When a woman truly loves you, she fixes what could cost her you. Attitude. Tone. Habits. She pays attention.

She studies what bothers you. Not to argue, but to adjust. Not forced. Not begged. Chosen.

But when she doesn’t care, you’ll hear, “That’s just how I am.” No effort. No correction. Just excuses.

You’re not that important. If you were, she’d move different.

A woman in love adapts. A woman keeping you around doesn’t.

Love makes her aware. Ego makes her rigid. One keeps you. The other tests how much you’ll tolerate.

You’ll never have to convince a woman who’s afraid to lose you. She’ll already be moving right.

A man doesn’t beg for change. He watches behavior and decides. Because real interest shows up in actions, not words.

Say, say, say what you want but don’t play games with my affection
Take, take, take what you need but don’t leave me with no direction

All alone I sit home by the phone waiting for you baby (baby)
Through the years how can you stand to hear my pleading for you dear?

You know I’m crying, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh
Yeah

Now go, go, go where you want but don’t leave me here forever
You, you, you stay away so long, girl, I see you never

You never ever worry and you never shed a tear
You’re saying that my love ain’t real

Just look at my face, these tears ain’t drying

You, you, you can never say that I’m not the one who really loves you
I pray, pray, pray every day that you’ll see things, girl, like I do

What can I do, girl, to get through to you
‘Cause I love you (love you) baby (baby)

Standing here baptized in all my tears, baby through the years
You know I’m crying

Looking through the lens of today’s pop psychology lingo, this girl’s an avoidant. Ask how I know...

What i'm listening to:

Say Say Say
Paul McCartney, Michael Jackson
Pipes of Peace

Sometimes starting over looks like a mattress—albeit, a made mattress, complete with all of the trimmings—on the floor.

No box spring. No frame. At some point, those will be nice. Some decisions need to be made first. There’s a cool floating bed frame on the Amazon I’m eyeing...

My best friend looked at me, incredulously, after I told him that she and I spent 72 hours in bed. Wearing nothing.

He looks right into my eyes. “Do you really want to be with a woman who sleeps with a guy who has a mattress on the floor? And stays? For three days?”

Wait. I AM that guy. And yes. I want her. Here. Every. Night. Bed frame or no.

I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion. Am I supposed to postpone dating, fucking, et al, until I get my life together enough to get a bed frame?

Hell, maybe I am doing this life thing... wrong. Because I am... minimal. Because I don’t want... stuff. I don’t want anything that won’t fit in the car when it’s time to eject.

That day may be closer than I think. I still want her here though.

She wants more, yes. So do I. Yet, she doesn’t judge me because my apartment is... sparse. At least it’s quiet. No one can hear what we do. We can’t hear what others do.

Do I fear losing her to someone who can offer her... more? Maybe. I’m not naïve enough to believe that all we need is love.

She is drawn to excitement. And drama. My life currently lacks excitement. And always lacks drama.

Yet, she loves the “experience” I offer her. Is she susceptible to the experience another may offer her? Of course. She is my butterfly. I will enjoy her while she is present.

Attended a comedy show last night. Had a good time. There’s some great comics out there! And some… less great comics.

Next thing I know, ideas are flowing for my own bit. Brainstorm active. These are good! Sister agrees.

Let them marinate overnight. This morning they improve as I shower. As I drive to work.

Finally, the opportunity arises to get them down… open up the laptop.

To a browser tab. Nearest Jack in the Box. No longer in the area. Now over two hundred miles away. I was curious, because there was no longer one where I drove by a few days ago.

Switch to my writing app to jot down the idea.

What idea?

Gone. Nothing. Fuck.

…

Fuck.

Now, I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes staring at the blank page. I recall something I wanted to add to my bit back in November that somehow isn’t in my notes… so it’s added now.

Last night? Still an utter blank.

Fuck.

Why are we like this? Brain dump. Absolute.

So, now what? Do I continue to stare at the blank page? Strive to recall last night? State of mind? Do I free write what’s running through my head in its absence, which results in a piece of writing no one else will read?

Relax? These things return when we least expect it, right? How to relax though?

And what system can I put into place to ensure this doesn’t recur? Do I need to employ voice notes? Start the laptop from a fresh state so there are no distractions when I open it up? Time to carry a notebook so I can jot ideas down?

Fuck. Still nothing. I don’t know…

And I don’t know what I don’t know. Full circle. From adept to inept.

Hmmm… that’s clever. Maybe that can be used for something. But it’s still not the brilliant bit I had in mind last night and this morning.

Maybe a nap will help. Why can I recall last night’s dreams? That never happens. Anything to take the place of my own brilliance, I suppose.

Fuck. No wonder I lack self-esteem. I excel at hiding my best stuff from myself.

