Wow. I have so many things I could talk about.

I just got back from the grocery store, where I think I accidentally hit on a hot tattooed chick. And then I almost got ran over by three of those fucking kid carts, you know the ones that look like cars but are shopping carts? They take up 3/4 of the aisle and the idiots, um, I mean moms who push them around with their little shitheads, um, I mean kids, who don’t look where they’re going?

Yeah, those. I could talk about the three of them, or the fourth one that parked the fucking thing in front of the cooler door where I was trying to get in to get food and then proceeded to not move even after I threw my hands in the air and said, “Oh, nevermind. I didn’t want anything out of here.” I guess she thought I was serious.

Or I could talk about last night on the field at the Falcons/Ravens game. I got to work for a buddy from high school, who was a year younger than us and who I haven’t seen since high school. He works for the Ravens’ video department and I got to help them out putting together the video playbooks during the game. Pretty cool stuff they do.

But no. I’m not going to talk about those.

I’m going to talk about a dear friend who reminded me of something the other day.

The friend is Dwin.

This fuck has been around my life for 29 years, since fifth grade at Rock Cut Elementary. I don’t remember our teacher’s name, but I’m guessing he probably does. I don’t remember any of my teachers’ names because of the four elementary schools I went to before I finished fifth grade. They all blend together. Mr. Falzone in seventh grade is probably the first name I can remember, and that’s only because he was such a tool.

Dwin and I have been through a lot together. He lived about a half mile down from my trailer park so he was on of the closest friends in my class. And he looked like Eddie Munster with that buzz cut, so that was worth laughing at.

We also played football together starting in seventh grade and we wrestled together once I started in eighth grade (I was late to the game there. Him and Carlson had been wrestling for couple years before me, one thing I wish I would have actually been able to do when I was younger; but I did win a conference championship in my career and they didn’t, although no one is here to rub things in).

In 10th grade, Dwin was with me in Driver’s Ed. Literally in the car with me. They took three kids at a time and we were with Lucky Mitchell, aka Mr. Fucking Hook, named so for the claw he had on his arm where he no longer had an arm below his elbow. This is the same guy who was a football coach and you never felt like you played worth a shit if he didn’t clip that claw on your facemask and yank you close enough so he could spittle on you when he yelled.

It was me, Dwin and a chick assigned to the same car to learn how to drive. That was awesome, especially the time the chick was driving and Dr. Hookenstein made her turn onto the interstate, where she proceeded to do 28 down the off ramp and into the interstate… and then sped up to 33 on the interstate, which at the time had a speed limit of 55. The semi that about rubber necked behind us thought it was a tad too slow.

Dwin is also one of the ones who has been at all the poker games, New Year’s parties, a number of illegal car races near my mom’s house that we conducted spontaneously, some near-brawls, a couple other fist fights and pretty much everything interesting that I’ve done in the Park since age 13.

That’s the background.

This is what the fuck did this week. He sent me this e-postcard.

While the sentiment is understandable, it’s still pretty ballsy considering 1) he knows I don’t have a full-time job so I definitely have the time to get on a plane, fly to L.A., kick his ass, grab some good sushi and then come home and b) like he knows about me, I too know where the bodies are buried in his past.

But I’m bigger than that.

No, seriously. Stop laughing you fucks. I am bigger than that.

I did not make any grand scheme to get him back for this. Instead, I did him one better. His little note reminded me of something: That I do need to get a life again.

So, as Kid Rock says, this is a big Fuck You to Dwin.

I got a job. Officially. Fulltime. Starting on Nov. 22.

I will be an Interactive Producer for Turner Sports Digital, which is a part of Turner Entertainment, meaning maybe some day I’ll run into Coco, whoever the fuck that is. I will be working on the new NCAA.com, which Turner is taking over from CBS Interactive in December. My main role will be creating and managing content and serving as an editor for anything and everything NCAA.

So there Dwin. Now get the fuck off my ass.

And everyone have a beer for me. Not that I need it cause I’m going to have 10 tonight, but you should enjoy too.

Out.