I wouldn’t presume to tell people what they can write about. Why do people tell me?

I went to Milwaukee to see the Bucks with my cousin. He told me, “Don’t write about family or sex.” I wrote and emailed all of my loved ones about my first sexual experience. It was a long time coming. Forty-nine years I waited to be with a woman. I had to tell the world, but that was six years ago. My cousin will always tell it until he dies. Like me running over a care attendant. That was a year ago, but I will hear about it forever. It is funny. Finding sex is impossible for me. I want it. “Steve, don’t put it on your blog. People read it,” my cousin said. “And don’t write or publish anything about the family.” Let me see … I have spent three years writing a manuscript and $500 on an editor. I’m supposed to dump a manuscript for them. I write about my family because I love them. I rarely see them and writing about my family gives me time with them. They should be glad I’m writing, but no. I endure problems like being stuck outside in zero degrees at night. My care attendant fell asleep and I had the bus driver call my manager, who came to get me in the apartment. After being out in the cold for ten minutes, I waited in the bus until my manager arrived. That’s my life. I want people to know what I face daily. It is not easy. I do everything myself. My family doesn’t have to deal with multiple things and still write. I’m building a legacy. I remember my nonverbal friend committing suicide. People wondered why. When my time comes, my words will live on. Then my family will see what I have done. Until then, I’m moving forward with the impossible dream. I will always love my family, but I’m going to live my life.