I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived. — Thoreau

Oh, mom.

I don’t know why it has taken me two years to write this. But it has.

You made everyone’s life around you better. Maybe that’s where I get it from. Life, dedicated to service. Except... you were not necessarily a “people pleaser,” which, unfortunately, is what I have become.

In my case, you couldn’t stand to see me struggle. For better, or worse. How could you have known?

All I do is struggle. More so, since you’ve been gone.

I remember your tales of growing up. Growing up poor. Wanting.

This, you never wanted for me. Want. In many ways, I had everything. In many ways, I have lived. In many ways, I am satisfied.

Yet, the human brain is not wired for satisfaction. We are insatiable. Every one of us.

And, sadly, in protecting me from this world, I did not want for much. In some ways, I still don’t.

I learned to live within my means... even if I became lazy. Yes, lazy. Because I quell my ambition to live within my means, rather than expanding my means to live well. I know your intentions were the best, I just never knew what I never knew. I didn’t learn the lessons. Perhaps life was too easy.

This week, I’ve taken comfort in the fact that I can no longer disappoint my parents.

My behavior is still disappointing, they are just no longer here to witness it.

Sadly, there are serious side effects to be taken care of well into adulthood—aside from the laziness.

I have an extraordinarily guilty conscience. No matter how much I’ll shout from the rooftops that guilt and shame are worthless emotions, I harbor colossal amounts of both. Somehow, I live with these every day.

Never having to struggle has made me naïve. Naïveté could be a superpower. Seriously. I don’t know what I don’t know.

Did I really learn how to balance a checkbook? Especially when money “magically” appeared any time I was overdrawn? I don’t know how to live like an adult. Budget for new things. Create a better life. Live outside of the bedroom.

I’ve watched numerous relationships—with great girls—slip through my fingers like sand... because I was not the one. Each one of these girls deserve better.

Did they find better? A handful did.

It’s a bittersweet blessing to see Ashley thriving. She’s with a good man who provides for her and their children. There is so much love surrounding them. In some ways, I am envious of the glimpses I see of their lives. In others, I am grateful that her and I didn’t work out. I could not have given her the life she has now. I don’t know where to begin!

Today, that wound is gaping. I want to give that life to someone. Anyone. Whether it’s my current young lady, or a future one. Yet, how can I, knowing that each one deserves better? Knowing I cannot provide a rich life?

No one is coming to save me. I understand that. However, that is no way to motivate someone—at least someone like me.

Oh, I wish I knew how to balance life and finances and working. I wish I had real skills to make real money without relying on trends. And smoke and mirrors.

As they say: Wish in one hand and shit in the other... see which one fills up first.

You gave me the best. I know I disappointed you when I only learned how to squander what I was given.

The only lesson I learned was: Life is all about figuring out what one can get away with.

What kind of mindset is that? Is there a limit to what we can get away with? No wonder I resonate with the grifters of this world. And less with those who actually build rewarding lives... while I enjoy rolling around in bed for three days at a time with my love.

Yeah, it’s fun. But neither of us can survive for very long, if that’s the best that I can offer her!

I saw something about ruining one’s life yesterday:

Most people don’t ruin their lives — they slowly delay fixing obvious problems. You can stay busy for years and still move nowhere.

On Christmas day, Clarissa expressed concerns with ruining my life. Her and I are so alike. My life was ruined before we met. It’s why I pull back. She deserves better. No?

Where is my drive to become better? If it exists, it’s anemic enough to make me question if I really want her in my life. Or anyone, for that matter. Hailing back to that question, “Would you date you?” Is there more to life than eating and shitting and sleeping and fucking?

Do I take a step to make my life—our lives—better? Or do I play Robin Hood, and “borrow” from one account to satisfy another? When did I lose my faith?

So, I am aware of where I have gone wrong... what, now, is the next step? Will I have to hit rock bottom, like an addict, to discover a life worth living—and possibly not survive that fall? Or can I find the impulse to take that leap of faith? To share my “gifts” with the world—whatever these may be? Or maybe there is that elusive third option... rebuilding my life now so that it gradually gets better, one step at a time?

