There’s this girl. I hear a lot about this girl from my peer group. Hate, mostly.

I don’t understand why.

For instance, why do people think I’m some innocent? That I’m being used? That I’m not somehow complicit in this relationship?

Is it because we are very different people? From very different backgrounds?

Do you think I don’t know her? That I haven’t gotten to know her?

Look, I don’t know everything about her. This is what I do know.

We like each other enough to not leave the other alone for long. We fulfill a need within each other. Beyond that... what exactly do you think I’m looking for?

Are you expecting me to find some “good girl” and settle down? Buy a nice house with a yard and a swing set and a white picket fence surrounding it for our children to play in?

How well do you know me? Seriously...

I am not enough of an adult to get to that part of life yet. That, my friends, is an unfortunate reality.

I am the one who will leave. She knows this and protects herself from it... we have had many heart to heart conversations about this.

I have always treated her like a butterfly. I truly enjoy her when she is around, yet anything I might do to try to “keep” her, will only maim her and potentially kill her. Why would I restrict such beauty? Such spirit?

We are both learning. How to love. How to feel. Psychology of the opposite sex.

And we both have a long way to go before we’re any good to anyone. That. Is the truth.

Don’t kid yourself. I’m not giving away my power or my resources. We invest little into each other. We are teaching each other how to transcend our own idiosyncrasies. Yet I don’t need her—however fond of her I may be—and she doesn’t need me either.

But she doesn’t deserve the hate. It takes two to tango. I haven’t chased... merely extended the invitation. As a butterfly, she can take or leave it.

We have fun together, and life is life when we’re apart—and all of the pleasures and pains within those constraints. There is value in what we bring each other. I sleep like a stone every night, knowing what I know and content with what I don’t. That’s it.

So, please stop talking about her. You hardly know her, nor me, nor what I want... and frankly, this affair is none of your business.

At this moment, no one is allowed in my space.

My sanctuary.

Karma has drawn a line in the sand. And it’s not going to get any better here. Not without a change, anyway.

Are you not disgusted with your life? This was the question that was posed a while back. Being aware of it led me to this.

Yeah. Yeah I am.

Granted, I’m not at work to be liked. I’m there to make money. Yet, most jobs become cliques. And I’m not liked. And not being liked by certain people affects the money.

One cannot remain the low man on the totem pole forever. Not and survive. Nor thrive. Nor maintain his (or her) sanity.

Which revives the question: “What do you want?”

Interesting. I want a challenge. And I want the rewards that come with the challenge. I want the home. And the ability to travel. And I want the girl. Whomever she may end up being.

As long as she’s respectful, beautiful, and doesn’t snore. Yes, it’s that important.

I haven’t craved challenge in a long time. However, since I appear to be immortal, I may as well make the most of it and make a metric fuck-ton of money while I’m at it.

And networking. Some gurus believe networking is important. Essential even. Can someone who cannot win a basic popularity contest network?

I guess it’s time to find out...

What i'm listening to:

I’m Still Standing
Elton John
Too Low for Zero

The final act of love is always letting her go.

Not chasing. Not begging. Not convincing. Just releasing.

If you have to force it, it’s not love anymore. It’s attachment. And attachment makes men weak.

Real love doesn’t need persuasion. It stays willingly.

The moment it doesn’t? The lesson is over. Men think fighting harder proves loyalty. Sometimes walking away proves strength.

Because love without respect turns into humiliation. And humiliation kills self-respect.

Letting her go isn’t defeat. It’s discipline. It means you value space more than memories.

If she wanted you, she wouldn’t risk losing you. Love protects itself. Always.

The final act of love is closing the door quietly and never reopening it. No speeches. No drama. Just gone. Without exception.

They’re getting worse. Significantly worse.

I’m aging. Getting older. I hadn’t given it much thought. Pain is part of it, right?

It wasn’t until I was talking to my father about nothing a couple of weeks ago that it occurred to me. He mentioned casually that on the bad days, he takes a couple of Aleve to get through.

Two Aleve? On the “bad” days?

