If you look at change as something you can count on, then it can be a comfort. There’s not many things you can count on.

Life can certainly be interesting. Two years ago, I’d have never imagined I’d find myself, today, back in a familiar land, looking for opportunity, and beginning something new... and alone.

But here we are. After seven states in seven days—and the introspection that comes with it—I am withdrawing my name from consideration. Thank you for your interest, and for the opportunity.

I have loved adoring you, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. Yet, my attention is no longer the attention you crave.

You were right. We’re not exactly aligned. And it’s going to require more than our twin flame love to thrive.

This transition will hurt. I’m not sure I’m even strong enough to resist you, if you should come back around. Your kisses, so magical. So naked. Three glorious days.

You don’t always love me—or want me—but that week... you did.

As with all good things, this appears to be ending. For several days, I didn’t want to go on. There are moments when I still don’t.

Yet, as an immortal, I must concede that going on is the only option. One vision ends, another replaces it.

So, what’s next?

Tomorrow, I start a new job. A common job. One that requires no skill, which is wonderful because most of my skills have been replaced by Skynet anyway.

Plus, there’s the neglected book. Okay, books. And the whimsical fantasy that others may benefit from my experience. Now that I cannot love again.

Those who can, do. Those who cannot, teach.

Perhaps that’s not exactly fair. I don’t know much, but it seems that the best way to learn how to do something is to figure it out enough to teach it to someone else.

I have seen this in action... training others to do a task. Explaining my understanding—flawed, or not—of how a system works.

I know, beyond doubt, that she will never forget me. Hell, I’ve had a more profound influence on more people, strangers included, than I can possibly imagine.

Incredible.

Why can’t I see this? How will I convince myself that I actually matter? Hm...

I guess we’ll find out. Childlike wonder, initiated. Let’s see what’s out there.

I’m installing some new routines. Rediscovering joy and beauty in those mundane moments. And even smiling now and then. I may even learn how to ride a bicycle.

I can’t promise there won’t be bugs. And mind viruses. Yet, that’s where the good writing will come from.

New OS. Fresh install. Life 3.0.

What i'm listening to:

favorite
Isabel LaRosa
raven

I thought I had moved past scarcity in this world. Especially scarcity around women. There are billions of women in this world—can one truly be so unique?

That must be impossible, right? Oh, if only I had learned how to ride a bicycle...

I wasn’t prepared to meet a matching spoon. I really wasn’t. Until her, I had resigned myself to either remain in solitude, or sacrifice my sleep for a relationship.

I’ve been with women who snore. Women who are heaters. Women who are clingy. Women who don’t sleep. Women who toss all night. Women who kick.

No, I never expected this one.

She’s the perfect little spoon. She pushes right into me. I can barely hear her breathe. She’s just the right temperature. She relaxes at my caresses, yet doesn’t react when they stop—or start again.

She’ll occasionally grab my hand and put it exactly where she wants. Over her breast. Around her waist. Between her legs.

She sleeps through the night. She doesn’t hardly move when she sleeps... which is calming enough that I move less when she’s here.

And she smells so good. And I never want to kick her out of bed. Nor even away from me. We simply snuggle.

Why would I ever want anyone else? I can’t imagine!

In fact, the thought of finding another invokes a profound fall into despair. How do I find another who sleeps like I do? Like I like? We spend a third (half?) of our life in bed. Isn’t that important?

Women don’t exactly fall into bed with me. There is a lot of “getting to know each other” involved before we can even find out if I won’t kick her out of bed for being too hot.

Or snoring. My god, some women snore!

Is this valid “first date” conversation? Am I selfish for being so “shallow” and ending a relationship because she snores? Or grabs my cock in the middle of the night because she’s up and ready?

Yes, I really do value my sleep that much. Maybe I am better off alone...

No wonder I have no interest in getting back out there. What a colossal waste of time “getting to know her” only to find she snores when she said she didn’t. Or she insists on being the big spoon. Or she heats up like a kettle.

Perhaps it is time to dive back into app dating. Outline exactly what my sleep expectations are—and require proof. Because, let’s face it, some of us aren’t entirely aware of whether we snore or not.

I can see it now:

Girlfriend tryouts this week. Please submit with your application your most recent paystub, your best home-cooked meal, and a recording of you sleeping through the night.