Now that I don’t have to be perfect, I can be good. And make my 8-year-old self proud. And his mama.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. Thank you, mom, for all you did. I am sorry that I didn’t learn much, for wasting so much, and for all of the disappointments.

I’ve recently experienced a resurgence in my writing. Why? Well, I think I have a lot to get out of my system.

So, where does it go? Here. Only here. Forget the audience. For now, anyway.

I have a friend who is urging me to share the writing to the socials profiles.

Haha. No.

For starters, I haven’t been writing regularly for some time now. As such, my writing, to be honest, isn’t very good. And I appear to be using a lot of commas. Necessary? Perhaps.

As I write, the nuggets of gold will begin to appear. Those? May be worth sharing.

Yet, social media is largely a cesspool. Am I really compelled to add to it?

Currently, my curmudgeonly writing will only affirm how much most content stinks. Mentally, I’m off. Once again, I find myself in a life I didn’t necessarily want. I don’t believe anymore. I’m not good for anyone else. Hell, I’m not good for myself right now.

Is writing therapeutic? Maybe. Putting it in a place where none of it is ever lost? Less so, I think. There’s nothing like those reminders that one hasn’t learned a damn thing in the last twenty years... in spite of floating in and out of awareness of my weaknesses—and possible strengths.

At least now I’ve known love. And she has known love. She’s properly groomed... for the next one.

Do I really feel that way? Isn’t past behavior the best predictor of future behavior?

No, for now I will not contribute to the stench that is the Facebook.

I used to be funny. I’ll continue to post small attempts at that.

Then again... maybe I am looking at this invitation to share all wrong.

Okay, my writing is not at a caliber to share with the greater world. What do I need to do to improve that? Perhaps that is the challenge I am facing.

Life. Oh, life. I stubbornly resist nudging life in a direction where I might actually thrive. Excel. Again, I don’t believe. The evidence suggests that only a handful of people actually live a life that they want. Look around!

Failure is common. Struggle is common. Colossally bad decisions... are common.

Find my edge is the advice. Keep pushing my edge. No is a gift!

No. No is the standard. No no longer affects me, and hasn’t for as long as I can remember.

Yes, on the other hand, is unbelievable when I hear it. You must be mistaken.

This. This is why I don’t believe in sales. Nor affirmations. Nor love. Nor forever. Nor success. In my house of no, I have no frame of reference.

“I am exactly where I belong,” the gurus say. No, I cannot believe my writing will achieve anything. Look back in this space. Take a tequila shot for every emo post. Meanwhile, I’ll be in the out. Surely there is a ditch to dig.

Now that this is out of my system... I’ll look at life again. Fresh perspective. What have I learned? What is worth sharing? Can an old curmudgeon... believe?

What i'm listening to:

Hurt
Johnny Cash
IV

Every nonchalant guy was once a lover boy.

Soft heart. Open chest. Full faith.

He didn’t start cold.

He was made cold. By experience. By patterns. By reality.

He loved deeply. Gave fully. Showed consistency, patience, presence. And learned a brutal lesson.

Affection isn’t rewarded. Intensity isn’t respected. Availability isn’t valued. It’s priced.

The more he gave, the less he was taken seriously. The more he tried, the more leverage he lost.

That’s when the illusion shattered: Attraction isn’t moral. It’s not fair. It’s not kind. It’s responsive to power and boundaries.

So he adjusted. Not out of bitterness. Out of pattern recognition.

He stopped explaining. Stopped chasing clarity. Stopped bleeding emotions on demand.

Now he moves calm. Detached. Unbothered. Not because he doesn’t feel, but because he learned the cost of feeling loudly.

What looks like “nonchalant” is actually discipline. Self-preservation. Emotional intelligence forged under pressure.

He didn’t become heartless. He became selective.

And here’s the irony: This version of him? The one who withholds? The one who doesn’t chase? That’s the one they respect.