…

Fuck. And here comes the headache. From the strain, I suppose.

Let me venture to say that life is like a comedy set.

Endless.

And not very funny.

You’re sitting midway back. In the audience. Tepid, watered down drink in your hand. Waitress nowhere in sight.

The comedian tries. Each joke fails to land. Not even groans from the audience. Dead silence. Almost zombie-like stares. When is this jackass’s three minutes up?

Staring at the red light. Craving it’s illumination that indicates it’s done.

The light remains dark. The drink, unappealing. Another joke. A miss.

Is this eternal? Possibly.

We don’t know what’s next. We don’t care. Me? I’m past caring... and have been for most of the set.

Now, the comedian is focused. On me. Jokes still not funny, yet I am the butt of the joke. Still no laughter. From anyone.

I just want out. Escape. Make it so.

A pretty girl from the next table checks me out. She likes what she sees.

No, honey. You don’t want any part of this. Trust me. I’ll only break your heart. I have little, if anything, to offer you—besides a penis and a good time. I’ve learned, throughout this set, that is not enough.

So, I shrink. Hide. Behind this drink. Damn, it’s gross. Where is the waitress? Does she think she won’t get the tip?

Just the tip. Haha. My jokes are funnier than the comic’s.

Will this eternal set—this hell—ever end?

“I must not scream. I must not scream in front of them. I must stay. I must not listen to my mind. I must not run off the set. I must not run. I must not run! I know — I know I’ll break down. They’ll find out I am weak. They’ll find out I’m in pain. Oh, God! What God? I will break down, look like fool, an idiot. They’ll find out I can’t act! Can’t act! Can’t act at all!

“End of the vision — well, there must be a way out, and my mind is telling me there’s a way out. You get a nice, cool gun...”

Why am I surprised? I’ve been engineering this outcome for months now.

Her interest waned. My interest waned. Yet I still wanted her. It’s been her for seven years. That’s a lot of interest to lose.

It’s been an... interesting (pun accidental)... couple of weeks. She was reaching out. Texting first. Good morning. Asking how I am. Was I a fool to think this was anything more?

Five months ago, we fought. Her life is falling apart. She no longer wants to be lovers. She wants to be friends. I cannot be friends with her. We’re too close. If I’m right in my speculation, it’s exactly why we couldn’t be friends.

Whatever happened, I think it happened on Thursday. Hard to say.

I was annoyed. We had tentative plans to hang out. She even reached out Thursday night... later than I expected. It’s always an expectation, isn’t it? I’d already eaten. So, I sent a lukewarm response to her “wyd?” text.

She sent a “Good morning!” on Friday. And it was!

That’s the last I heard from her.

Friday. Payday. You see, I’ve become accustomed to her patterns.

I love her, but there’s a certain... numbness... to her idiosyncrasies. Protecting myself? Perhaps.

So, when her social media activity went dark, I was concerned... but not as much as I could have been. She’s done that before too.

Many times, she was with me. Maybe that was a clue. The girl is addicted to her social media. Reels. Ask how I know. I’m one of her rare distractions from such things. One of precious few reasons her social media activity indicator goes dark.

Forty-eight hours later, the green dot. She’s alive. She’s checked up on me. Even posted a cryptic story on SM.

This girl is too much like me. Vague is life.

I’ve been working a lot. I’ve been busy. Again, I’m annoyed because we aren’t hanging out. This USUALLY resolves itself when I can let go. So I’m attempting to let go.

Sunday morning. I miss a call from her mom while I’m in the shower. Followed by a text offering tamales.

Her mom frequently calls me when she can’t find her daughter. Frequently, her daughter is with me, so the leap is justified.

Yet, this time her mom is not in crisis. Simply offering fresh tamales.

So, after work, I reach out. I love tamales. Especially Maria’s.

I haven’t heard from Clarissa, so I’m half-expecting her to answer the door when I arrive for the payload.

It’s cold when I knock on the door. Her brother answers and invites me in. Clarissa’s daughter approaches and gives me a high-five. Her brother and I chat for a bit, her mom brings over a bag of food, her father is looking somber on the couch. No Clarissa. Not awkward. Or is it?

So, I leave. I am fed for another week. Now, my mind starts racing.

What just happened? Where is Clarissa? Aside from her father, her family did not seem concerned. What do they know that I don’t? Should I have inquired about her?

They watch Clarissa’s daughter when Clarissa is up to her... escapades. I know, because I am frequently the cause of her escapades.

Clarissa updates social media. She’s clearly not home. Who is she with? Did she meet someone? While I was being stubborn Thursday night?

If she were being reckless, her family would have shown more concern. Now it’s late on a Sunday evening, and I still have not heard from her. We’ve been meeting on Monday mornings... yet because we haven’t met beyond that, I was scheming a way out of that.

