It happened about a week ago. Interestingly, while I was writing a short story… perhaps for a collection, perhaps for this space, perhaps simply to sit on my hard drive.

And it was subtle. Incredibly subtle.

As subtle as the curves of the tall beauty that just walked by. And the way her jeans hug them.

What a beautiful distraction! And welcome!

Anyway, I was writing a short story about someone wrongfully persecuted, and I was almost finished, when the idea fell apart.

An idea what was so clear an hour before… dissolved.

How to end it? How long did it take for his perceived crime to be discovered? And how long after the alleged crime was he picked up?

These nuggets of story vanished. Like morning fog in the rising sun.

What’s next?

I have sat down to write a couple of times. Resulting in nothing worth keeping—save, potentially, this piece. (That last post is certainly... shyt.)

And possibly an unsent letter to Amy. But that is best not mentioning.

Why is this happening?

Is it stress? I am noticing I have to concentrate lately to melt the tension away from my facial muscles. And that any random thought or distraction brings it right back. And when I’m with certain people, my hands are clenched.

I rarely worry about money, so when conditions arise that stir these worries, it does become harder to relax.

So, potentially it is stress.

Is it the unknown? I feel ready to leap. Yet I am uncertain where. I’m welcome in Kansas City. And Tulsa. And Jackson Hole.

And Europe is again within reach.

And of course, as the impulse to leap arises, I am meeting more pretty girls. They truly are… everywhere! And they emit an incredible light when you gaze upon their beauty.

There truly is nothing quite like making a pretty girl smile.

So, is it the beauty orbiting me? A distraction? Albeit, a welcome one.

Perhaps.

Is it… hesitation?

This summer, it has become painfully apparent that hesitation is my greatest sin.

I drag out anything unpleasant. The stoics are unamused.

A perfect job reaches out to me, and I nearly lose it dragging out the paperwork. The perfect rental becomes available, and I nearly lose it by failing to reach out to her. The perfect pair of shoes appear at the store, and I lose them by telling myself, “Next time.”

And I’ll forever regret not continuing the conversation with the beauty at the grocery store who was seeking a Butterfinger as a post-workout indulgence.

There it is. Regret. My constant companion. Look back! This space is filled with nearly twenty years of regret! Will I ever learn?

Perhaps not. Which is why this book lives within me… and needs to be released.

Let others learn from my hesitation. My regret. My failures. (Can I even call them failures? Many people roll failure into a teachable moment… I hesitate over and over and over again.)

If only, I could simply stop it. Stop hesitating.

Maybe I can.

Oh, life…

Why are we here? What purpose does it serve?

Is it enough to become the arousing man who doesn’t count? To have all of the ladies?

Or maybe we’re just here to exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide… for the plants?

Maybe most of us are here to simply learn… failure.

Or maybe I’m just wrong. And I always have been. How would I ever know? If I once thought I was right… what if I was… wrong?

Maybe I have become my sister’s brother.

I’m not writing. I’m not working. I’m not eating. I am sleeping a lot. And I get most of my nutrition from spirits.

O hai, Melissa.

And I am chatting with women who may—or may not—have my best interests at heart.

Thanks, sis. I may never trust again.

This downward spiral. Accelerating since the incident. Decisions made… based on emotions.

Sure, Amy wants to see me… indeed, she wants me in her life. Yet, she’s not my girl.

Then there’s Aryn. Also, wants to see me. Wants me in her life. Yet, she’s found a sugar daddy… I cannot even compete. Who knows where this will go?

Michelle? Are you for real? You may be my girl.

If only, you’re for real.

And Ellen? I am convinced you are only looking for a sugar daddy…

At this point in my life, I am not your boy. Thanks for the titty pics though.

Decisions. Based on emotion. Not intelligence.

When will this end?

Will it?

One good thing may have come from Michelle… (she is definitely a brat!). And that is discovering I do long for companionship.

Will this come from many companions? Along the journey? Where do I even want to be?

Do I even want to be?

Hmm.

Perhaps, it is time to switch off the television. To find out what happens with the new jobs I’m applying for. To discover if “the incident” will necessitate a move. Amy wants me there. Michelle says she’ll follow me anywhere.

Maybe it’s time to learn a musical instrument? Are there even pawn shops here? Instrumental shops?

What’s next? Let’s find out.

Not long ago, an acquaintance introduced me to the term: projector archetype.

He was using it to identify himself, but…

Anyway, what a projector does is he/she enters the room. Surveys the room, to get an idea of what the room wants from him/her. Once that decision is made, the performance begins. And, boy, does he/she shine!

