I cut my own hair with an electric razor that my brother gave me, I thank God for every day that my truck keeps running, and I find it just a little bit ironic that well-worn, tattered jeans are in style. What others call fashion, I call hard work.

I don’t want pity--pity is a poison of which I will not drink. Besides, I’m the one who put myself in this position. Some people think that I am naïve, but life has kicked me down too many times for me to be naïve.

I pretty much knew what I was getting myself into when I started this project, but I did it anyway. And I can respect myself for that.

I will pay any price, bear any burden, and meet any hardship to ensure the survival and success of liberty. That’s not rhetoric--that’s reality.

So anyway, I met this girl the other night.

It was just that kind of night. The kind of night when it feels like anything could happen, and anything often does. You breathe in just a little bit deeper. You linger. You know that you are alive.

And then I realized something.

Confidence is not an expensive haircut or pair of designer jeans. It can’t be bought at the tanning salon or built up at the gym, and it doesn’t come with a set of keys. Confidence, true confidence, is the courage to be real in a world that is often just pretend.

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