Men aren’t born distant. They’re trained by outcomes. Nonchalance isn’t apathy. It’s wisdom with scars. And it always starts with a lover boy who learned the truth the hard way.

It’s time for my annual ritual of recounting the tomes I read over the past year.

I find I am still doubting the... usefulness... of keeping track, except it has proven useful in looking up recollections, bookmarks, and random snaps of pages that appear in “on this day” posts on the socials.

And I am disturbed, as I reread some books that I recall having a “profound” impact on me... that I don’t remember the book. At. All.

Like how can it have an effect on me when every word appears brand new. Am I really getting something new out of the text? When everything is... new?

I am also reading less fiction. And I’m finding books that I start and don’t finish. It used to feel uncomfortable to quit something I began, yet now it feels like I’m wasting what time I have left. Progress? Maybe.

1. The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho
2. The Courage to Be Disliked - Fumitake Koga and Ichiro Kishimi
3. The Mountain Is You - Brianna Wiest
4. Later - Stephen King
5. Thinking in Systems - Donella Meadows
6. The Angel’s Game - Carlos Ruiz Zafón
7. The Tall Stranger - Louis L’amour
8. Silent Power - Stuart Wilde
9. Meeting the Shadow - Connie Zweig & Jeremiah Abrams
10. The Spy Who Loved Me - Ian Fleming
11. The Art of War - Sun Tzu
12. The Alabaster Girl - Zan Perrion
13. Get Inside Her - Marni Kinrys
14. Differentiate or Die - Jack Trout
15. Codependent No More - Melody Beattie
16. A Drinking Life - Pete Hamill
17. South of No North - Charles Bukowski
18. The Wisdom of Insecurity - Alan Watts
19. The Art of Being Alone - Renuka Gavrani
20. Penpreneur - Scott P. Scheper
21. Radical Honesty - Brad Blanton

I’ve been reading a lot of material about reclaiming masculinity. About being the man she desires. Not just the man she needs.

As I read, I keep arriving at the same conclusion: It’s not her. It’s me.

I understand her doubts. She was initially attracted to me because, to all outward appearances, I’m living the dream. I have my life together. I go where I want when I want. I don’t have to wait for the total before tapping my debit card. I don’t want for anything.

Smoke and mirrors. All of it. Maybe not ALL of it, but now that she’s gotten to know me—to see behind the curtain that is my life, I still leave a lot to be desired.

There’s an old adage out there: Would you date you? This. This is where you begin your journey.

My life appears rich, because I don’t require much. I’ve minimized a lot to maintain the lifestyle I want. However, after several years I’ve discovered that this doesn’t scale well.

Now that I want to provide for her—I want to be that man she’d be a fool to walk away from—that’s not me. Not even close. What’s worse? I don’t know how to get there from here.

Seeds of doubt have been planted. And finding myself living in this third world country, where you literally can’t get there from here doesn’t help.

It may be possible that she is not disappointed in me. That may be entirely my projection onto her.

Since discovering Mad Men, the character of Don Draper has fascinated me. He’s not necessarily a hero. Not quite an anti-hero. He’s a compelling every man with a mysterious past. He could be me.

In some ways, he is.

Granted, he can sell. And draw. And write. I’m certain he’s earned every bit of that life he created for himself.

Plus, he’s not real.

Do people with nothing really come out on top? With everything? The money? The power? The women?

This. This is what I want. My dreams are of avarice. They have always been. And I’ve never known how to get there from here.

My reading material scolds me for doing things backwards. Women first.

It turns out, women are the easy part. Finding one that will stand beside you through the hard times to build that empire? Less easy. Life design is real. It does requires financing though.

Plus, is it better to be wanted or needed?

Wanted. Definitely wanted. Because a woman who needs you will grow to resent you if she no longer wants you, but can’t live without you. This is not the life I want.

No, it’s far better to be desired. The way she looks at you with lust.

Especially when you can take care of her. Provide. Fulfill her whims and desires.

Give her everything she didn’t know she needed.

