The War Reporter Paul Watson Retiring

I’m still hoping to be found by the ghostof my father. I get that. It doesn’ttake much brains. I’m simply willing to gowhere no sane person should. And I get praisefor it. Feels good. A colleague once called me,Adventure Journalist! but the bad guyswho want to kill us aren’t hanging outat the hotel pool. But that’s no excusefor leaving a son without a fatheror my wife without income. She begs meevery chance she gets, This is ruining you!Ha ha ha. She wants to squeeze a promiseout of me. So I say, Okay, you’re right,I’m done. But the moment I get off SkypeI’m planning my next war. I was speakingto my editor recently and she said,We’re going to have to close down the bureausoon, at which point I don’t know what we’ll dowith you. And I was like, Sorry, what’s thatsupposed to mean? Well, I’m sure you’re awareyou have a reputation for beingkind of this quirky reporter. Suckingdirt in hellholes like Afghanistan, andbasically what she’s saying is, You’re notuseful anymore. Useful was her wordexactly. And it felt like a vacuumsucking out my guts. And I blew—I blewmy top! First of all. I screamed and I hungthe phone up on her. I have some troublewaking up still. After lunch I like togo back to sleep. I’d like to resurrectmyself somehow, I’d love to feel the bloodflooding my veins. But instead the Devil’sgot hold of me. Ha ha ha. I supposeI just have zero tolerance now. The world’sdisabused me, so I’ve simplybegun disabusing myself of the world.