Why is this narrative coming to you in the first person if I’m dead? C’mon now, a former journalist turned narcissistic dad blogger would NEVER leave his eulogy up to someone else to deliver. Which means even though I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil, you’ve still got to listen to me at least one more time. Thanks Internet.
Who was Aaron Gouveia? Truthfully, I was kind of a dick. Especially during my capricious youth. Someone once swore they’d deliver my eulogy with the opening line of “He’s a son of a bitch and I’m glad he’s dead.” But my mom was always kind of an asshole anyway. Seriously though, I did a lot of things years ago I’m not very proud of and if I could do it all again — well, I wouldn’t actually change anything because it truly was a blast and I had a helluva time. But I swear I’d feel bad about it. Kind of.
Things changed later in life for the same reason most men finally grow up — a good woman.
I had no business dating my wife let alone getting the opportunity to be her husband. People asked me if I brainwashed or drugged her, and I didn’t even take it as an insult because she was obviously so far out of my league. She never forced me to change, she made me want to improve myself, especially if I ever wanted to have kids.
Kids. My two boys Will and Sam.
Forget the writing awards, professional accomplishments, and even watching my beloved Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins win multiple titles over the years. My sons were, are, and forever will be my greatest source of pride and the only truly good things I’ve ever done. Watching them grow up while guiding them and simultaneously learning from them was the privilege of my life, and something for which I’ll always be eternally grateful. Being around them is the closest this heathen atheist has ever been to heaven, and I’ll miss that when I get to wherever the heck you go after you die. I don’t believe in Hell, but being reborn a Yankees fan has to come close.
As for my earthly belongings, I spent my life working as a writer which means I died with a full heart but empty pockets. Hopefully the things I’ve left with those of you who loved me transcend material goods. But if not, there’s an old lottery ticket hanging on my fridge with coordinates that lead to a desert location. Use it wisely.
My last wish is to put a keg on my coffin, drink a toast in my honor, and tell wildly inappropriate yet utterly amusing stories in which I finally come across as cool. Let those stories echo in my absence and write a few of them down if you could. After all, it’s the stories that live on, and the only real hell for a narcissistic former journalist turned dad blogger is being forgotten.
This was my entry in a writing contest called Blogger Idol. Check out the site on a weekly basis and vote for me to move on to the next round.