Reading in this space, one might get the sense that I’m eternally in a “rebuilding year.” And with good reason. I’ve had precious few winning seasons.

I’ve alluded to colossally bad decisions in the past. Well, I’m afraid those decisions come with consequences that Karma has yet to collect on.

It’s hard to read that scathing text that admonishes me to be “that man.” I cannot even grasp what “that man” looks like.

Can we become what we cannot even imagine? Can I sell? And write? And draw? Or, at least, reinvent my life to escape my shitty situation a la Don Draper?

Damn, what is the difference between fiction and reality?

Reading about being an authentic, masculine man who deserves it all seems like fiction. I know precious few who fit this description. And hardly anyone in this effeminate androgynous land I find myself... where no one seems happy.

Oh, I made her happy. For a brief moment. Yet, I’m not ready to sustain that. And that’s the rub. I’m NOT this man, hence I’m not ready. Considering the debts I owe Karma, I may never be “that man.” There may be more grinding to do than hours left in this lifetime.

Like those unread books. Those unwatched videos. Saved for... no reason.

At least I can probably drink the liquor. Perhaps that will help me cope with writing about avoiding the grind—rather than facing the discomfort and plowing through it. Honestly, perhaps the liquor can help with that too. It worked for Bukowski. And Draper.

I’ve determined that the only way through this... affliction... is to write through it. Might delete this later. I don’t know.

You see, I collect. It’s my weakness. My addiction. Few know this. I can’t seem to help myself.

So, today I’ve planted the seed. “Not today.”

Collect nothing new today. Nothing collectible anyway. Because I need to get air into that low tire.

Entropy. It all slips away, doesn’t it? Like sand through our fingers. Perhaps this fuels my desire to collect. Perhaps.

I have collections. Insane collections. I have purged some, yet I start another. I question if any collection is... useful.

No. Mostly these are dead collections. I have things that mean nothing to anyone but me. When I’m gone, whoever has to deal with it will call it clutter. Hoarding. My name will be cursed. Dumpsters will be required.

Sell it? Are these collections worth anything? To anyone?

Then there’s the digital hoarding. “Save to watch later” seemed a brilliant concept at the time. Now? Hell, I have more saved for “later” than I can possibly watch before I die. Not unlike that stack of books I won’t manage to read.

Beauty is common. Butterflies are everywhere. What is the purpose in pinning a dead one to my board?

I’m not the only one. Far from it. As a child, I was fascinated by the drawers filled with... well, everything... in my grandfather’s basement. And his shop. And he seemed to know where to find what we were looking for.

My dad was next level. If I needed to borrow something, he probably had it. When he needed it back, I’d find myself buying my own.

How do we determine what is useful? And what isn’t? I’ve theorized that I could delete the entire contents of my hard drive, and—assuming I survive the initial shock of losing terabytes of “for later”—be just fine.

I’ve purged the majority of my “stuff,” and oddly, I still have too much “stuff.” Do I really need that casserole dish I use once a year—not even every year—for Thanksgiving stuffing? Does banana bread require it’s own loaf pan? Do I need two stand mixers, simply because the one that makes silky smooth cake batter and can be taken apart for use as a handheld mixer is old and lacks the power for kneading bread dough? The right tool for the right job!

I have parted with most of my tools for working on the car, which forces me to rely on mechanics. Guess I’m not collecting money either. Except, I have a fascination for older bills. In my profession, they appear somewhat frequently. Does holding on to roughly $500 in “time travel” bills mean anything? Or is it better spent? Or invested?

I don’t know. That sawbuck from 1959 might be worth more than face value. Once it’s appraised, sold, and that money is spent, then it’s gone. A void where it used to be. The rationality: does a paper bill really take up that much space?

And clothes. Lord, why do we have so many clothes? Kudos to those who are able to regularly part with clothes. I’ve sold more than half of my t-shirts, and given half that amount away... and I still have more t-shirts than I can wear in a year without doing laundry. These take up considerable space.