Damn, Karma. Really?

Honestly, I’ve been tearing myself apart. I wasn’t ready for a relationship—with anyone. This girl lit me up, and made me wish I was more. And for a moment, I was. More.

Yet I don’t have my own life together. I’m irresponsible. I’m unhinged. I don’t know how to not be horrible for her. We’re reckless when we’re together, in spite of both of us wanting to be... better.

Perhaps, I’m not unlike her previous friends. All I bring to the table is bad decisions and a cheap high.

Many days, I don’t even want to be here. On this planet, I mean. I crave oblivion. She was the only one who dampened that craving... which is a horrible burden for her. Maybe it is best to sever this connection.

Now I find myself spiraling. Yet again. There are so many examples of my own spiraling in this space, it’s why I fear the more I learn, the less I know. And wonder if I learn anything. At all.

If she met someone who lights her up? Well, she deserves it! Why would I ever deny her the opportunity to fall in love?

If she’s simply stepping out, and finds her way back to me? Well, shit... what do I do then? Show her she can be seduced, satisfied, heartbroken... and always come back to me? What kind of life is that? For me?

Fuck.

And there’s a possibility all of this wild speculation is for naught. That she’s spending the weekend with a girlfriend. Or who knows what. Yet, do I want a life where I’m “ghosted” for hours—days—while she takes her “space.”

Ugh. What is a man to do? Just because this girl has shown interest in me in the past, does not mean she is interested. Interest wanes.

She’s been showing interest. We’ve been loving each other. I haven’t been confused because her actions show love where her words fail... until this weekend.

Now she’s exhibiting the behavior average guys are warned about. Disinterest. Disrespect. Why wouldn’t I think some dude lit her up in ways I haven’t?

And if it can happen with her, why can’t it happen with all of them?

I thought I was ready for the demise of this intrigue. Now, all I know is I may never be ready for the natural end of things I love...

All beautiful things must end. Otherwise, they are not beautiful.

What i'm listening to:

Rock of Life
Rick Springfield
Rock of Life

Most relationships fail because women forget one thing. A man’s happiness matters too. Not just her emotions.

A relationship can’t survive if it’s built around one person’s feelings and the other person’s silence.

Men get taught, “Be strong. Be patient. Understand her.” So they swallow problems until they go numb. Then they leave.

Women often think love = constant emotional service. Constant reassurance. Constant attention. Constant agreement. That’s not love. That’s labor.

A man needs peace. Respect. Consistency. Support. Not chaos dressed up as “I’m just emotional.”

Mood swings aren’t a personality. They’re a lack of self-control. And self-control is the foundation of stability.

If his needs are always “too much,” and her feelings are always “valid,” you don’t have a relationship. You have a one-sided rulebook.

Men don’t leave because they stop loving. They leave because they stop feeling respected, and stop feeling safe in the home.

A smart woman understands this. If she wants a strong man, she has to give him a soft place to land. Peace is romantic. A man’s happiness matters. Ignore it long enough and you won’t have a man to complain about.

Part of my finally become an adult—a man—is discovering that I have the wrong mindset about money.

Maybe it’s my tendency to see what I can get away with. My father could never resist a good deal. Even my girlfriend doesn’t accept the first price.

To say my dad was grifter is not entirely accurate nor fair… he worked hard, yet he was frustrated by the world that was no longer a loyalty-rewarded system his own father enjoyed. He found a level of comfort and was satisfied with that. And mowing his lawn.

I learned how to live with less and look for a deal. That zeal for yard work missed me entirely, however.

Mom, on the other hand, got it. She had hit that point where money worked for her, and it made her generous.

I see thought experiments on both sides of the aisle. There’s the stingy side. Don’t buy that overpriced cup of coffee. Live like no one else, so you can live like no one else.

Then there’s an abundant approach. Hustle so you can enjoy that cup of coffee guilt-free! You have to spend money to make money.

One of my best friends is frugal. Some call him cheap, yet I’ve seen him match whatever value he sees. And what he says makes some sense.

There are a lot of entitled, single moms out there waiting tables—even if they clearly don’t want to be there—and do nothing to add to that dining out experience. They then bristle at a 5-10% gratuity. Or when that tip fails to materialize entirely.

I get it. This is how to keep the lights on and a roof over your head. Yet, in this case, I agree with him. Being charming and pleasant and “serving” the guest is part of the experience. If you’re not adding to the experience, why should a guest pay more?

But I digress. I have many thoughts on the dining out experience as a whole, but they can wait.

Focus. This is about me. The man child. The one who is amazed that people—adults—are financially mature. They purchase big ticket items. Cars. Homes. Vacation homes. Travel.

They are greeted with a $12,000+ daily balance from the ATM.

