Every nonchalant guy was once a lover boy.

Soft heart. Open chest. Full faith.

He didn’t start cold.

He was made cold. By experience. By patterns. By reality.

He loved deeply. Gave fully. Showed consistency, patience, presence. And learned a brutal lesson.

Affection isn’t rewarded. Intensity isn’t respected. Availability isn’t valued. It’s priced.

The more he gave, the less he was taken seriously. The more he tried, the more leverage he lost.

That’s when the illusion shattered: Attraction isn’t moral. It’s not fair. It’s not kind. It’s responsive to power and boundaries.

So he adjusted. Not out of bitterness. Out of pattern recognition.

He stopped explaining. Stopped chasing clarity. Stopped bleeding emotions on demand.

Now he moves calm. Detached. Unbothered. Not because he doesn’t feel, but because he learned the cost of feeling loudly.

What looks like “nonchalant” is actually discipline. Self-preservation. Emotional intelligence forged under pressure.

He didn’t become heartless. He became selective.

And here’s the irony: This version of him? The one who withholds? The one who doesn’t chase? That’s the one they respect.

Men aren’t born distant. They’re trained by outcomes. Nonchalance isn’t apathy. It’s wisdom with scars. And it always starts with a lover boy who learned the truth the hard way.

It’s time for my annual ritual of recounting the tomes I read over the past year.

I find I am still doubting the... usefulness... of keeping track, except it has proven useful in looking up recollections, bookmarks, and random snaps of pages that appear in “on this day” posts on the socials.

And I am disturbed, as I reread some books that I recall having a “profound” impact on me... that I don’t remember the book. At. All.

Like how can it have an effect on me when every word appears brand new. Am I really getting something new out of the text? When everything is... new?

I am also reading less fiction. And I’m finding books that I start and don’t finish. It used to feel uncomfortable to quit something I began, yet now it feels like I’m wasting what time I have left. Progress? Maybe.

1. The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho
2. The Courage to Be Disliked - Fumitake Koga and Ichiro Kishimi
3. The Mountain Is You - Brianna Wiest
4. Later - Stephen King
5. Thinking in Systems - Donella Meadows
6. The Angel’s Game - Carlos Ruiz Zafón
7. The Tall Stranger - Louis L’amour
8. Silent Power - Stuart Wilde
9. Meeting the Shadow - Connie Zweig & Jeremiah Abrams
10. The Spy Who Loved Me - Ian Fleming
11. The Art of War - Sun Tzu
12. The Alabaster Girl - Zan Perrion
13. Get Inside Her - Marni Kinrys
14. Differentiate or Die - Jack Trout
15. Codependent No More - Melody Beattie
16. A Drinking Life - Pete Hamill
17. South of No North - Charles Bukowski
18. The Wisdom of Insecurity - Alan Watts
19. The Art of Being Alone - Renuka Gavrani
20. Penpreneur - Scott P. Scheper
21. Radical Honesty - Brad Blanton

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

You always knew what she was, and you loved her anyway. That’s the part men lie about.

Men aren’t blind. We’re complicit.

We see the red flags early, the disrespect, the inconsistency, the chaos, and instead of walking away, we go silent and hope lust turns into loyalty.

You didn’t miss the red flags. You collected them. Folded them neatly. Slept next to them. Pretended they’d change color in the dark.

Because a man in love has the logic of a drunk philosopher. He sees the truth clearly, then debates himself into denial.

She didn’t deceive you. She didn’t hide who she was. She watched you ignore reality because fantasy felt better than discipline. You thought loyalty could heal a woman who was already emotionally bankrupt long before you arrived. That’s not love. That’s ego.

You didn’t want her healed, you wanted to be the man she changed for.

She didn’t break you. You broke yourself trying to rescue someone who wasn’t rescuing herself.

And here’s the part that hurts the most: You weren’t angry at her. You were furious at yourself for letting emotion outrun intuition. Because deep down, you knew. You always knew.

Here’s the skull-cracker: You didn’t love her despite knowing what she was. You loved her because you believed you could change her.

Every man learns this lesson once. Some learn it twice. The smart ones never need a third.

She never fooled you. You fooled yourself. And that pain? That’s not punishment. That’s initiation. Heartbreak is the tax every man pays for ignoring his intuition.

Confession time. I drag on updates. On my iPhone.

You see, I like a device that performs. Well.

While this iPhone 12 Mini no longer owes me anything, there isn’t a phone offering that excites me enough to purchase the next one. Plus, I’ll have to give up the smallest footprint Apple has offered in ages.

Apple. Oh how you’ve lost your way... but I digress. Partially. Your developers need to justify their existence too.

Lately, my phone has been throwing reminders of a world I walked away from a decade ago. Well, to be honest, I was shown the door. Every day I am grateful. Every. Day.

Because software developers have one job. And it’s not to develop software. It’s to ensure they have a job tomorrow. Perhaps we all have that job—ensuring job security. My god... we're all politicians now.

There is a small handful of apps on my phone that have been there for ages. Silently, faithfully waiting for me to use them again. And I do.

Then there are the apps in “active development.” Companies striving to remain relevant frequently update their apps to ensure the smoothest user experience. Um... I call bullshit.

