I want to hack my brain.

No. That’s not quite it. I’ve been doing that.

Plus, that won’t alleviate the pain. So much pain.

Pain is good, right? It keeps us aware. Thinking less.

Feeling. More. MOAR.

The pain isn’t quite in the brain either. It’s lower. In the neck.

I know what you’re thinking. Haha. Cliché.

Base of the skull, actually, so a li’l higher than the neck. That spot where she’ll swoon if you grip during an embrace.

Yes. That’s the spot.

Hack is the correct word, however. No, not with trending psychology. Avoid this.

With a fucking machete. Just a tap. Then another. Then several. Give it a reason to hurt. And likely discover I’ve passed a point of no return. And made quite a mess.

Eventually, the pain will stop. No? Perhaps she’s right... perhaps I need to get this checked out.

Would anyone notice if I built a guillotine in the courtyard?

Sometimes, the pain feels too close. Like today. Today—I just need to sleep the rest of the day away. Little life hack I learned—sleep on it. It actually works.

Constantinople, Summer 1334. It marched through the streets, the sewers. It left the city by oxcart, by sea, to kill half of Europe. The rats, rustling and squealing in the night as they, too, died. The rats...

It’s pay day. Plus she’s annoyed with me.

It’s a good day to wonder if this is really what I want my life to look like.

She didn’t tell me she wanted me to pick her up for lunch yesterday—until it was too late.

I have my own life. So, I made lunch plans. With a chronically late friend. Lunch was set for 1pm. She showed up at 2. Not really a big deal. Not really.

Today is pay day. My favorite co-dependent doesn’t need me. Maybe it’s not fair to think of it this way, yet as you observe your loved ones, do patterns not emerge?

Last pay day, she celebrated. And subsequently missed a week of work. She spent most of that time with me… that part I enjoy.

She’s not good for herself. Her dreams are not found in the bottom of a bottle of Tito’s. That won’t stop her from looking though.

There are no easy answers. With every sip, she loses the battle to addiction. Yet she’s far from rock bottom. She doesn’t care. About me. About herself. About her daughter. This war is just beginning.

Her folks solution isn’t sustainable. Treating her like a child: curfew, no car, living free at home, no responsibilities. A life I’d love.

Is this a life I want? Dating like we’re in high school? Picking her up… sometimes sneaking her out of the house? Dodging communication from her parents when she misses curfew?

Do I want to balance respecting her privacy with assuring her folks that she’s safe and with me? This, I’d do anyway. I will be her sanctuary. If only I can accomplish this without becoming her gateway to poor decisions.

I don’t want her to use me to get high. Except maybe on life. And sex.

But, for now, she’s incommunicado. She wants me to have my own life, as long as it doesn’t interfere with hers. More nonsense. Is this acceptable? Is this what I want my life to look like?

I have grown so fond of her. Perhaps too fond of her. Rose colored glasses. Each day, I learn more about the power I have over her. And the power she has over me. We are both broken. And we are both healing.

It’s a journey. And a worthwhile one. Whether we end up traveling together, or not.

No, this is not what I want my life to look like. I want her in it, but she has some work to do. Work she may not be willing to do—in which case, I will love her no less, but I’ll have to exercise restraint in coming to her aid. Especially when coming to her “aid” involves a bottle.

Ugh. I hate it here.

Memento mori. What if this is the last year of my life? What if I’m not immortal as I feared?

A co-worker learned yesterday that he has lung cancer. My mom succumbed to lung cancer. She continued about six months after receiving that diagnosis.

I know what she did at the end. Living life with death stalking her, just a few steps behind. And now I’m curious what he will do? Will he do anything different?

Me? I’d cash out the savings. All of it. I’d disappear. I’d invite Clarissa and her daughter to join me—although they probably wouldn’t. And I’d make arrangements to control the ending. To cease any unnecessary prolongation of life before the question is asked.

The world has endless fascination with holding us here—on this plane—far beyond our comfort. Our usefulness. Our happiness. All because they are selfish and don’t want to let go. And they need our tax dollars.

I will go wherever it takes to avoid that nonsense. And make the necessary arrangements.

And then I will live. Fully. Intentionally. I will tour Mexico. And Central and South Americas. Befriending all of those lovely latinas I meet along the way. Perhaps dying at the hand of a jealous drug lord. Why not?

Am I living intentionally now? Fully? If not, why not?

It’s funny how money is a factor when we don’t know how long we are going to live. It has to stretch. Am I truly immortal? That will require a colossal sum of money… a skill I have yet to acquire.

No, currently I have enough money to die in six months. Maybe a year. Maybe.

Is this really what I want my life to look like?

She is not the only one who has work to do. Clearly.

What i'm listening to:

Regret
New Order
Republic

It’s storming. It’s been a while.

