When I call you up, your line’s engaged
I have had enough, so act your age
We have lost the time that was so hard to find
And I will lose my mind if you won’t see me
You won’t see me

I don’t know why you should want to hide
But I can’t get through, my hands are tied
I won’t want to stay, I don’t have much to say
And I can turn away
If you won’t see me
You won’t see me

Time after time, you refuse to even listen
I wouldn’t mind if I knew what I was missing

Though the days are few
They’re filled with tears
And since I lost you
It feels like years
Yes, it seems so long since you’ve been gone
And I just can’t go on
If you won’t see me
You won’t see me

What i'm listening to:

You Won’t See Me
Anne Murray
Love Song

Remember who the fuck you are.

You stumbled upon a Facebook ad (does anyone really stumble upon anymore?) for a bracelet with this message and forwarded it to me.

Poignant. Because we both struggle with this. Between life and overthinking and each of us getting in our own way—and each other’s way.

Yet we have that look between us. We want this to work. Finally.

And this is what it requires. Remembering who the fuck I am. And she needs to remember who the fuck she is. And not egotistically.

Why are we constantly at war with our minds? My lord, our minds can construct elaborate scenarios. And make us truly hate each other. For a second, anyway.

You know, Mona had a dream once where I hit the dog with a car. She was mad at me all day—and I never hit the dog. We don’t even have a dog.

Why do we invent our personal saboteurs? When we’re so desperate for connection?

I am grateful for our connection, for it is incredible. The way we can look into each other’s eyes, hardly saying a word. And we feel each other. Intentionally.

Remember. Who the fuck. I am.

This is why she’s here. Because I choose her. Because I am intentional with her. In our presence with each other. In love. In sex.

This is why I am an experience to her. One she can’t get enough of.

Yet, occasionally, I stop to think about this. Am I delusional? Then the disconnect. Another thought, “Maybe,” confirms the delusion. Life keeps us apart for an extra day. She’s mad at me. For no reason. I’m mad at her. For no reason. She’s not thinking of me at all.

Me? Well, I think of her a lot.

We reunite. The look confirms the experience. If it didn’t, the touch definitely confirms it.

We’re just two crazy kids in love. When we remember who the fuck we are. When we are who we are.

Then there’s society. Society doesn’t want us to be who we are. We’re supposed to perform. We’re supposed to care about things that don’t really matter. Because other people decided it matters. Why are we taught to deny ourselves?

Trust me, that tree outside the window doesn’t give a fuck.

I don’t know if the tree remembers who the fuck it is… yet it doesn’t have to. It doesn’t “know” anything else. And animals. Why are we plagued by our own minds? With the intelligence to actively talk ourselves out of being who we are? Out of remembering who the fuck we are?

Because we aren’t who we WANT to be? Foolish.

Perhaps this is why only fools are able to learn. And the intelligent struggle where they shouldn’t. Life is hard enough, why do we have to make this shit up?

Remember who the fuck you are. And be aware of just how beautiful life is when you do. You rediscovered the woman I fell for.

And I’m rediscovering the man who keeps you safe and seen. The shore for your sea to wash upon. The calm for your storm.

Remember.

You are no longer the woman I fell for.

I suppose that goes without saying. We change, or we don’t. Entropy exists. Apathy exists. Performance exists.

True, we have our moments. Truly sensational moments. Yet that is all they are. Moments.

Nothing is permanent. Hell, none of this is real. We’re all attracted to the next shiny object. The next titty snap.

So why pretend? Why perform? Is it love? Perhaps. Because I do. Love you.

I dream of you all the time. The way you grip me and hold me in at the same time your muscles convulse and try to push me out. The way your legs shake around my waist, before you put your calves on my shoulders. Still trembling.

Do you dream of me? Maybe you do.

Yet I know this intermission will end. A break between performances. No one can know what we really do. Behind closed doors. In the dark.

Even though they do. Know.

No wonder I am going insane. The performance continues. We barely speak.

Then the ding. Notification. Titty snap. A video of you playing with yourself. Nearly three minutes. A breathless “oh, fuck!” A text. “Come over.”

My short stay in hell. Or is it heaven?

Lord, it feels like heaven. So, it must be hell.

Hours spent in sultry, glistening passion. Before days addicted to “the struggle.”

Girl, life doesn’t have to be like that.

Life’s throwing bricks at you? Really? Why aren’t you building a castle with them?

There’s no nobility in suffering. Stop romanticizing your struggle. Stop shrinking to fit the mundane life you’re addicted to. That fucking screen that numbs you most days.

None of this is real. Smoke that cigarette. Fuck those girls. Sleep in afterwards.

Or…

Build that empire. Fall in love. Get more. Have it all.

I believe in you, but only if you can find a way to believe in yourself. Until then, we’ll just continue to fuck ourselves between heaven and hell.

What i'm listening to:

REALiTi
Grimes
Art Angels

Women would rather be a whore to a top guy than a queen to an average guy. Tell me I’m lying.

The average man offers loyalty, attention, flowers, commitment. She calls him “husband material.” Translation: Useful, but not intoxicating.

Then her guy appears. Better looking. Higher status. More options. Less available. Suddenly every standard she lectured you about develops an emergency exit.

She made you wait. She made him breakfast. You got boundaries. He got exceptions. Never listen to the rulebook. Watch who she burns it for.

This is where nice guys get slaughtered. They think, “If I treat her better, she’ll want me more.” Wrong. You cannot negotiate raw desire with good behavior. Attraction is not a loyalty program.

She can KNOW you’d make the better boyfriend. KNOW you’d treat her better. KNOW the other guy will probably break her heart. And still check her phone hoping HE texted. That’s the lesson.

Women don’t break rules for the man with the strongest resume. They break rules for the man they’re afraid to lose. One gets interviewed. The other gets invited upstairs.

Never become the safe guy trying to outspend, outcare, and outcommit another man’s raw attraction. You’re bringing flowers to a war your competition already won without ammunition.

This is why abundance changes a man. He stops asking, “How do I convince her?” And starts asking, “Does she desire me enough to deserve my investment?” Completely different game.

Never accept being tolerated because you’re stable when another man was worshipped because she was hungry. Be desired first. Respected second. Commit last. Anything else is negotiating against yourself.