The smoothest user experience will be to not have to update the app weekly—automatically or not. And as a former software developer, I fear frequent updates. It was bad enough in the Mac/PC days when you’d install the latest update for a single feature you’re excited about, only to learn it was a bad update: not ready for prime time, buggy, &c. So you’d roll back the software and read the software reviews waiting for the issue to be fixed.

However, in this modern era, it’s all but impossible to rollback the software. Again, job security. And is there a real reason to go back? Ever? Well, if I intend to keep a working, older phone, yes. So phone updates only go one way.

Let me posit this: What if your software is... perfect? It does exactly what it is designed to do, and it does that task well. I can list a handful of these applications.

But, this hails back to the Golden Era of Toyota from the 1990s. A car that’s relatively low maintenance that will run forever. Fuck! These cars will run to nearly one million miles? How in the ever loving fuck is a company to make money with a forever product? We need planned obsolescence. We need things to wear out. Feature creep alone isn’t enough.

So modern cars wear out. And modern software rots. Because we need jobs. And we need money.

However badly I may need money... I am eternally grateful to no longer be in that world. A slave to the job. To evolving a product that doesn’t need evolving, simply to justify my own existence.

And we have software that “phones home,” upon every use. In some cases, to simply ask for permission to run. So much for living off of the grid! Network connection required, for that reason only... otherwise the software runs entirely locally.

Grabbing updated data is one thing, like a daily crossword puzzle. Yet why does this require an upgraded OS? Checking for a software update, simply for the sake of an update being available? Then NOT running because the update exists? To play Tetris? Get the fuck out.

Yet no one wants to pay the Maytag repairman to simply sit and wait for the phone to ring? We must give him something to do while he waits... or at least make the wait shorter.

No. There must be another way.

For the last year, I’ve been residing in a small apartment. One I affectionately call my “shitbox studio.”

It’s quaint. It’s quiet. Actually, it’s very quiet. We can’t hear noise from the other apartments. Nor can they hear ours.

On Christmas Eve, the boiler went out with some flourish. Since then, I’d have better luck betting on the zeroes at the roulette wheel than on whether I’ll have hot water.

Annoying? Yeah, to say the least. A crisis? Nah. I’ve lived in the country. I’ve been a homeowner. I understand why it’s taking time to ascertain whether it can be fixed... or the water heater has to be replaced.

What I find amusing, however, is how many of my friends are losing their shit over this. For me. Like, why?

I can take a shower at Clarissa’s. I can go to the gym. If neither is available, I can shower at a nearby truck stop.

Hell, I can channel my inner Wim Hof and dive into a cold shower!

The latter, I have not done... yet.

This is turning into an exercise in resilience. Something that my friends apparently do not possess.

Do I live in the “slums?” Maybe. Is this grounds to break the lease? Possibly. Is this the end of the world? A dealbreaker? Not at all.

Why are people so... entitled? Is hot water for a shower not... a luxury? Aren’t people in the world struggling with less?

No, I’m not going to move over this. I am mildly annoyed that I have to keep an overnight bag—one I keep ANYWAY because of my tendency to wander spontaneously—and go elsewhere to shower. I am mildly annoyed that I have to heat water on the stove to do dishes.

But I like the coziness of my apartment. I like the quiet. I do not intend to stay here forever, but I do intend to stay here a little while longer while I contemplate the next step. And finance the next step.

Perhaps, my solution is not to state the fact that I have no hot water... no matter how amusing I find other people’s reactions. Because I’m not complaining.

Other people need to chill though. It’s not the end of the world.

Anyway, it’s time to go on a quest for a shower and begin my day.

Here we are. I’m another year older. Perhaps not wiser.

No. Wisdom is fleeting.

Spent most of the day with my favorite girls. Enjoyed some of the most glorious sleep of my life. May have even begun planning a return to the nomadic lifestyle.

There really aren’t many constants in life. And if you can come up with more than I can, you can probably break them down to fit into two... maybe even just one category.

Disappointment. And change.

Change is absolute. Nothing now is the same as it was two minutes ago.

Disappointment? Well, as I think about it, disappointment is the effect of change. We expect something. It didn’t happen (quite as expected, at all, etc.).

At any rate, I’m not dead. Perhaps that final disappointment is truly waiting for me to actually write something meaningful.

And I have been writing. Some original content. Some notes that mean something to me that I’m saving to put into my own words. Some notes only intended for my beloved’s eyes.

Is she becoming my beloved? Is she already? Yes, she is my beloved. I will likely never know if I am hers, however.

The way she looks at me, it’s unmistakable. She can’t always believe I am real. Believe me, sweetheart, I think the same thing when I look at you.

Yet, she’s afraid. Very. Perhaps fear is a constant in life as well... and that is worth revisiting at some point.

She’s afraid to surrender to love. Those scant moments when she does, the current that flows through our skin is sensational. Truly electric.

She’s afraid she will ruin my life. Yes, there are consequences to our past decisions, and yes, we haven’t dealt with a lot of those yet. I am perfectly capable of ruining my own life, thank you.

To be honest, I fear I have ruined my life to the point where I don’t want you to have a part of it.

Until I watch your beautiful body as you walk out of the room... and back in a few moments later... and I don’t want you anywhere else either.

Damn. Are you for real?

Anyway, this new year has the potential to be the most trying—and the most rewarding yet. For both of us.

If only, I could get a hot shower...