Different room with different players? Different performance. On a date? Anything she/he wants.

Makes it mind-blowingly hard to be authentic, don’t you think?

So, I mentioned, but…

Because in a crowd, or a room of strangers, or in times of discomfort… with more than one girl, I, too, am a projector. Everybody loves me. Or hates me. Whatever they want.

Yet, one-on-one? That is when you’ll get to know the real me. Authentically.

How do I know? Because I ask. I want to learn at the feet of women. And they love to teach. They want real men.

Not projectors. Not even when the room fills up.

Oh, Snapchat.

How I hate to love you. And love to hate you.

That sense of joy—and dread—when that yellow heart appears. Or disappears. What is the metric that determines that? Exactly?

When you’re best girl is pissed, and doesn’t respond for a week. The yellow heart transfers to the next best girl. And your best slips a notch. Or six.

Then she’s back. We’re messaging. The bond is stronger than ever. Eight days go by. Nine.

Number two is going to get the red heart after all!

Day ten, flip. Messaging both girls heavily. Did she flinch when the icon changed? Not to the red heart, but to the smiley?

Clearly, I spend entirely too much time thinking about how Snapchat functions…

Nothing happens when you die. Nothing.

Ask how I know.

If you’re lucky, you left something behind. A legacy, if you will. Or maybe a mystery.

The only thing that is certain is you are no longer there to protect your secrets. Your lies.

There’s no light. No angel. No second chances.

Or, there is a third possibility.

Maybe no one will even notice you are gone. No legacy. No mystery. Simply a void. But really, who among us is that lucky?

I’ll never forget how much you cared. You were the only one who checked in on me.

Hell, I didn’t even care. Maybe that’s the problem.

And now. You’re gone. There are hints on the socials that you still care, but you are careful to hide them.

And now. There is another. She cares. She checks in on me—even when I don’t care about myself. Yes, maybe that’s the problem.

Like you, she’s beautiful. And charming. And fascinating. And crazy smart. And she’ll leave some day. And that keeps me guarded against her.

And it’s hard to care about someone who doesn’t care about himself.

Yes. Maybe I’m the problem. And that’s fine. And once again, I will say goodbye to the one who knows me best. And slink back into the shadows. Where I belong.

I enjoy my solitude. I really do.

Buuut…

Never have I ever felt so alone.

I really like(d) you. I enjoy your perspective. Your insights.

And now I’ve made a big mistake. And you’re gone. And I’m alone.

I guess I don’t learn.

What i'm listening to:

Would?
Alice in Chains
Dirt

Last night, we talked as we always do. For about an hour. We’re a million miles apart, so it’s all we have. The highlight of the day.

And the thunderstorms were approaching Kansas City. You were looking forward to them, and the sound sleep they bring.

Then you did the thing. You put the phone out on the balcony. And shared the thunderstorm with me.

We listened to the storm. Together.

It was the littlest thing. Yet it meant the most. I am so incredibly grateful for you.

Some days, I wonder if everything I do is wrong. Or everything I know. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s both.

I am making strides in the right direction. Awareness is curative, right? Being aware of old patterns helps deflect them, right?

Take, for instance, women… because why not?

I want women in my life. Naturally. And while I adore the women currently in my life, only one or two actually have the means to respond immediately to join me on my whims.

To spend a week naked in a Marriott bed. Or to fly to Ibiza. Or to backpack across the Carpathian mountains. Or the Adirondacks. Or to simply sip Mai Tais on a beach in the Caribbean for three days.

Yet, perhaps there is power in this awareness as well. And this budding realization that the universe will provide… if only we ask and meet it part way.

Manifestation. Women of means and a desire to travel the world cannot resist me!

Wait, let’s rewrite that. “Cannot resist” is confusing. What is a powerful antonym for resist?

How is this?

I am irresistible to women of means with a desire to travel the world.

Wait, even better…

Women of means and a desire to travel are compelled to join me on adventures.

On a similar note, how powerful is it to realize that one (you, I) can eject from our lives in an instant? Simply walk away from those women, jobs, lives.

Are there consequences? Certainly. Do we get trapped in the agony of overthinking consequences BEFORE we act? Certainly. Yet the power is there.

And it is calling.

What if the universe will help us mitigate these consequences… if we only meet it part way. Maybe not even halfway. We just need to make the effort to turn the ship towards the life we want. I want. And the water and the wind will do the rest.

Food for thought. Food for action. Nothing is permanent. Nothing should be. Incredible.

What i'm listening to:

Sailing
Christopher Cross
Christopher Cross