Hell, I can’t even function without taking 800mg of ibuprofen AND 1000mg of acetaminophen first thing in the morning. And again after lunch. And one more time early evening.

So, I guess they’re pretty bad.

I wonder what’s going on in there? Not enough to get it checked out, mind you. If life is a hotel room, I’m ready to move on.

No, it’s more of a curiosity. Is this how I’ll go? A brain tumor gradually crushing my feeble mind and taking away one sense at a time? My eyes pointing in slightly different directions? That tremor I can’t seem to control while helping her put on her necklace? Is this milk okay? Am I stumbling more often than I used to? And since when am I entirely unable to “get it up?”

Lord, all I ask is don’t make it slow. Nor painful.

Perhaps it’s not a tumor. Maybe it’s a chemical imbalance. Attached to poor diet and a general apathy towards living and life.

It could be something else. As a seventies child, I liken my memory to a cassette tape being used to load those ancient computer programs. Having to scrub the tape back and forth, shedding magnetic particles and corrupting the data each time—sometimes losing large swaths of knowledge. “Memory.”

Is this what dementia is like? Alzheimer’s? A lobotomy?

Many days—not all, but many—there is a dull pain underneath those over-the-counter medications. Just waiting for them to wear off. To flare up. Not unusually in situations where I forgot to preemptively take the next dose and find myself nearly taken to the ground by the sharp pain that slides in behind the eye. Like an ice pick.

Shit, are my eyes even pointing the same direction still? Damn. I thought I’d made that up.

Sunday morning, she held my face while my head was resting in her lap. Looking into my eyes, around my face. Telling me that she likes the way I look, yet I could use a little botox. Here. And here.

I’m just grateful I can still see her. Appreciate her beauty. Beauty she doesn’t see. Her face is slightly asymmetrical. Acne was cruel to her as a teen. And she has an ever-so-slight overbite. Yet, I think she’s beautiful.

She doesn’t come around as often as she used to. She’s disappointed that I haven’t gone to get my head examined. Yeah, we fight about that one.

Plus, it seems when she comes over, we typically get loaded. Alcohol. Drugs. Bathroom cleaners. Whatever we can find, really. Next thing you know, we’ve spent three days in bed with no pants on.

And I’ve barely gotten it up during those three days. Sadly, I wasn’t making that one up. No wonder she hasn’t come around. Maybe someone else is satisfying her.

She’s still in her twenties. Albeit, late twenties. Her good options are dwindling. Her poor options will always orbit her. No one will ever love her like I do—yet that’s not enough.

No, I don’t know why she ever loved me.

She’s still here though. Less so than she used to be, but she always finds her way back.

I wonder what she will do when I’m gone?

In chess, the game ends when the king falls. Not when a pawn takes your queen.

Most men panic over the wrong losses. “She left.” “She cheated.” “She replaced me.” Pawn moves.

You’re not the queen. You’re not the piece being taken. You’re the king. If you’re still standing, the game isn’t over.

Women come and go. Opportunities come and go. Money comes and goes. Pieces. Replaceable.

But if you lose yourself? Your discipline. Your mission. Your sanity. Your standards? Game over.

Never destroy your life over someone who was just a piece on the board. Nothing should have that power over you.

Men crash out over breakups. Lose focus. Lose money. Lose years. All because a pawn moved. Crazy.

As long as you’re breathing, building, improving, you’re still in the game. You can always rebuild the board.

Protect your mind. Protect your purpose. Protect your peace. That’s king behavior.

Let pieces leave. Let pieces fall. Just don’t fall with them. Because the game only ends when the king falls.

If you look at change as something you can count on, then it can be a comfort. There’s not many things you can count on.

Life can certainly be interesting. Two years ago, I’d have never imagined I’d find myself, today, back in a familiar land, looking for opportunity, and beginning something new... and alone.

But here we are. After seven states in seven days—and the introspection that comes with it—I am withdrawing my name from consideration. Thank you for your interest, and for the opportunity.

