There’s not much I can profess in my life that the readers of my memoires haven’t already come to grips with.
I have a tendency to recount my laurels and ill-gotten fame….it’s the curse of being an old soldier and I don’t have too many regrets, so to speak of, other than not mounting that delectable southern belle, Scarlette O’Hara when I had the chance.
Albeit, I have never really been negligent in the admissions of my ill gained fame or the wanton accolades that have been reaped upon me by the starving, hero worshiping masses that populate this great country of ours that I have shammed and beguiled.
I don’t mean to bore you with my past deeds and misdeeds, although the latter highly outweighs the former. I’m sure that the readers of this record are more aware of my blatant poltroonery and rumbling bowels during my ill-gained famous career, than I mean to care about, or even relate.
You see, I was in a dire predicament, just after 1865, after having to deal with that growling, inebriant, Sam Grant and having survived, both sides mind you, your blasted Civil War, that you call it now, with some shiny tin wear to exhibit on my manly broad breast.
Agreed from what you know of my being a bowel trembling, recalcitrant resident in this ghastly country, that I happened upon a young Englishman in Boston that changed my life and possibly the course of American history.
Maybe, even the world.
He had a time machine, you see….And I was sober the whole time.
The rest is history, if not….maybe the future…Damn his eyes….
H.G Wells was the bastards name….
I’ll tell you more tomorrow…
If anyone knows better than I, time is only time….