A downside of living in the north woods of Wisconsin, is the lack of commerce centers. We have small markets with a decent selection, yet our options are quite limited.

As such, it’s not unusual to drive an hour away—and make a day of it. Dining, shopping, and enjoy being away from the usual.

Today, I stopped in an Asian fusion restaurant for a late lunch. The food is outstanding, and, of course, the girls that work there are incredible.

Susan remembered me from my last visit in September. Some playful scolding took place, because I haven’t been to see her, and she hasn’t traveled to see me either. Which led to talking about life and plans and what’s been going on.

Then, she asked if I was going home tonight.

These shifts are so subtle. Many of you know, I’m working on leaning into chaos and not sticking like glue to THE PLAN—whatever that means.

“Not if I have a place to stay the night.”

So subtle. Conveys desire. And awareness. And leaves nothing to chance. I need to abandon THE PLAN more often and experience what life has to offer… these are the invitations I’ve missed in my life!

She gets off work in an hour.

This morning, as you’re lying next to me, you look at me with those big, beautiful, blue eyes and ask, “Do you fantasize about me?”

And I’m dumbstruck. I don’t know what to say. Because I don’t.

I cherish this moment—feeling the warmth and softness of your naked body next to mine. The sensations are incredible. I feel alive, and I hope you do too. Your flushed cheeks indicate you do.

And the memories of what we did last night… and again, twice, this morning are as fresh as the morning dew.

I enjoy you immensely. You are lovely. You know how bodies were designed to slide together. You understand pleasure—and how to deliver (and receive) it.

Yet, fantasize? No. There’s nothing there.

Wait. That’s not exactly true. Plenty of my fantasies are truly a vast void. But there is one. There is one girl I fantasize about.

An incredible, tall, brown-eyed beauty. She’s the one I imagine walking hand-in-hand along the beach with. And curled up next to me in bed in the Marriott in Chicago. And exploring Ibiza. And sharing a bottle of wine with at an outdoor café in Bucharest.

Her. Not you.

Do I fantasize about you?

No, I don’t. And I don’t know how to answer your question. Without a lie. You don’t deserve a lie. Yet, you don’t deserve to be hurt either.

This morning, my friends did something that shined a headlight right in my face—and revealed (yet) another struggle I face in my journey.

I awoke to a barrage of unsolicited calls and texts telling me about cars available in the area, and they’d love to show them to me. At first, I was terrified… dozens of car dealers have my number. And my name. And my travel patterns… where I live, and where I primarily visit. Like, where did the algorithm break down? Facebook is deactivated, Instagram and Snap both have a Google Voice number. Has my phone been listening when I tell people about my car surpassing 318,000 miles (which happened yesterday)? Talk about a head scratcher…

Suddenly, I’ve lost control of my phone number. And I don’t like it.

Academically, I understand EASE. Apparently, practice is another story. This reveal began last month at the conference, but now I see I need to dig deeper. This thing has roots. I am addicted to control. And somewhere along the way I developed an aversion to notifications—I detest them.

Today, I finally asked myself, “Why?” And that there is a lesson here:

1. Have I really become so humorless? After all, it is pretty funny—and I do profess to embrace chaos… but…
   
   
2. Seventeen years ago TODAY (uncanny, isn’t it?) I got this cell phone number. And never have I ever entered this phone number on the internet, or mail order, or on a form. Nothing. Clearly, a control issue. And, to be honest, I’ve always had a sense of satisfaction being a ghost.
   
   
3. The practical joke reminded me of a song—some of you may be familiar—“Sweet Surrender” by Bread. It’s a beautiful song, and every time I hear it, I long to feel like that. But, I don’t. know. how to. let. go. For whatever reason, I never have. Even in my youth, or while drinking or partying. I’ll pass out/fall asleep before I’ll release control. There’s no ease—no chaos—in my life. Or, at least, that seems to be my modus operandi.
   
   

The timing is serendipitous. Maybe it’s not too late to learn to surrender. Maybe this is why I’m called to this journey. Suddenly, I recall the surrender in every delightful interaction I witness. Suddenly, I realize… I really do have good friends. Suddenly, I realize (at least part of) the reason I am missing out.

What i'm listening to:

Sweet Surrender
Bread
Guitar Man

Ugh. When did pancakes start tasting like… regret?

Seriously, I can eat all of the chili peppers, with little to no consequence, but pancakes? Apparently, not anymore.

Like morning wood and blueberry muffins.

This morning, I awoke with a god-like erection. This, in itself, is not unusual, except today it was.

For some reason, he was about twice the size as usual. Veins popping out to provide someone some extra pleasure. Hell, he didn’t even fit in my hand.

Classic porno dick.

Lately, mornings like this are my last remaining connections to my desires. Why is this? Are my head and heart so disconnected (I almost used “detached,” ouch!) from my cock?

And I still recall the dream. Entering the summer cabin in the woods, discovering a brown-skinned, brown-eyed beauty tidying up… someone I was not expecting. Apparently the cabin is double-booked, and we will be roommates. Her three children are playing about the cabin. Her husband and brother-in-law asleep in nap land.

Yet, she is trouble. The chemistry is… explosive. And her skin, so, so soft. And her tits, absolutely, incredibly, firm and round. Everyone else in the cabin fades into the background.

And then they’re gone. Just gone.

Oh, the unjudging beauty of dreams!

No wonder, I awoke with a kickstand. Now, I only need to find a new, tasty snack to keep on speed dial for these mornings…

Without getting caught in the minutiae of real life and relationships. Perhaps, if you’re not swept away by sharing your desires, it’s already too late and not meant to be.