Why can I not fathom this? What did I miss growing up?

Perhaps I do not want enough. Enough to set goals anyway.

Now, I find my life disenchanting. Like a petulant brat. Maybe I am the one who’s entitled…

I’m beginning to hone in on new wants. Dreams. Desires. Plus, I no longer want to do life alone. Yet, by minimalizing to meet my money needs—and supporting my own laziness—I find I am disappointing.

In some ways, I have a life she wants to join. Yet, in others, she sees that I fall short.

The life design influencers encourage writing these wants, dreams, desires down. Some go a step farther and create a spreadsheet. Budget for the rich life you deserve.

I have one friend who even budgets a line item for each of his girlfriends. Yes, girlfriends. He had three at the time.

He doesn’t want for money. He is frugal with what he needs, enjoys spending for his wants.

This. This is the life I crave. Is it so unattainable, as I was led to believe?

After all, I don’t know many who simply have abundance.

Let’s face it. Scarcity is the norm in society. Perhaps, this is by design. Controlling the masses. Bread and circuses and all that. And debt.

Most of that I do not want—I’m not even interested in bread, circuses, or debt. Maybe bread.

I have been accused of being a foodie. The one extravagance I maintain.

I want more. I want to feed my insatiable wanderlust. I want to take care of my woman. I want her to never have to worry so she can relax and surrender to her own loving nature and her femininity. Life has been too cruel to her for too long.

Yet, this scarcity is indoctrinated in me. I go there before thinking.

Just today, I caught myself saying, “I never thought I’d live long enough to see one bedroom apartments go for $1,000 a month!”

How can I follow my dreams? How can I afford this at this stage in my life—and more! I fantasize about having a spacious and beautiful place to live!

Is there anything I can do to make real money? Will anyone read my writing? Am I qualified to do anything?

Restate my assumptions: 1. Mathematics is the language of nature. 2. Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. 3. If you graph these numbers, patterns emerge. Therefore: There are patterns everywhere in nature.

Pop.

It wasn’t audible. More of a feeling. Maybe I did “hear” something, but it was only me. Inside my head.

Just a pop. Followed by relief. Instant relief.

The headache which had plagued me for days. Weeks. Months. Was gone. Obliterated.

A euphoric wave washed over my head. I liken it to being anointed, yet I only know what I’ve read about that. No actual experience. No frame of reference.

That damned headache had become part of my identity. Did it worry me? Yeah, sure. Was I curious about what might be going on in there? Was I having a stroke? An aneurysm? Those kill people, right?

Yes, I was curious, but not enough to go to the doctor. This pissed her off to no end. She doesn’t want to be left alone.

My head feels lighter, somehow. It’s actually hard to describe the sensation. Warm. Wet. Maybe orgasmic.

But wait. Something is missing…

Running through a quick system check. Memory is fine. I can see. Smell. Feel. Hear. Taste.

Four plus four. Eight.

Next level. Close your eyes. How many yellow objects are in the room? Seventeen.

Next level. What is a 27% tip on a $63.41 tab?

Nothing. Nothing comes up. Total darkness. A lapse, if you will.

Panic swells down below. I’ve always been able to see math. Perform it in my head.

My grandmother noticed it when I was in grade school… “How much tip should I leave?” She trusted me… even when I started inflating tips. After all, the service was stellar, she deserves more than fifteen percent.

I recall the Aronovsky film π. No spoilers here, beyond the lead’s debilitating headaches. Is this my fate? Or was it?

Are they gone now? Along with my natural mathematic ability?

I can still quote this movie. Yet intermediate (and beyond) math is just… gone.

Am I still “smart?” Can I survive like this? Adapt? Will it return?

A friend was taking medicine for her bipolar disorder. It caused blindness.

Albeit, temporary—her vision returned after she switched medication.

This. This is why I don’t know what is going on inside my head. The once noble practice of healing has been corrupted by pharmacom and money. There’s no money in cures. Only maintenance.

She loves the accommodations in the local hospitals. The attention. The care. Since spending so much time with her, I have spent more time in hospitals in the last two years than my several decades prior—combined!

Yes, I believe the people at that level truly care. They want their patients to feel better. Yet, if the “higher-ups” aren’t promoting more natural lifestyle changes and holistic healing first… before pumping us full of chemicals or cutting us open? The art of healing is lost. Sold.

Maybe I ought to have my head examined. Maybe the “pop” was bad. It certainly scared me at the time.

However, I am still here. This incident happened seven months ago. For the most part, my mathematic abilities have returned. So have the headaches.

My memory may be beginning a descent… all the more reason to write and see what I can produce. We’ll revisit that in a few months—with increased awareness of forgetfulness.

Again, maybe I ought to have my head examined. Maybe, one day, she’ll convince me.