I have loved adoring you, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. Yet, my attention is no longer the attention you crave.

You were right. We’re not exactly aligned. And it’s going to require more than our twin flame love to thrive.

This transition will hurt. I’m not sure I’m even strong enough to resist you, if you should come back around. Your kisses, so magical. So naked. Three glorious days.

You don’t always love me—or want me—but that week... you did.

As with all good things, this appears to be ending. For several days, I didn’t want to go on. There are moments when I still don’t.

Yet, as an immortal, I must concede that going on is the only option. One vision ends, another replaces it.

So, what’s next?

Tomorrow, I start a new job. A common job. One that requires no skill, which is wonderful because most of my skills have been replaced by Skynet anyway.

Plus, there’s the neglected book. Okay, books. And the whimsical fantasy that others may benefit from my experience. Now that I cannot love again.

Those who can, do. Those who cannot, teach.

Perhaps that’s not exactly fair. I don’t know much, but it seems that the best way to learn how to do something is to figure it out enough to teach it to someone else.

I have seen this in action... training others to do a task. Explaining my understanding—flawed, or not—of how a system works.

I know, beyond doubt, that she will never forget me. Hell, I’ve had a more profound influence on more people, strangers included, than I can possibly imagine.

Incredible.

Why can’t I see this? How will I convince myself that I actually matter? Hm...

I guess we’ll find out. Childlike wonder, initiated. Let’s see what’s out there.

I’m installing some new routines. Rediscovering joy and beauty in those mundane moments. And even smiling now and then. I may even learn how to ride a bicycle.

I can’t promise there won’t be bugs. And mind viruses. Yet, that’s where the good writing will come from.

New OS. Fresh install. Life 3.0.

What i'm listening to:

favorite
Isabel LaRosa
raven

I thought I had moved past scarcity in this world. Especially scarcity around women. There are billions of women in this world—can one truly be so unique?

That must be impossible, right? Oh, if only I had learned how to ride a bicycle...

I wasn’t prepared to meet a matching spoon. I really wasn’t. Until her, I had resigned myself to either remain in solitude, or sacrifice my sleep for a relationship.

I’ve been with women who snore. Women who are heaters. Women who are clingy. Women who don’t sleep. Women who toss all night. Women who kick.

No, I never expected this one.

She’s the perfect little spoon. She pushes right into me. I can barely hear her breathe. She’s just the right temperature. She relaxes at my caresses, yet doesn’t react when they stop—or start again.

She’ll occasionally grab my hand and put it exactly where she wants. Over her breast. Around her waist. Between her legs.

She sleeps through the night. She doesn’t hardly move when she sleeps... which is calming enough that I move less when she’s here.

And she smells so good. And I never want to kick her out of bed. Nor even away from me. We simply snuggle.

Why would I ever want anyone else? I can’t imagine!

In fact, the thought of finding another invokes a profound fall into despair. How do I find another who sleeps like I do? Like I like? We spend a third (half?) of our life in bed. Isn’t that important?

Women don’t exactly fall into bed with me. There is a lot of “getting to know each other” involved before we can even find out if I won’t kick her out of bed for being too hot.

Or snoring. My god, some women snore!

Is this valid “first date” conversation? Am I selfish for being so “shallow” and ending a relationship because she snores? Or grabs my cock in the middle of the night because she’s up and ready?

Yes, I really do value my sleep that much. Maybe I am better off alone...

No wonder I have no interest in getting back out there. What a colossal waste of time “getting to know her” only to find she snores when she said she didn’t. Or she insists on being the big spoon. Or she heats up like a kettle.

Perhaps it is time to dive back into app dating. Outline exactly what my sleep expectations are—and require proof. Because, let’s face it, some of us aren’t entirely aware of whether we snore or not.

I can see it now:

Girlfriend tryouts this week. Please submit with your application your most recent paystub, your best home-cooked meal, and a recording of you sleeping through the night.

No, thank you. I definitely understand not wanting anyone else on an entirely new level.

