What a world we live in.

I’m awaiting a package—eagerly checking the tracking.

Finally, ding! It shows delivered. Yet, when I arrive home. No package.

Tracking page shows a photo. Proof of delivery.

Except the photo is simply of a box. In a hallway. In front of a door. No apartment number in the photo. Not much identification at all.

The low resolution photo shows a box on the floor. There is blue light leaking through the door. And I can see the moulding around the door.

I step outside my apartment. The moulding around my door is different. The carpet is a different color. Hell, so are the walls—my hallways are beige. And no light leaks through my door.

Great. My delivery driver is an idiot. The box is clearly in a different building. And there aren’t enough identifying hints to tell where. My apartment is surrounded by other buildings. All restrict access from the outside through keys or electronically.

Where is my box.

So I contact the sender. Push back. Are you sure? The photo shows the box was delivered. Does the apartment manager have it? A neighbor?

Finally, I’m able to convince them I don’t have the package. A replacement is sent, reluctantly. To my work this time. I received it yesterday.

How did we get here? How is a low resolution photo proof of delivery? If the photo had geo-tagging, at least I could possibly figure out which building it’s in. Does the shipper have this information, even though it isn’t in the photo on the tracking website?

Anyway, I’m simply shocked at how little proof is required. And I don’t want the company to lose product or money either… I guess I’m surprised this system isn’t better at tracking loss.

This heat is incessant. I can’t eat. I sleep, but I can always use more. Sugar is outright painful to consume.

And my mind is consumed with sex. Judging by the titty snaps I get, mine can’t be the only one.

Perhaps this is the best part of the summer. Two tingling, sweaty bodies tangled together until both collapse on the sultry sheets. Bathe each other, and then do it all over again.

Plus, with the kids going back to school, why not take advantage of the empty house and the emotions that accompany that?

What else is there to do? Work? Sit at home alone? Watch trash television? Watch the news? Is there a difference between those latter two?

No, baby. Let’s fuck.

So, we have a problem…

Today, I realized something. I can’t unsee it. But here we are.

I don’t know if we can make this work. I don’t know if we can overcome it. I don’t know how we fix it.

And as a man, that is devastating.

Since you told me about the affair…

Now, every time you don’t answer a call. Every time there’s a delay in responding. I automatically assume you’re with him.

I know you won’t lie to me. Omission is how you deceive.

Will that remain my default? Whenever you are… you… and busy, silent, otherwise… will I just assume you’re with him?

And now, here we are. The turning point in the road. At this point, I don’t know if you can totally have me… if you even want me.

It’s been over a month. I am no longer choosing you.

You took me for granted. Took it for granted that I might be permanent.

And now, I have hooked a replacement. A newer model. She knows about you, and her and I are being honest about where we stand and what we want.

Yours and my connection is still there. But it’s tarnished. Corroded. Weakened.

Will it survive? Lord, I still want you. I don’t want to only want you for your pussy… but I know I always will, so…

But… I just don’t trust you. I don’t know if I will again. Not trusting you feels odd, considering you now trust me completely.

Maybe I will again. Maybe this is a lesson in how trust works. How it’s built. Earned. Rebuilt.

On this journey, I’ve learned to love women for who they are. And this. This is part of that. For better or worse.

Understanding human nature and evolutionary psychology—possibly too well—I can’t even get mad. Everyone looks. Everyone flirts. Everyone cheats.

Integrity is forged. It is not a natural state. And sometimes it is forged from looking. Flirting. Cheating.

Sigh. Here we are. Since the affair, I don’t have anything left to lose where you’re concerned. Maybe we aren’t meant to be. If he wants you, he can have you. All I need is for you to let me know—then let me go.

I fell out of love over the weekend. What an interesting sensation... after a love that has consumed me for the better part of two years. And a seven year obsession.

I think it happened on Saturday night. In her hospital room.

It was just a look. I was intruding. In that instant I knew it was over. And I am okay with it.

Or at least I will be. Because I did love her.

Lord, I loved her. I wanted it to be her.

I will continue to believe she loved me too. Her ego simply wouldn’t allow it.

She was split in two.

It no longer matters. Access revoked. I can’t believe how calm I am. And sad. Actually, I can believe the sadness.

Is it over... forever? I don’t think I believe in forever anymore.

Plus, I’ll give any girl a chance to win me over. Even her.

She really only has to do one, maybe two things. First, show me.

She has to show me her words weren’t just words. I know she’s capable. I’ve seen it when she’s relaxed. When her ego is not in control.

The other? She has to choose me. Every day. As I have chosen her. Every day.

Simple? Yes. Easy... maybe not.

Ego is strong. Pride is strong. Shame is strong. Guilt is strong.

Yet, all of these are useless. She is learning this. I am leaving her a better person than I found her. In spite of everything.

Mistakes were made. On both sides. We may just be a couple of dumbasses. Or monsters. Or both.

