I used to brag that I was free from addiction. After all, I don’t have an addictive personality.

Alcohol, I can take or leave. Same with cigarettes. Illicit drugs. Sweets. Sex.

Sleep? Well, sleep addiction may be a thing...

But French fries? Oh. My. God.

Put a plate of fries in front of me, and I’ll destroy it. Fast. Don’t blink.

I even ruined a few days progress on one of my diet rounds by persuading a beautiful young lady at the next table at a restaurant for a single fry.

Of course, she gave me two. The second was responsible for the weight fluctuation.

So, today, in between diet rounds, I ordered my usual steak salad, with a side of fries.

I didn’t finish my salad... and the fries were more than half gone before I started on it. Of course, you have to eat fries quickly... before they get cold!

Her name is Jordan. Her friend’s name, Paige.

It started as just another day at the gym when our eyes locked from across the room. Yet, I’m at THE GYM. Girls don’t like to talk to/meet guys at the gym. Girls DELIBERATELY avoid eye contact at the gym. And earbuds are everywhere.

And I understand. Girls are vulnerable at the gym. No makeup. Light clothing. Sweat. Gross.

Yet, this girl’s eyes are locked. on. me. And she really is beautiful—so much that I am distracted... it’s a good thing I can count to twelve on auto-pilot.

So, the battle of saboteurs begins. “I’m here to workout—it’s shoulder day.” “She’s here to workout.” “Oh shit, she’s looking at me again. Play it cool.” “Was that an eight count?” “Is she looking?” “We don’t approach girls at the gym.” “Where did she go?” “Oh, there she is... and she’s looking at me again.”

Next thing I know, I’ve completed my workout. The moment of truth... I should at least show up, right? At least say “Hi.”

Her and her friend follow me to the locker room. Interest? Perhaps. Perfect.

Yet, they don’t end up in the locker room. They go straight after I round the corner. Maybe they’ll come in the other side? I’ll change clothes and reassess.

I walk out of the locker room, and she’s on a piece of equipment closest to the locker room. Our eyes lock again. Smiles are exchanged.

And. I. walk. out.

Chicken shit.

Okay, breathe. I’m sitting in the car, feeling low and I have to pee. After a couple of minutes, I convince myself to go back in.

As I re-enter and round the corner, the girls are right there. Finally, I stammer out a “Hey! Good workout?”

She responds. We exchange names and smiles. I am nervous as hell...

Honestly, I had to rely on a “canned” line (I had to come back in and say “hi,” because I would have kicked myself for the rest of the day if I didn’t.)... and I’m not even sure how it delivered. I’m surprised I didn’t just utter caveman grunts.

Somehow, I manage to invite her to come see me tonight... (at work, but at least it’s something), and we part... me ducking into the bathroom.

And I start shaking uncontrollably—like I have Parkinson’s. And I can’t stop, even while peeing. Even while washing up afterwards. Hell, am I even going to be able to walk out of there?

What’s going on? I talk to beautiful girls all the time. Or has it been a while? Is she just that hot? Why am I so nervous? Is this a victorious reaction to “showing up?” Where were my words, anyway? Why didn’t I say this? That? This?

My trembling slows enough to leave the gym. I didn’t see them on my way out... maybe they were on their way out too. I am glad I showed up. I may see her again, but then again, I may not... and life is too short to keep counting on the “next time.”

And maybe I even relieved her disappointment by coming back in to say hello.

And maybe I’ll see her tonight...

What i'm listening to:

(Love Is Like A) Heat Wave
Martha and the Vandellas
Heat Wave

Peeling an orange in one piece is not a superpower—it’s OCD.

Or is it?

I enjoy an orange daily. As such, I get plenty of practice in peeling them more and more efficiently.

More days than not, I am successful in getting the peel off in one piece.

So, why does this resonate with me today? I’m glad you are curious...

I’ve been reading the book Antifragile, and within its pages, he blasts that as a society we have become averse to putting in the work. To putting in the practice.

In this “information” age, we are surrounded by advice. The Internet is vast library of accounts from people who have done all of the work and practice before us. Why reinvent the wheel, right?

Yet something is lost when we give up our natural curiosity of “how things work.” We just want it fixed, but trial and error potentially takes too long... so just look up how this jackass did it.

Oh, did I mention how much BAD information is online? How does one sort the good information from the bad? We don’t know that this guy didn’t actually fuck up his iPhone by drilling a headphone jack into the place it used to reside...

When I was a boy, I used to be plagued by dead batteries in my Walkman. You see, I’d take the headphones off, but I’d fail to hit stop, so it would play the cassette, flip sides, play the cassette, flip sides, and so on... until the batteries were exhausted.

So, I decided I needed a visual cue that the Walkman was still running. There was an LED light that was used to show the FM broadcast it was receiving was in stereo...

I took the Walkman apart, and decided to multi-purpose that light. I found a spot on the board that was only hot when the cassette deck was running, and jumped it to the light. I put it all back together, crossed my fingers, hit play, and HOLY SHIT, it worked! As designed.

At some point, a friend introduced me to the almighty Internet... and my innocence slowly trickled away.

Someone else has done it. Why reinvent the wheel?

This is how academics think. This is why we read how to do things... or watch videos on how to do things... yet frequently don’t do the thing we “learned” how to do.

Of course, reading isn’t a bad thing. But the more I read, the more I realize that, while knowledge may come from books, wisdom does not.