The minimalism experts advise that if you’re paying to store ANYTHING, you don’t need it. Does it bring joy? Or even pleasure?

I hinted long ago at embracing streaming and parting with my music collection. But what about those gems I possess? Bootlegs? That handful of songs that doesn’t seem to exist on any service? Like that Will to Power record I have that most copies have disappeared from the wild.

Everything disappears given time. Legacy may not even be real. How many moderately successful people can you name from four generations ago? Politicians and wildly successful legends don’t count.

This is a question I am faced with regularly: What is my legacy?

We’re not having a baby, which seems to have soured the relationship, preempting the opportunity to have one in the future. So, the buck stops here. Quite literally. No more upline. And no downline either.

So what am I leaving behind? A collection of memoirs, stories, life lessons, and other writings which lack organization. Colossally bad decisions and collections that make little sense. And an almost perfectly tagged and curated digital music collection held on a handful of portable devices—which isn’t really “mine,” given how intellectual property licensing works. A book collection I didn’t find time to read. A liquor collection I didn’t find time to drink. And a storage locker filled with... well, junk.

I have things no one would want. Unless they possess the same unhealthy urges to collect as I do. Yet, here in the Midwest, they’ll only pay bottom dollar for it.

Can I sell it? Find a buyer who will cherish it? Possibly. Buying low and selling high doesn’t appear to be my forté. Just look at my portfolio. More colossally bad decisions.

No, I don’t need anything. I will not save that video to watch later. I will not download that song. I will not find that movie. I will not collect that girl’s phone number.

Is this what life is reduced to? What fun is that?

Stand firm. I will not collect anything. At least not today.

What i'm listening to:

The Logical Song
Supertramp
Breakfast in America

Am I the only one I know who isn’t delusional?

I am alone.

Ultimately, I think, we’re always alone—even though, ironically, we cannot do everything alone.

It takes a village. Indeed. And we have precious little control in our lives. No matter how much we believe we have.

Sure, I have others I can talk to. Friends. Allies. Some people I enjoy philosophizing with. Others, whom I don’t care for, but are otherwise good conversation. Yet, we’re all on our own journeys. Following our own paths.

Others may cheer. Or jeer, for that matter. But I am the only one who’s there for me. The bitter pill to swallow is... that’s always been the case.

My elders—while possibly having my best interests at heart—also had their own biases. I disappointed them when I’d forge a path outside of their illusion. Same with friends. Lovers. Even coaches.

Yet, they can only go through the motions. No one is coming for them either.

Lonely. I’m so lonely. (Damn, I understand why that song speaks to Clarissa so much.)

Today, the algorithm presents me with this nugget (Credit Mark Manson):

The best way to become the person you want to be is to put yourself in a situation where you have no choice but to become them.

I am closer than ever to figuring out who I want to be. I am aware that my identity is wrapped up in several of the events of the last couple of years... yet the awareness may just act as the fuel to propel me.

Perhaps I am disgusted after all.

Another bit of wisdom from the algorithm (and Elon Musk):

Stop being patient and start asking yourself: How can I accomplish my 10-year plan in 6 months? You will probably fail, but you’ll be far ahead of the person who simply accepted it would take 10 years.

I want to go. It feels right, and doesn’t feel like escape. There isn’t much more that I can accomplish in this place. And it’s becoming increasingly apparent.

And she’s not coming with me. I know that beyond doubt now. She will not surprise me. Does she love me? Probably... more than she lets on. But she can’t extricate that broke ass li’l girl from her identity. She doesn’t believe.

What’s more? What she does/feels doesn’t matter. Utterly irrelevant. That’s her journey.

Again. We’re both alone. We’ve been alone together. But ultimately, alone alone.

It’s a wonder that I don’t smoke. In fact, dry January is still in full effect. If I’m switching off, it’s only in old movies. And maybe sugar. Okay, definitely sugar.

Anyway, it’s an experience. I don’t regret a thing. Charge it to the game. And let’s do something... different.

What i'm listening to:

Lonely
Akon
Trouble

You always knew what she was, and you loved her anyway. That’s the part men lie about.