So, what’s next? I wish I knew... yet knowing doesn’t change anything.

I really thought we could have some fun and I could save myself before she ruined my life. Now… we have an apartment together. She’s pregnant. And we hate each other.

I’m not certain I ever want to see her again.

I haven’t seen her since that “intrusion.” Her, once again, broadcasting just how much I don’t matter to her.

My best friend, and harshest critic has been especially scathing lately. And it’s not undeserved. And it’s without judgment. After all, he has been there. Hopelessly in love. With someone who could not return it.

I was never good with girls. Getting them. Keeping them. Then, when I got one, I’d enjoy her, yet ultimately waste both of our time.

I suppose, at the time I wanted her. Hell, I’ve written volumes on Cecilia. Nothing on par with what I’ve written on Clarissa, but both ladies were learning experiences.

Anyway, Joe reminded me that, as men, we need to focus on mind, money, and muscle. Get those things handled, and then we can invite women into our world.

Clarissa shone a spotlight on that. I built a life that was ideal for me. A rich life.

Yet, the life I built couldn’t scale. The life that was more than sufficient for my own needs—my own lifestyle—crumbled under the weight of another.

Lord, I loved her. It’s so crazy feeling a void where that obsession resided. Knowing she may never find anyone who loves her like I did. That, however, is not my responsibility. Karma be damned.

Maybe she wasn’t that special. But the way I loved her was.

At least I’m not afraid of her—or anything—anymore. She is more than welcome to try again, but only if she truly wants it. Show me you choose me. Every day. Anything less, is a no.

What i'm listening to:

Slave to Love
Bryan Ferry
Boys and Girls

I was reading something this morning and it showed research from Adam Grant, stating essentially, that there are four kinds of people.

Givers, takers, and scorekeepers.

Wait, you say. That’s only three.

Yes, and no. There are two kinds of givers. Those who give generously and get walked all over because of it. And those who give generously—until they don’t.

This. This is Shangri-La.

Takers. We all know one or two.

Scorekeepers. Tit for tat.

Low-tier givers. These poor saps have nothing because they can’t bear to not take care of the lost souls they encounter.

Top-tier givers. This is what I aspire to be. Yet lessons must be learned to transcend to this level.

It’s okay to give. It’s good to give. Hell, it’s rewarding to give—that old adage, “It’s better to give than receive.”

We’ve all heard it, precious few actually understand it.

The book said a lot about the scorekeepers. Because every favor comes with an expectation. A debt. A favor in return.

The top-tier givers aren’t keeping score. They aren’t naïve either. Every gift is tabulated. The return isn’t necessary.

But if you take. And take. And take. And continue to take. Well, you’re al asshole. You’re simply taking advantage. Your relationship with this person becomes tainted. It actually looks like you only value him/her for what he/she can and will provide for you next.

You become sneaky. You think this magnanimous soul doesn’t notice.

Well, my dear, he does.

He doesn’t care that your side of the balance sheet is practically empty. That never mattered.

What he does notice is that there are only a handful of lines left on his side. He’s done. You don’t value… him. You treat him as inconvenient. Even when he goes out of his way for you.

This isn’t a relationship. This isn’t a friendship.

This isn’t sustainable. Never was. It isn’t even viable.

All he wanted was effort. For you to show him. And you’re failing the assignment.

You’re running out of chances to make this work. Lord, he wants this to work. Do you?

What annoys you? More specifically, what do some people do that annoys you?

For me, I hate when someone takes a drink… and then that gasp of air afterwards. Like, seriously? Did you hold your breath that long?

Yes. Yes, I did. Because this is me.

I hate it. And I’m aware of it. And I can’t seem to shake it. In spite of the awareness.

Drink. Gasp.

I recall a funny episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm that touched on this very annoyance.

If only my awareness can help me… stop. No one needs to hear me sound like I’m dying after I take a drink.

“You’re wasting your time.”

Has anyone ever said these words to you? Probably.

Yet, have you really thought about these words? And the one saying them?

What an arrogant statement? Who are you to put a value on my time? Or a definition on wasting it?

Misalignment lives at the center of this. Are you doing what you want? Or what someone else wants for you? My values are not your values. My goals are not yours. Nor dreams. Nor… anything.

No. I am not successful. By your definition. Or any, really. Yet, it is still MY time to waste.

If I want to spend as much of the time I have left unconscious, is that not my prerogative? What else is there to do?

Sebastian Bach was quite philosophical asking, “Is it all just wasted time?”

Because it is. Nothing really matters. We’re here until we’re not, shortly after which we’re entirely forgotten.

We are born without reason, we suffer without meaning, and we die without purpose. The universe doesn’t know we exist and it never cared. – Albert Camus

I am not convinced I’m not already in… hell.

What i'm listening to:

Wasted Time
Skid Row
Slave to the Grind

And you were scared and you were beautiful
I want to peer over the edge and see in death if we are always the same

Oh, I fear that no love will ever be like this again
‘Cause your love kept me alive and it made me insane

I don’t know what to believe anymore.