No, thank you. I definitely understand not wanting anyone else on an entirely new level.

What i'm listening to:

If I Can't Have You
Yvonne Elliman
Night Flight

I grew up in a real small town. There really wasn’t much to do at all. And I never learned how to pick up and ride a bicycle.

Which is too bad. Because we had town bicycles. Everyone got a ride. My country ass was one of the exceptions, because, I’m afraid, I never learned how.

And I still don’t. A shame actually, because I’ve learned so many other... skills. Perhaps this isn’t a noticeable gap in my tool kit. Perhaps.

Had I learned, I might have been better prepared for any/all of my experiences in the big—and not-so-big—cities.

Regrets. I’ve had a few. This may still be the biggest. Could everything going wrong in life be linked to never having learned to pick up and ride a bicycle?

What better activity, on a lonely night, than to pick up a town bicycle and go for a ride?

Maybe it is not yet too late to learn to ride a bicycle.

It’s time to simplify my life. Past time, actually.

I’m layered. Like an onion. I used to freelance, so I have multiple email addresses and server spaces and domains. And bank accounts. And computers.

The right tool for the right job!

My last purge, I parted with the majority of my tools. I can’t say that I’ve missed them.

I keep my old iPhones. Snapshots of a former life.

I see I’m not the only one. In fact, I’m not even that unusual! So much for my theories of being a 1% of... anything.

Taking advantage of an opportunity, I spent the last week on the road. Visiting a couple of friends I’ve known nearly longer than anyone—thirty-plus years.

Yet, in some ways, they are quite similar. They are well (enough) off. They don’t worry about the little things, and they’re always available to chat. And help. While life can always be better, theirs are pretty well set up.

Simple. Morning routines. Build a fire in the wood stove. Open the blinds to the outdoors. Sit and read and gaze upon the wondrous views. A dog at his feet. Maybe a quick breakfast. Maybe a quick workout.

Not a lot of chaos. Not a lot of drama.

Maybe I have found some of that in my life. Some days, I don’t have sufficient reason to get out of bed... is that a cause for concern? Am I healing from something? Do I need to find something to do?

Write, perhaps? Get thoughts down on the page and out of my own madding mind?

Today has been relaxing. I have a candle lit. I’m enjoying my second cup of English Breakfast with a dab of my mom’s honey in it. I’m set to pick up some fresh tamales for lunch after an appointment. And I work a shift tonight. And for now, I’m writing about the similarities in these friends.

Perhaps, I’ll save the differences for another time...

Another thing of note, is these friends enjoy a scarcity of women.

Not that they don’t both enjoy women, when the opportunity arises (pun accidental).

Women are not their life’s work. Who am I kidding? Are they mine?

Each interaction is easier. I no longer chase. I let her come to me.

I’d like to think I’m learning to recognize when she’s no longer into me. When it’s time to detach and slip quietly into the night. Yet I fear I’m not learning not to fall all over again, should she return.

We humans are complicated beings.

One of these friends chooses not to get too friendly with the women. In some ways, they are a potential detriment to his life and lifestyle. What nonsense has society created?

I am grateful to be able to enjoy... all of the women. As butterflies, if need be.

The other has had his fair share of relationships. He is better than I at ending them when they no longer make sense—not to say that he doesn’t endure his fair share of hurt in that process as well.

He’s found a good one. She genuinely adores and respects him, even when she’s angry at him. And she found him. No chase.

And she has her life together. He doesn’t have to play roles or fill needs beyond the relationship. They simply ENJOY each other. Isn’t that glorious?

All of the adoration in the world won’t fix a young woman. Whether she’s striving to keep food on the table. Or addicted to alcohol. Or drugs. Or attention from all of those potential digital suitors. Or that damned social media doom-scroll.

It can, I suppose, if she genuinely adores and respects her suitor. And can see herself in the lifestyle he represents. Like so many things, that requires doing the work. Every. Day.

Hell, I can’t even convince myself to do the work. Every. Day.

But I am today. One step up.

Eliminate the complexities. Enjoy what little life remains. Simplify.

What i'm listening to:

If You Love Somebody...
Sting
The Dream of the Blue Turtles

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. Many 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

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