Apparently only a sociopath does sock-shoe-sock-shoe… which begs the question: Are you a sock-shoe-sock-shoe? Or a sock-sock-shoe-shoe?

Does it really matter?

Recently, I’ve become aware that I vary back and forth. Maybe a fifty-fifty split. Weird? Again, does it matter?

Maybe I am becoming a sociopath…

Have you ever watched a bird play with a worm it intends to eat?

Not unlike a cat playing with a mouse, it is remarkably cruel. However birds, nor cats, have our complex thoughts and emotions… so is it intentional? This play?

The other day, I watched a robin tear apart a fat earthworm… piece by piece. He picked it up, tossed it, pecked at it, watched it squirm, and repeated this process. For several minutes.

Note, I mentioned that birds and cats do NOT have our complex thoughts and emotions. Yet, are humans any better?

After all, we still play with our prey. It’s still instinctual. On some level, we’re aware we’re doing this—and we still continue the game.

Are the animals really cruel? Do they “know” what they are doing on some level?

Humans—we’re probably cruel.

But it is so much fun.

I received an interesting compliment the other day.

A friend mentioned that he can tell by my writing that I am an amazing fuck.

I may still be blushing. He’s the one who’s been showing me all of the girls are attainable (more on that later).

Yet, what is it about compliments? What exactly do they trigger? And is it the same for everyone?

In this case, it makes me want to write. So I set pen to paper and wrote an account of meeting this amazing girl named Allie.

When I re-read it... well, it seems “try hard.”

Surely, not everyone takes a compliment as “try harder.” After all, it should mean something more to the effect of “do what you do.”

It means I’m doing things well. I’m being excellent. Maybe I’m not aware of doing things like I do? Then bringing awareness to doing things takes me out of flow... because I’m thinking about doing what I do.

They say I got brains, but they ain’t doing me no good. I wish they could.

Perhaps I need to learn to let the compliment go, and get back to writing to write...

What i'm listening to:

I Just Wasn’t Made for These...
The Beach Boys
Pet Sounds

What do you do when the life you are ready for is attacked by the life you never wanted?

If I only knew then what I know now...

I have said this before: not everyone should buy a house. Don Draper was right when it comes to looking at your decisions—is that what YOU want, or what someone else wants for you? This applies to so much in life.

When you see your friends getting married, buying houses, etc., you need to really examine if what you are feeling is because you want to be part of THAT club... or if it’s a misplaced hunger for a very different purpose.

For instance, I have always felt drawn to travel. I LOVE the idea of living somewhere just long enough to make some friends and feel comfortable—and then move on, and do it all over again. No real ties.

Except, due to bad decisions in the past, you have ties. You have a dog that you love dearly and lives almost to fifteen years. You bought into the peer pressure of the “American dream” and you bought a house while you have that nomadic mindset. You don’t want to fix your house. You want to leave your house.

You accumulated so much stuff to fill that void of unfulfilled dreams. So much stuff. What to do with it? Try to sell it, missing out on opportunities while waiting for it to sell? Donate all of it? Invite your friends over for them to make an offering for anything they want?

Since you haven’t had a landlord, and you’ve hated living in this house, it needs work. Quite a bit. Do you invest in fixing it to get best possible price for it—knowing you may invest more than you’ll reap? Or do you sell “as is” and walk away with the cash in your pocket—enough for a plane ticket to Jakarta to start your dream?

Or do you drink too much, pick up a girl at the local bar for a night of hot passion, knock her up, and trap yourself here—permanently?

Believe it or not, I am close to a decision. It is time to consider lost opportunity costs over any potential gains here. The dream is out there, and within reach for the first time ever. The dogs are gone, and only wanted you to be happy anyway. The girls are as well.

It’s time to celebrate. You’re figuring it out... and the time to move on is approaching. Don’t let them pay you to give up on your dream ever again.

But know this—real life is not going to make this easy...

What i'm listening to:

Justify My Love
Madonna
The Immaculate Collection

What do you do when you find your next car sitting in that used lot, yet it just isn’t the right time to buy?

After all, this is the purge. To be followed by travel. I cannot spend on a car at this moment.

I must keep reminding myself there will be another. And another. And another.

I wonder though... can I test drive it without making an offer? You know, just to be sure it really is the “next” car?

I am the last person in the world to wax political. In fact, if you think you’re beginning to understand my politics—you’re wrong.

However, there is definitely something wrong with the world. There always has been. There always will be. Maybe we can fix something.

They’d rather let the nation burn than arrest three of their own.

Weren’t we always taught in civics class that being arrested isn’t a big deal? That it’s the opportunity to prove your innocence in the system? So, what are they so afraid of?

Perhaps it is time to police the police.

It’s complicated. I’m not saying there aren’t good cops out there. Nor am I saying there aren’t bad black (brown, yellow, red) people out there. And there are DEFINITELY bad white people out there—although there are good people in the world too, regardless of color.

And I, for one, cannot necessarily tell the difference.

Yet, in this case, law enforcement handled it badly. And every upline is handling it badly.

I am not perfect. I am still a fat-shamer (it’s a choice, more times than not). I am still untrusting of most humans (again, regardless of color). I still believe “Canadians” are terrible tippers. Yet, I have not walked in their shoes (aside from being a fat kid). I do not understand.

I just firmly believe people—black, brown, yellow, red, white, cops—need to stop being assholes. Inject a li’l love into your interactions.

We all live here. Why not make it a better place to live?