Welcome back, fearless readers! Is it raining where you are? The sky is clear here today, save for the stunt plane circling the globe spelling out “Chris Tuttle is Cool” in the clouds. You should never trust budget pilots, but you get the idea. Chris Tulley is Cool, y’all.

     This is the relaunch of my brand. Revamped socials, flashy graphics, new takes on Cool, and a hot summer series (get ready to meet Radison). I want to update the masses on where I’ve been since the last post years ago, so I’m gonna share that update here. Pause right now and check out the About Chris section, then come back and fall into the rushing river of the past year, a mudslide of solitude, a flash flood of new roles and opportunities, a weak flush of a toilet at your date’s house that makes you think for a split second you clogged the damn thing. That’s my personal hell, actually.

     [Chris here, Chris’ editor. Chris is a professional sports writer/editor/public figure so he asked me to clean up some things in these posts. He wants to be raw and real with y’all, but realistically there needs to be some censorship, out of respect for those he works with/for.]

     After eight years outside of the Fort, I had to move back to Indiana last summer. My finances were a wreck, as were my relationships. I did spend two months prior in the backwoods of Alabama living with my elderly grandfather, and old school, southern, military man that I didn’t really know. I’m grateful for the mistakes that led me there; the relationship we have now is stellar.

     There I was, the prodigal son. Except that’s just a story, since I’ve given up on faith, I’ve seen how the parable would have played out. Here’s how I see it; I left Indiana the first time with her, with big big plans, with rings on our fingers and smiles on our faces. I came back alone, poor, with scars from broken bones and a sick mix of [REDACTED] and tobacco in my lungs. I am a TV Sitcom trope, mooching off my parents, staying up for days staring at screens. Back in New Haven. Back to the life I loathed growing up, that I so desperately ran away from.

     I’m fundamentally broken, I think. I hate bringing up my divorce and how much it still affects me. It keeps me tied to that situation, that love that was authentic and fun. My relationship was encouraging and enabling, and I still suffer from the loss of that. The guilt of what I did is still heavy on me, even though I’ve tried to atone. 

     Let me explain what I mean when I say I’m “fundamentally broken.” I’m 26 now, living in my parents attic, absolutely miserable. Not all the time, I do have some dope friends and stories worth telling, but if you ask how I’ve been, I’d say miserable.

     I worked at a popular downtown bar in Fort Wayne right when I moved back, with some of the most genuine, passionate people in the industry. Some genuine assholes too, but that happens. Then I got the job. I’m currently the Sports Editor of the Decatur Daily Democrat, a small, farm town paper, where I cover high school sports. Sounds like a dream, right? Actually, it is. It mixes my passions for creativity and writing and sports, it’s the type of work I’ve enjoyed since I was in high school, when I’d broadcast local football games.

     I work with a wide range of clients, from 14 year old soccer players to Urban Meyer and even a gig with the WNBA. I’m a professional sports writer, can we take that in for a second? It’s honestly the only thing I pride myself on, with all the clout and catastrophe I’ve caused, this role is becoming my life. I’m working in booths next to ESPN, it shouldn’t take me long to work my way into one. And that’s just one aspect of why I do what I do. Try spending a few months with a high school softball team. Those girls, all the students I work with, they give me an opportunity to flex my teacher muscles as well. You see, I flunked outta student teaching way back when, but my admiration for education hasn’t waned.

     I was recently in a ridiculously abusive relationship. one that seriously [REDACTED] with my psyche and health, I mean this [REDACTED] would [REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED] making me think I [REDACTED]. I’m not ready to tell that story, but the shit that went down was traumatizing.

     The Sweaty Hands Club almost made a reunion, by that I mean I got to live with the closest friends I’d ever had. Jack And Raquel are the best friends I’ve ever had, they have been in my corner for years, living under the same roof as them for a few months was a deep breathe of fresh air for me. Even though were almost always [REDACTED], and we had some expensive shit stolen from us, those were some of the best months ever. Kiah Gerig is a saint/dope ass beatmaker/hot dad and I had wanted to be his rookie for over 10 years. We both had to break out of the morgue and feel alive again, and he helped me in ways I didn’t think possible.

     So now it’s Summer 19. I’m eating again, daily I mean. For most of the winter and spring, I’d muster a meal maybe 3x a week. Like I said earlier, miserable. Alabama doesn’t even have winter, Indiana it feels like it never ends, and it’s always winter in my heart. Seasonal depression, punishment for the past, whatever you want to call it. I didn’t feel like I had the right to be happy, I’ve been the source of so much unhappy. I always felt like garbage, I knew I could live off Adderall, cigs and [REDACTED], so I did it for a long time.

      I go to the gym almost weekly now, so I’m still weakly, but it’s a start. That’s what all this is, a start. A snowball to get rolling. If I get the website up, I” write more. If I write more, I’ll get better at it, which leads to better job opportunities. If I work out, maybe I’ll feel like smoking less, if I smoke less maybe I can save money up and move out on my own.

     You can expect more Chris, better Chris, cooler Chris. This is the Summer of Spunk. I’m going reach out on limbs, deliver raw cuts to your doorsteps like Blue Apron, draw, write, design, [REDACTED], [REDACTED] some more, and maybe even learn to like myself.