What i'm listening to:

If I Can't Have You
Yvonne Elliman
Night Flight

I grew up in a real small town. There really wasn’t much to do at all. And I never learned how to pick up and ride a bicycle.

Which is too bad. Because we had town bicycles. Everyone got a ride. My country ass was one of the exceptions, because, I’m afraid, I never learned how.

And I still don’t. A shame actually, because I’ve learned so many other... skills. Perhaps this isn’t a noticeable gap in my tool kit. Perhaps.

Had I learned, I might have been better prepared for any/all of my experiences in the big—and not-so-big—cities.

Regrets. I’ve had a few. This may still be the biggest. Could everything going wrong in life be linked to never having learned to pick up and ride a bicycle?

What better activity, on a lonely night, than to pick up a town bicycle and go for a ride?

Maybe it is not yet too late to learn to ride a bicycle.

It’s time to simplify my life. Past time, actually.

I’m layered. Like an onion. I used to freelance, so I have multiple email addresses and server spaces and domains. And bank accounts. And computers.

The right tool for the right job!

My last purge, I parted with the majority of my tools. I can’t say that I’ve missed them.

I keep my old iPhones. Snapshots of a former life.

I see I’m not the only one. In fact, I’m not even that unusual! So much for my theories of being a 1% of... anything.

Taking advantage of an opportunity, I spent the last week on the road. Visiting a couple of friends I’ve known nearly longer than anyone—thirty-plus years.

Yet, in some ways, they are quite similar. They are well (enough) off. They don’t worry about the little things, and they’re always available to chat. And help. While life can always be better, theirs are pretty well set up.

Simple. Morning routines. Build a fire in the wood stove. Open the blinds to the outdoors. Sit and read and gaze upon the wondrous views. A dog at his feet. Maybe a quick breakfast. Maybe a quick workout.

Not a lot of chaos. Not a lot of drama.

Maybe I have found some of that in my life. Some days, I don’t have sufficient reason to get out of bed... is that a cause for concern? Am I healing from something? Do I need to find something to do?

Write, perhaps? Get thoughts down on the page and out of my own madding mind?

Today has been relaxing. I have a candle lit. I’m enjoying my second cup of English Breakfast with a dab of my mom’s honey in it. I’m set to pick up some fresh tamales for lunch after an appointment. And I work a shift tonight. And for now, I’m writing about the similarities in these friends.

Perhaps, I’ll save the differences for another time...

Another thing of note, is these friends enjoy a scarcity of women.

Not that they don’t both enjoy women, when the opportunity arises (pun accidental).

Women are not their life’s work. Who am I kidding? Are they mine?

Each interaction is easier. I no longer chase. I let her come to me.

I’d like to think I’m learning to recognize when she’s no longer into me. When it’s time to detach and slip quietly into the night. Yet I fear I’m not learning not to fall all over again, should she return.

We humans are complicated beings.

One of these friends chooses not to get too friendly with the women. In some ways, they are a potential detriment to his life and lifestyle. What nonsense has society created?

I am grateful to be able to enjoy... all of the women. As butterflies, if need be.

The other has had his fair share of relationships. He is better than I at ending them when they no longer make sense—not to say that he doesn’t endure his fair share of hurt in that process as well.

He’s found a good one. She genuinely adores and respects him, even when she’s angry at him. And she found him. No chase.

And she has her life together. He doesn’t have to play roles or fill needs beyond the relationship. They simply ENJOY each other. Isn’t that glorious?

All of the adoration in the world won’t fix a young woman. Whether she’s striving to keep food on the table. Or addicted to alcohol. Or drugs. Or attention from all of those potential digital suitors. Or that damned social media doom-scroll.

It can, I suppose, if she genuinely adores and respects her suitor. And can see herself in the lifestyle he represents. Like so many things, that requires doing the work. Every. Day.

Hell, I can’t even convince myself to do the work. Every. Day.

But I am today. One step up.

Eliminate the complexities. Enjoy what little life remains. Simplify.

What i'm listening to:

If You Love Somebody...
Sting
The Dream of the Blue Turtles