I was thinkin’ of shootin’ my dick off. It’s caused me nothin’ but trouble my whole life… It don’t work half the time anyway.

Well, I wouldn’t be the one to know about that. But, it’s a small target and if you miss, you’re going to ruin our new hot tub.

While I really do have a magnificent penis, and love to share him with those who have none, and that quote still makes me snort, sadly, he hasn’t been the source of trouble in my life.

He’s magnificent. He’s misunderstood. Sometimes he’s unfortunate. Yet, there are days he charms the ladies better than I do.

Hell, I think he always charms the ladies better than I do. If I were better, he’d see a lot more action.

He genuinely aims to please (pun accidental). My mind still hears the voice of my dead, religious grandmother telling me girls want nice guys and shielding me from anything remotely desirous or sexual.

Again, how can one reconnect with his sex drive… before it really is too late? Before he ruins yet another relationship with a sterile, boring, friendship…

A man showing confidence and conviction have the same effect on a woman, as a woman showing her breasts has on a man.

This quote is often referred to in my world, yet the source (or exact phrasing) escapes me. Yet, I believe it to be true.

There was a time, not long ago, where I was awash in a sea of titties. All I had to do was ask, and most women were more than happy to oblige.

She’d smile, say “okay,” then lead me by the hand to a corner of the bar. And she’d pull down (or up, whichever was most convenient) her top and reveal Shangri-La for a few seconds. Or minutes. Or a touch. Or several.

I’ll get hard, she’ll get wet. The god-like erection vs. the tsunami. Truly male against female. Electric.

The billboard read: Say NO. We don’t need another state-run hospital murdering our unborn babies.

Clearly, I am driving through a Catholic community. It’s small. A lot of classic cars. Railroad tracks. Cornfields. And bridges. And a distinct lack of racial diversity. And church-run hospital’s sponsoring billboards.

No homeless people. No one goes hungry. No one is cold. All of the beautiful white children excel in school. Everyone’s needs are met.

Yes, the American dream is still alive and well in this place. There is no need for abortion here. Because no one has any unfulfilled needs or wants. And everyone is wanted.

And this is where you are relocating. Your new and happy family. Three bright children with another on the way.

I’ve never understood your desire for more children. I don’t even think you’re Catholic, yet I’ve never asked either. But you’re happy here.

As former lovers, you’re giving me an auto tour of this idyllic paradise. Is it South Dakota? It sure looks like it… but in the sixties. Don Draper, eat your heart out.

As we’re driving around this small community, and you’re sharing in great detail, all of your hopes and dreams for your new family, the right wheels of the car keep dipping into the shoulder.

Yet, I say nothing. It’s not in my character to tell you you’re doing something wrong.

The tour continues. Frequently, the right side dipping into the shoulder. Then off the shoulder.

You’re so bright and happy. Your voice and eyes both filled with the delight of your new life. And I listen. Dutifully. Excitedly. It really does sound wonderful.

We tap a curb. Run over a toy on the side of the road. As we head towards an overpass. And towards the river.

As we exit the overpass, the wheels dip off again, onto a strategically placed trailer, which guides us back onto the road. You don’t even notice. No damage. No harm. No foul. Just an enjoyable li’l adventure.

Then over the bridge. Over the river. We’re remarkably close to the right side of the bridge, in this small community where there are no guides. Just a drop.

As the bridge ends, the river turns to run along the right side of the road.

I continue to say nothing about how close you ride to the right side of the road.

And as we exit the bridge. And the road. And into the river. In your last breath, you ask me, “Why?”

Why didn’t I tell you? Why did I let you kill us both? You, filled with joy and aliveness, and myself, filled with despair and dead inside.

—

I sit up awake. Is this what I do to others?

How much stock should we put into our dreams? Are they trying to send us messages we’re too stupid to receive when we’re awake?

I am guilty.

Of over-inflating my importance in your life.

You don’t need me. You certainly deserve better.

You, my dear, deserve the world. And joy. And happiness.

Someone who will deliver that promise. To take you to the moon and back. A sugar father, perhaps. At least someone who has found success.

Not someone who is afraid of success. And continues to run from it.

(And not just because his writing is better when he… avoids… success.)

I have fooled myself into believing I bring value to your life. Probably because you’ve brought so much into my own.

Yet, as last night’s dream demonstrated, I only bring more misery. And remind you of our miseries. Oh, and I bring trite platitudes.

Do I tell you what you want to hear? Or what you need to hear?

With me, as your navigator, will we drive off a bridge and into oblivion?

Yea. Probably.

I deserve to be alone. And you deserve better. Hell, you wouldn’t even be facing what you have to face if it wasn’t for me.

Yea. I deserve this immortality. Filled with vitriol. And solitude. And pain.

At least until I learn to be… better. And if you find… better… before that is a role I can fill, well, my dear, you deserve it all.

You deserve someone who isn’t (at least subconsciously) holding you (or both of us) back.

I believe in you. You’ve got this.

What i'm listening to:

Self Control
Laura Branigan
Self Control

There is a blister on the bottom of my foot. It hurts. It distracts me.

Which is good. It keeps me in the room.

You see, I have slipped back into a pattern of self-centeredness. Narcissism, if you will. I failed the test.

The color of the wallpaper? Wrong. The temperature of the room? Right. The number of girls in the room?...

Wrong. Wow. What have I become?

So, for the duration of this blister, I will use its frequent reminders of its existence, to check in. What is the experience of the others in my conversation. In the room. In my life.

And be aware. And stop being an asshole. Stop being consumed by my own problems.

Today’s thought: is Wordle utter agony for those who can’t spell?

Then again, I feel that way about fantasy football…