A series of seemingly unconnected events conspired to help me become the Starlord I am today.
My tombstone could read (in Engraver’s Plate), “HE NEVER MEANT TO BE A STARLORD™” and that would be accurate. When I look back on the impossible events that transpired to enable me to wear such a title I can’t help but wonder, “Why me?”
I became a Starlord completely by accident — back in my formative years, there were no such things as Starlords. It wasn’t even a blip on my radar, yet here I am at 52 years old a 100% bonified and papered Starlord. Truth be told I’ve been a Starlord for some time, I just haven’t talked about it. I look up at the stars and often wonder how many other Starlords are out there? I also look around my studio and wonder if I’ve written the Starlord too many times. Such is the life of a Starlord.
“How does one become a Starlord?” people often ask me. Like all great origin stories the day started like any other day, but this day was different. One Christmas back in 2012 I received the gift of a star from Candace Epps and her daughter Audrey which they named ‘Michael Dargie’; it lives at RA: 17h43m01.19s DE: +29° 39' 13.95". To say I was touched is an understatement, and it is something I look at and consider every day — somewhere out there is a star with my name, shining light across the cosmos, helping planets grow and evolve, and melting the faces of those not wearing sunscreen.
Unrelated to my star, but several years later for Christmas’ I decided to buy land in Scotland for my two sons (Keegan and Kierin), my kickass partner Jennifer, and myself through ‘Highland Titles’. Upon completion of the purchase the boys and I officially became ‘Lords’, and Jennifer became a ‘Lady’. My plots of land (my estates if you will) are about 10 sq’ encompassing Plot A281979 and Plot B74191 in Glencoe Wood and Mountainview in Lochaber; this makes me Lord Michael Dean Dargie of Glencoe and Lochaber. This is true. I have a deed.
By design, everyone else’s estates I purchased are neighbouring so one day we can have wars with siege weapons if we want. I haven’t visited my estate yet but hear tell it smells of peat with a hint of bog. This explains why the taste and smell of Lagavulin make bagpipes start playing in my soul (this is the only place bagpipes can be heard if you know, you know) — even though I’ve never been, it’s home. A wee home, but home. Our people from long ago came from Scotland so it’s in my blood I suppose, not unlike my hemochromatosis which is also a part of my Celtic heritage — more on this in another post.
It was only when I put these certificates side by side that the reality became clear: I am a 100% certified, bonafide, and papered Starlord. How many of us are out there? What grand adventures await me in the multiverse? I feel like I should give much more consideration to my daily attire; obviously, I need a vest, maybe a white shirt with one of those bartender bands on my bicep, two six-shooters on my hip with a belt of quantum bullets, black suede pants, a trucker wallet, and kickass biker boots that can hover adorned with spurs shaped like ninja stars. Should I wear a hat?
All I know at this point is that as one of earth’s few (if only) living Starlords, I promise to save the multiverse as best as I can.