You reach an age where you realize that being a man isn’t about respect or strength, it’s about being aware of all the things you touch.

Every day is a new box, boys. You open it, you take a look at what’s inside. You’re the one who determines if it’s a gift… or a coffin.

It’s hard not to hate. People. Things. Institutions. When they break your spirit and take pleasure in watching you bleed. Hate… is the only feeling that makes sense.

The bond that holds this club together isn’t about love or brotherhood anymore. We lost that a long time ago. It’s just fear and greed now.

I buried my best friend three days ago. As cliché as this sounds, I left a part of me in that box.

Is there anything you love so much, you’d protect it, no matter the cost; the damage it did to you?

Today, I will be the man my father tried to be. I will make you proud.

I’m not a good man. I’m a criminal and a killer. I need my sons to grow up hating the thought of me.

Every time I think maybe I’m heading in the right direction, I end up in a place I never even knew could feel this bad.