was and how he could have screwed her cause she was easy.

Yes, this angered me your honor, and I tried to keep the anger away. But all I saw was red. I saw my wife's face as I laid her into the ground on that cold December morning. I saw the cries of Ashley's face as we mourned our loss. And I don't even remember jacking Ken up with one punch, but yes, I thought it was funny to pour the honey over him and lead it straight to the red ant hive. Yes, it was cruel of me. But I thought he would wake up, I didn't know he had alcohol poisoning. I just didn't think that someone who treated me so badly deserved anything but having the ants washed off him with a spray hose after they started biting.

Please understand that I didn't mean to hurt him, you see I have a child, a twelve year old that I want to walk down the aisle when she gets married. I am a good father and have a good job in the oil fields. It was all harmless fun. Yes, your honor I tried to get him help. I washed the ants off and tried to sober him up. But he started to choke and vomit he turned purple and when the ambulance got there he was gone.

I didn't know he was allergic to ant bites. I'm not a violent man.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker amateur. He plans to move to the semi-pros with stops in Topeka and Albuquerque some day. He has been published in For Kids Sake Magazine, Sunlight through the Shadows, Truckin' and is the author of www.instanttragedy.com a website looking a life, liberty, and the ability to have Instant Tragedy when you just add water. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock Texas.

The Debt I Should Have Never Paid

By Sean A. Donahue © 2006

I can remember the day I fell in love with my ex-wife. It was like it was yesterday. We had talked and talked over and over again on who would make the long trip to see the other one, me from Lubbock or her from Indiana. I decided to make the first trip. There was a writers' convention in Indianapolis so if for some reason she flaked out on me I could go spend time on that.

I had to book one of those, "I can't believe I am paying this much just to go to Indiana" fares from Northwest and spent way too much to get the ticket. Angie's father sent me a sawbone to help pickup the travel expenses. I should have stayed stubborn and true to my word and paid for the damn thing myself, but I allowed her dad to "make me feel more comfortable." Looking back on that I should have stayed clear.

I traveled to Dallas for my first stop and then changed over to a plane for Detroit. Boy, nothing says class then showing up and being one of 22 people on the plane at 7:14 in the morning.

I got on and sat in my comfortable coach seat. I didn't know what to think. I was meeting someone that I had talked to over and over again. I knew everything about her. But we had never met face to face. The danger signs were all there. It was a new society and I was trusting my friend Chrystal that Angie was the one for me, to go and "jump off the deep end." The stewardesses were more than happy to offer me all the food that was ordered for the trip, no one upgraded to first class and they just served all of us in coach like we were stars.

Alas, food went away after 9/11. But I digress.

I told the stewardesses my story, after prodding and poking.

"OH my, going to see her and talk to her parents. HOW ROMANTIC!" said one stewie.

"Aren't you getting nervous?" said another. "I mean you have been set up by a friend and god knows what I would do if I wanted to set someone up with someone that was ugly or a bitch to me even if I was the least bit angry. Are you sure you didn't piss your friend off?"

My stomach jumped.

What was I doing? I was meeting a good friend of a friend in the middle of Indiana. Where was my brain?

But I had talked to her for months on end, my phone bills were eating me alive. It was a test of either shit and date her or get off the pot and look for someone else.

But my confidence was not with looking. I had never wanted, needed or liked looking. I hated rejection too much.

The plane landed and I immediately went to the bathroom to clean up. My stomach was turning over and over and over.

I went to wash my face and get the Stewardesses voice out of my head. "Are you nuts? Meeting her and then going to meet her parents?"

I opened the bathroom door looked at my face in the mirror and immediately threw up.

All the first class food, came up, everything came up. I was dry heaving for two minutes.

"Look at what you did Joann! Bitch!" said Cindy , the nice stewie.

I was the last person off the plane.

I wasn't wearing what I told Angie I would be wearing cause I had to change after throwing up everywhere and gargling with Listerine for a minute.

"You son of a bitch!" Angie said after she slapped me "I thought you lied to me and didn't come!"

"No I was so nervous about holding you in my arms I got sick in the plane" I said.

"YOU DID?" she said.

Then we kissed, and the stewardesses clapped and smiled. But I heard none of it for I was thinking of two things.

1. I love this woman.
2. Did I leave my wallet on the plane?

I paid her dad the $100 I owed him when he gave her away. Some people think it was a bargain. I will be paying for it for a long time. However, looking back at it, and looking back at the years even after my divorce from Angela. I still remember that kiss.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker amateur. He plans to move to the semi-pros with stops in Topeka and Albuquerque some day. He has been published in For Kids Sake Magazine, Sunlight through the Shadows and is the author of Instant Tragedy a website looking a life, liberty, and the ability to have Instant Tragedy when you just add water. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock Texas.

The West Texas No

By Sean A. Donahue © 2005

Many times I have been forced into bad decisions. There were times in my life I wish and some days choose to forget. I've made decisions to help friends when I should pass and to walk closer instead of running away.

Then I came to West Texas.

The simple West Texas attitude is infectious. Give me a beer, George Strait and a karaoke machine to sing Hotel California or The Chair and a West Texan has found Nirvana. For they love to drink, smoke, chew and party.

But they don't say no.

I thought I had the perfect idea when I came up with my concept of a one-stop shop for bands looking for gigs and bars looking for bands. It was mildly successful but I always ran into the West Texas No.

You see it's like in West Texas they say yes when they are good and ready but you'll rarely hear them say no. "I'll think about it" or "Call me back in a week" were excuses that I heard from club owners. I never was told "Hell No!" or "Son what are you thinking?" or "Lose this number" from them. I always was encouraged with a friendly hello, even by the bastards that I knew hated my guts. But I was never told no.

I guess in the "Drive Friendly" state of Texas they never wanted to offend anybody.

So rather than saying no, they didn't say. If I had deadlines to meet, they blew right by them. If I needed an answer right that second, they were nowhere to be found.

Apologies were always issued. "Man, sorry we never got together," "If you could have seen the mess I had to clean up the other day," were typical West Texas comebacks.

But you couldn't deny them. Maybe their phone did get dropped into a toilet by their six year old; maybe they did have a toilet explode at their offices.

Or maybe they didn't have the heart to say no to you.

I catch myself giving people the West Texas No now. Not returning calls until after a deadline, hiding from the office so I don't have to tell the woman that I have no more concert tickets. Hiding from my mother occasionally when I have no good news to pass on.

Is the West Texas No infectious? I don't think so. I believe that the West Texas No is society's way of dealing with feelings. We are a feeling society, we care about what we all think and feel.

Some days I wish we hadn't been so touchy feel good. Just give me the bad news, tell me no and don't get my hopes up. But we need to feel like we can get an easy path out. We don't tell our girlfriends that it isn't the dress that makes her look fat but the fifty pounds in her ass. We don't tell our friends that we can't stand their brother or sister and we certainly don't want to see their mother either.

But we live in a "Feel Good NOW!" society.

We don't live in reality anymore. In reality exists the words Yes and No.

We live in a society shadowed by incredible shades of gray and no matter what we think white or black is, we exists in the shadows. The West Texas No exists in those shadows. The shadows of feelings and believes that we shouldn't put someone down, just lead them on.

Do I plan on giving the West Texas No to anybody else? I dunno, ask me next week.

Sean A. Donahue is a freelance writer, radio personality and poker amateur. He has been published in For Kids Sake Magazine, Sunlight through the Shadows and is the author of InstantTragedy.com, a website looking a life, liberty, and the ability to have Instant Tragedy when you just add water. He is divorced with two children and lives in Lubbock Texas.