Some mornings, it’s simply a treat to wake up...

With a firm...

Hot dog...

In between her buns.

Oh, the games we play with ourselves!

For instance, I excel at hiding things from myself. Truly!

And I tell myself I HATE when I do this.

Yet, clearly I do not. For why would I continue to play a game that I hate? Is that not… madness?

I must love the mystery in rediscovering what safe place I decided to store that item.

I must. What fun!

Well, I avoided Whamhalla. Yet, it’s kind of a hollow victory. Because I do like the song.

It’s a great pop song, about unrequited love, which I happen to know a little about. Avoiding it stripped a bit of the joy of the holiday season.

I can say I survived Whamaggedon 2023, for the novelty of it, and to say it IS possible. But in the future, I don’t think I’ll play.

What i'm listening to:

Last Christmas
Wham!
Music from the Edge of Heaven

There is a quote by the late George Sanders:

My own desire, as a boy, was to retire.

This is my desire as well. I want to be wealthy. Stupid wealthy. And lazy. I don’t want to do anything for this wealth.

And I don’t want to get old. At least not before the wealth happens. There are far too many twenty-something women out there.

Will my life change dramatically when this occurs? No. Resoundingly no.

I will still spend the majority of my day reclined. Probably reading. Or napping. Just elsewhere. Anywhere.

Because I am lazy. If only I could afford it.

Her name is Danielle. At least that’s what she told me.

And on a night seventeen years ago, she told me I was undateable. That didn’t stop us from having some fun. A lot of fun. That wasn’t the point.

I’m still undateable, although now it’s by choice. I don’t want to marry. I don’t even want to date. I don’t want to regularly threaten my peace. My solitude.

Is that strange? Really, is it?

It’s a rare soul who is comfortable in a room. Alone. With no distractions.

Many nights, I’m comfortable with Pascal’s torment.

Yet not all. I still have wants. Needs. Desires.

And there are so many beautiful women out there. With their wants. Needs. Desires.

When she walks into the room, our eyes meet. We both know what we want. We both know we can have the other. Pure love radiates between us, bringing the temperature up in the room ever so slightly.

No, I’ll never be your husband. I’ll never be your boyfriend.

But I’ll be your lover... forever.

Yes. I’d like that. Very much.

Come. Into my world. It’s fantastic here.

What i'm listening to:

Still Crazy After All These Years
Paul Simon
Still Crazy After All These Years

My body hurts so bad, I don’t want to move.

Yet... if I don’t move—today, or tomorrow, or this week—my body will continue to hurt. And weaken. And hurt more.

What happened to the walker? The runner? All of the press-ups?

Where is that guy?

If you like her—and I do, like her—there is really only one guideline before hitting “Send.”

Will it make her smile?

Okay. Hit “Send.”

Today is another birthday.

No, not mine... the birthday of a loved one.

She’s no longer interested in celebrating either.

Imagine, celebrating the day all of your troubles started.

Yeah, it’s kind of like that. Yet, I’m okay with not making it to the next one. Unlike most people. At least in my observations.

So many are afraid to live. And afraid to die. Even those nearing the finish line.

Me? Memento Mori. Bring it on.

I have few regrets. I am still satisfied if I die without ever setting foot in Alabama or Tennessee. If I never taste another pancake with maple syrup. Even, if I never find myself inside another Moldovan beauty.

Although, the latter I’d love to experience. She may be the one that keeps me going.

I don’t need to mark, nor celebrate, trips around the sun to achieve that goal.

Anyway, happy birthday, beautiful. We won’t celebrate, yet I will manage to get you a couple of small tokens I picked up.

My father could fix anything. A true tinkerer. Perhaps that’s where I get it from.

When that old stereo failed to belt out the arena rock at a suitable volume, he loved taking the panel off and diving right in. He taught me how to solder. How to clean components. And sometimes he made it up as he went along. Occasionally there was a piece or two left over—and in a drawer. But whatever he fixed worked!

Yet, I don’t ever recall him building anything. Rebuild, yes. I remember how much he loved restoring that ’49 Chevy pickup. And the ’71. He loved his Chevrolets made with real steel.

Admittedly, I wasn’t around much. Maybe he did light construction I was unaware of. Framed a wall. Finished a room. I vaguely recall he wasn’t a fan of swinging a hammer—or at least smashing a thumb. Wait, that could’ve been me…

Imagine how blown away I was as a child, when I saw someone actually use graph paper to sketch out a room. A house. With numbers and calculations and everything. And then build that internal wall. And stand it up. And it actually fits.

Truly building!

So many power tools. And he taught me how to use them. Safely.

Because he loves all of his fingers and toes too. His brother had one finger missing from an accident. And no teeth. But I digress.

I recall building the house they still live in as money permitted. There was no real hurry—that drafty trailer house his grandmother left him provided some shelter. It was a truly glorious day when we moved into that new construction.

And how well constructed it was. I may never know how much of that was by design. Versus by accident.

Not drafty at all. In fact, the entire house made a “Woosh” sound whenever a door—or window—opened. A change in air pressure. Not the most desirable quality when I or my little sister, with our simmering teenage hormones, decided to be sneaky fuckers and slip out of the house, unnoticed, only to find we were locked out upon our return.

Certainly, worse punishment than coming home with a light on… yet, the point is how well constructed something only a handful of people can build.

I’m no longer a child. Yet, I was truly a li’l shit during the time in my life when I was asked to help work on the house. That and gardening. And hunting for fresh meat. The little things that’d be nice to know for… survival.

No, but I can probably fix that seven foot long console stereo that no longer works. Or that jukebox that plays 45’s… even if those are getting hard to find. Hell, I can probably get that ancient iPod buried in your desk working. My 20-year-old one has had parts… replaced.

Perhaps, learning to fix things and make them last… forever… attributes to my sense of scarcity. But I digress again.

Currently, I am faced with an opportunity. A truly new direction. Project management for a physical project. Running a staff/household where there will be gardening. And light construction. Work hard. Play hard. And plenty of time to watch my own dreams unfold.

And I’m terrified. Even if I fantasize about building my own place one day. And lament not having paid attention. At least I can read a blueprint. And understand why certain components are placed where they are, demands from the physical world. Plus, this opportunity will require me to let go of my judgments. And to see the abundance in the universe. And to build something tangible. Not just ghosts in the machine. All good things!

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to build something. And discover abundance along the way. And leave something behind that can’t just be deleted with a keystroke or a click.