5am just hits different. It’s not like they write songs about 5am... except maybe Cliff Richard, but only after he was walking all night.

I recall my immortality. I remember seeing 5am on a regular basis. I was far from here. Northern Wisconsin. The woods. Nature sounds. Sights. Smells. The out.

Hell, I was frequently already exploring the out by 5am. Bears be damned.

Some days I miss it. Today is one of them. I wonder if I could return...

Can back be a way forward?

After all, here I have little interest in going into the out. The sounds. Sights. Smells. The sirens. The “song of my people.” No, thank you.

Yet, I’m stalled. Again. Stagnant. I can smell it. Like rotten vegetables. I’m hungry, again. Unable to find something to eat.

Except her. She’s stalled. She knows nothing else, so I cannot take her with me. However, I must go.

I realize today was the day. My scheduled departure. Things happened, so I am still here. For the time being, anyway. I’ve made it too easy for her. To stagnate. Because she consumes me. The sounds. Sights. Smells. My taco. My tasty snack.

Unlike the others, we can never return to strangers. We know each other intimately. Inside. And out. We have taught each other so, so much. Yet, I must go.

I must find something to eat. Even if it is not as sweet.

Perhaps, one day, I will return. If only, to pick her up. To take her with me. If only, one day, she will awaken. Awaken from society’s slumber.

But first, I must awaken. It is bad to hold myself back. To not grow. Simply because she is not ready. She is afraid.

Afraid I will show her the world. Inside. And out.

Okay, 5am. Let’s do this. Show me what you’ve got.

What i'm listening to:

Dreamin’
Cliff Richard
I’m No Hero

As humans, why are we so coy?

Are we not still animals? Why are we the only animal who will—even has the capability—of talking ourselves out of sex?

Weird, huh?

Were I currently capable of finishing a book, I’d likely discover that it’s part of natural selection. And ensuring that selection is sound. A good return on investment. Yeah, maybe that’s it.

Society, civilization, and the world are moving at a crazy speed. Information that used to prove __ is now better at misleading. Enter social media and the fact that anyone can spout an opinion which goes “viral” and becomes some new “truth.”

Interesting.

Plus, biology’s definition of success and society’s definition of success diverged long ago, much to the chagrin of the old white guys who’ve been running the world for so long.

Society’s success makes us soft. Comfortable. With no reason to endure. Perhaps this is why I seek the will to live inside her. But I digress.

Biology has long favored endurance. Survival. A deer with the impulse to pause before crossing the unnaturally hard surface has a far better chance of creating offspring than one that scarcely notices the ground surface changed while walking. Curiosity wins the day.

Polite society taught me that it’s bad form to ask too many questions. “Don’t be nosy.” “It’s none of your business.” These ideas become indoctrinated in us. Children are meant to be seen, and not heard.

Several of us, learn to question this idea. So we learn curiosity again. I wonder, if this curiosity is the same innate curiosity we are born with, or if it is somehow different. Something curated. Created. A mashup of biological curiosity and polite society’s curiosity.

And it is apparent that some of us are better at letting go and connecting without thinking than others. This must be the biological curiosity coming through.

Society tells us to plan. Prepare. “Choose wisely.” So, a Mexican girl who is curious and attracted and eager and willing finds her mind inundated by the crippling self-talk. Ageism is real. Racism is real. We create preferences. We steer toward comfort.

Yet that biological craving is real. She is drawn to this old, white guy. She has yet to have truly mind-blowing sex. He can see it in how she walks. She is hesitant to disrobe for yet another night of disappointment, yet her body is curious. His touch tends to feel incredible—taking her places she’s never been before.

That look in her eyes. Amazement. The instant softening of her features. He’s just shown her something about her own body. Orgasmic. She collapses onto him. Spent.

We think so much, we have no idea what we’re capable of. Everything we are lies in the unknown. All we need to do is let go.

And before you know it… splash.

How do we let go? Unlearn what society has taught us and listen to our biology again?

In the moment, she is grateful she followed her impulse. She will never forget him.

Yet orgasm is not a permanent state—a blessing and a curse. Eventually we have to get dressed and return to “real life.”

Polite society demands it. Our bill collectors demand it. Our jobs demand it.

How do you obtain a doctor’s note—which your job is demanding—after spending a week in bed drenching the sheets?

No wonder we lose touch with our feelings? We lack balance—at least in the western world. Society dictates we must bury the mind-blowing—the taboo—in shame. The desire to spend a week off work gets buried in guilt. Yet this is our biology.

No matter how much we think we can think ourselves out of acting without thinking, all we are doing is thinking ourselves out of sex and into extinction.

We just need to begin by speaking our curiosity. Our desires. Our expectations. That’s all. Can we?

Interesting.

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

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?