Men aren’t blind. We’re complicit.

We see the red flags early, the disrespect, the inconsistency, the chaos, and instead of walking away, we go silent and hope lust turns into loyalty.

You didn’t miss the red flags. You collected them. Folded them neatly. Slept next to them. Pretended they’d change color in the dark.

Because a man in love has the logic of a drunk philosopher. He sees the truth clearly, then debates himself into denial.

She didn’t deceive you. She didn’t hide who she was. She watched you ignore reality because fantasy felt better than discipline. You thought loyalty could heal a woman who was already emotionally bankrupt long before you arrived. That’s not love. That’s ego.

You didn’t want her healed, you wanted to be the man she changed for.

She didn’t break you. You broke yourself trying to rescue someone who wasn’t rescuing herself.

And here’s the part that hurts the most: You weren’t angry at her. You were furious at yourself for letting emotion outrun intuition. Because deep down, you knew. You always knew.

Here’s the skull-cracker: You didn’t love her despite knowing what she was. You loved her because you believed you could change her.

Every man learns this lesson once. Some learn it twice. The smart ones never need a third.

She never fooled you. You fooled yourself. And that pain? That’s not punishment. That’s initiation. Heartbreak is the tax every man pays for ignoring his intuition.

Confession time. I drag on updates. On my iPhone.

You see, I like a device that performs. Well.

While this iPhone 12 Mini no longer owes me anything, there isn’t a phone offering that excites me enough to purchase the next one. Plus, I’ll have to give up the smallest footprint Apple has offered in ages.

Apple. Oh how you’ve lost your way... but I digress. Partially. Your developers need to justify their existence too.

Lately, my phone has been throwing reminders of a world I walked away from a decade ago. Well, to be honest, I was shown the door. Every day I am grateful. Every. Day.

Because software developers have one job. And it’s not to develop software. It’s to ensure they have a job tomorrow. Perhaps we all have that job—ensuring job security. My god... we're all politicians now.

There is a small handful of apps on my phone that have been there for ages. Silently, faithfully waiting for me to use them again. And I do.

Then there are the apps in “active development.” Companies striving to remain relevant frequently update their apps to ensure the smoothest user experience. Um... I call bullshit.

The smoothest user experience will be to not have to update the app weekly—automatically or not. And as a former software developer, I fear frequent updates. It was bad enough in the Mac/PC days when you’d install the latest update for a single feature you’re excited about, only to learn it was a bad update: not ready for prime time, buggy, &c. So you’d roll back the software and read the software reviews waiting for the issue to be fixed.

However, in this modern era, it’s all but impossible to rollback the software. Again, job security. And is there a real reason to go back? Ever? Well, if I intend to keep a working, older phone, yes. So phone updates only go one way.

Let me posit this: What if your software is... perfect? It does exactly what it is designed to do, and it does that task well. I can list a handful of these applications.

But, this hails back to the Golden Era of Toyota from the 1990s. A car that’s relatively low maintenance that will run forever. Fuck! These cars will run to nearly one million miles? How in the ever loving fuck is a company to make money with a forever product? We need planned obsolescence. We need things to wear out. Feature creep alone isn’t enough.

So modern cars wear out. And modern software rots. Because we need jobs. And we need money.

However badly I may need money... I am eternally grateful to no longer be in that world. A slave to the job. To evolving a product that doesn’t need evolving, simply to justify my own existence.

And we have software that “phones home,” upon every use. In some cases, to simply ask for permission to run. So much for living off of the grid! Network connection required, for that reason only... otherwise the software runs entirely locally.

Grabbing updated data is one thing, like a daily crossword puzzle. Yet why does this require an upgraded OS? Checking for a software update, simply for the sake of an update being available? Then NOT running because the update exists? To play Tetris? Get the fuck out.

Yet no one wants to pay the Maytag repairman to simply sit and wait for the phone to ring? We must give him something to do while he waits... or at least make the wait shorter.

No. There must be another way.