Maybe this is part of “the process.” Maybe writing it out will help. Help me get my mind off of her. Off of us.

Lord, Faye was so beautiful last night. And slight. And supple. And smooth. And willing.

She bounced up and down for an hour. An hour. My mind was elsewhere. Even bearing witness to this beauty. Elsewhere.

I just want to feel. Something. Anything. I’ve lost touch with feeling.

Turns out I need… a friend. Someone to experiment with. Embodiment practices are better with a partner. Someone to take me out of my head space.

Someone with experience. Faye was willing, but inexperienced.

Clarissa shared that. The inexperience of youth. That elephant stands silently in our room. Just there.

At this point, it’s probably just ego. And delusion. Not wanting to let go.

Not wanting to let go.

Yes, we affected each other in ways neither of us will forget any time soon. But now I doubt if it was ever truly “love.”

Delusional. Indeed.

Yet, her world is so small. Except in certain arenas. That’s where my world is small. What can I do about that?

Our worlds are so… different. Mine is in no way perfect, or even good, yet I enjoy big experiences. Travel. Good food. Great sex.

She enjoys her television. Social media. Nicotine. Energy drinks—her kidneys must look like a quarry. Alcohol. Drama. Gossip.

I can see how she enjoys my world—she’s so calm, she can sit in silence with screens off, she doesn’t hardly puff—yet it’s foreign to her. There’s no clear path from there to here. Plus, there’s the doubt that I can make her feel good… or anything. Even though I have…

Yet, am I missing the entire point by mentioning this “path?” After all, we’re not trying to “fix” each other. Are we?

Today, I overheard a story. A 64-year-old man was telling the tale of breaking a young lady’s heart. As he tells it, she was fitting him for dentures. And she had to ask him out for a dinner date. He explains that his daughter is older than she is. Out of the question. Even for a night of fun.

Where are these opportunities? Or is my ego so stubborn I simply miss them?

Maybe I’m the problem. Can I accept that I’m the problem? Then move on?

Problems have solutions. And I have the charisma. I see it. Every day.

I’ve seen it with my own love interests. And I’ve seen the light in her eyes dull… the second I perceive the gap. The abyss. How do I get there from here? Oh, hey ego… and now I’m in my head.

We’ve shared the look. The look of love. Yet, as long as I believe I’m a disappointment—to her, to the world—I’ll remain in my head. Overthinking. Immortal.

I’m reminded frequently that “no man is an island.” Who can I talk to, though? When I try, whoever I’m talking to has to reassure me. “That’s not true. You did everything great. It’s her loss.”

No. Fuck off. I failed her. I’m aware that I failed her. Because I gave into my own demons. And someone else made her feel.

I made her feel seen. And special. And even loved. Yet I couldn’t make her… feel. Because I can’t… feel.

Seriously, how do I feel? Before the insanity takes root? How do I cast off this ego? Long enough to throw her onto the bed, bend her over, and fuck the shit out of her, like she wants?

She wanted this to work. Until she discovered I don’t really feel.

Two kinds of people in this world
Winners, losers
I’ve lost my power in this world
‘Cause I did not use it

Two kinds of trouble in this world
Living, dying
I lost my power in this world
And the rumors are flying

So I go insane
Like I always do
And I call your name
She’s a lot like you

What i'm listening to:

Go Insane
Lindsey Buckingham
Go Insane

Hell, I can’t even walk and chew gum at the same time. Dumb David… always chomping on his shoes and blowing bubbles with his feet!

Volumes have been written about the mind, brain, deductive reasoning, and whether we can actually multitask or not.

I fall in that latter camp. Attempting to multitask does a disservice to both of the tasks… especially when they deserve focus.

And sometimes, that focus is hard to find. Because our minds are always racing. But, I digress…

Yet, today, I noticed something that made me pause.

I was holding a bowl of Crunch Berries, filled to the brim with milk, in my left hand; holding a spoon and feeding myself said cereal with my right hand; walking around the room; and chewing/crunching my breakfast; all the while thinking of a funny meme to send to a friend about how our mouths scream when we pour that third bowl of Cap’n Crunch.

I didn’t trip or fall. I didn’t spill the milk. Nor dribble milk down my chin. I didn’t bite the inside of my cheek, nor my tongue—lord knows, I do that enough in daily life… especially when distracted.

So, clearly multitasking is possible.

Although, the argument can be made that it is only possible with activities so ingrained into our instinct they require no thought.

Eating, largely instinctual since birth. Walking less so. Holding a bowl of liquid requiring balance, even less so—plus we’ll lose this first as we age, no?

And normally, I eat left-handed, because that hand is steadier… which is precisely the reason it was required to hold the bowl and I was eating with my right.

So… is it possible to transfer some of our more menial tasks to our instinctual, subconscious mind? And truly multitask with actual tasks?

Maybe. Just maybe.