Everyone's a goddamn survivor, unless you're dead.
Bobby asked me to write a blog entry and I told him I wouldn't have a lot of nice things to say. But he insisted and said he appreciates my "honesty" and that he wants this to be "real."
It doesn't get more real than this. I cut off my left arm with a knife and watched my business partner and friend of seven years get his brains mashed up right in front of me.
I hacked off my arm and dropped it down a plastic chute. I saw it hit the scale and then I had three long seconds to think about my life before we ran out of time.
Yes, I spent years ripping people off, gaining their trust and contracting them into loan schemes that would ruin their lives. I made money by destroying families. No, I don't do it anymore. I regret hurting anyone. I regret Eddie had to die. I regret every day that I wake up with just one arm, with the trauma of that night burnt into my brain.
Yes, I'm a survivor. He didn't kill me. I still get out of bed and when I look in the mirror I feel all right about what I see. I've got six pounds less on my body and I know I can get through my life without hurting anyone else ever again.
Everyone should have a chance alone in a room with a meat cleaver. Maybe motherfuckers would get a lot nicer.