“His loss.” Nah. You just fumbled a man who barely goes out, has two friends, has his priorities straight, and wanted nobody but you. Congratulations.

He wasn’t in clubs. Wasn’t chasing women. Wasn’t collecting bodies. Wasn’t keeping backup options. His phone was dry because his loyalty wasn’t for sale.

Work. Gym. Home. Two close friends. One woman. His life was boring to the streets because he was serious about his future.

He didn’t need ten women validating him. Didn’t need a roster. Didn’t need attention from strangers. He had options to chase. He chose peace with you.

But consistency got boring. Loyalty became ordinary. His attention became guaranteed. You got so comfortable being his priority that you forgot being chosen was a privilege.

Now he’s gone. And your friends are screaming, “His loss, queen!” Of course they are. They don’t have to date the men you’re about to meet.

The next guy might be exciting. Smooth. Popular. Always outside. Always surrounded by women. Congratulations. You traded a man who wanted one woman for a man who knows how to entertain twenty.

He wasn’t perfect. He was private. Focused. Disciplined. Loyal. The kind of man who doesn’t advertise his value because he’s too busy building it.

And when a man like that finally walks away? No public meltdown. No begging. No revenge tour. He just removes you from the future he was building.

“His loss.” Keep telling yourself that. He lost a woman who didn’t appreciate him. You lost a man who wasn’t looking for anyone else. Those are not the same loss.

What i'm listening to:

So In Love
Orchestral Manoeuvres...
Crush

Why are you so mad?

And when did you learn helplessness? The door was always unlocked, amorcita.

And you’d rather bottle it. Seethe. Than say a single word. Even one I may not want to hear.

I guess this is it. Damn it. Goodbye. I hope you find the peace you desperately seek.

What i'm listening to:

Says
Nils Frahm
Spaces

Do people tend to move towards what they want? Or away from what they don’t want?

And is it okay to say which you are doing?

Maybe it depends on where you are approaching this want/don’t want from?

We definitely come from different backgrounds. In spite of it, we’ve really grown to know each other. Probably better than anyone else. Including family and closest friends.

I know I’m wrong in wanting her to show me she wants me. After all, we’re both able to leave at any moment. And maybe she doesn’t want me. Maybe she still wants him. Is that any of my business?

Does anything make that my business? Cohabitation, for instance?

I don’t know. I just know that it’s wrong to put myself in a position where I need her validation. Because either of us can walk away from this. At any moment.

Yet, am I also wrong in thinking that if she wanted me, she’d have no problem showing me? Telling me?

Then there’s the belief that if you have to ask the question, you already know the answer. Are we really that simple as humans?

Instead, she says she’s done. She is tired of the question. A question that hasn’t been answered.

I know what I want. And now, I want to move on. I want to get back to my travels. There is still a lot to see out there.

She has a life to rebuild. An identity to rebuild. Both, she can do as ably without me as with me. Plus, she needs to reassert her independence.

So, she is done. I can only respond with “I understand.” And now we sit. In the tension.

The temptation to break the stalemate is strong. Lord, I wanted it to be her. I’ve said it many times over the last week.

Yes. Past tense. I no longer see a way we can make this work.

I love the woman. Her body. Her mind. Her heart. Her soul.

She is, however, stuck. The music she listens to reminds her what a piece of shit she is. She longs for her past. Her youth. A time when she ruled this town. She isolates. Hides from the world. From life. Protecting her reputation, that frankly, is not real.

She’s not ready to accept that this old man will dedicate his body, mind, heart, and soul to her. And perhaps that was my folly to even try.

Maybe I’m just annoyed. Or distraught. She’s exactly what I want, but literally cannot be what I need. I’m exactly what she needs, but physically cannot be what she wants.

Love them. Fuck them. Build memories. Give a damn. And remember: they can leave tomorrow. Your life better survive it. People switch up. Feelings die. Promises expire.

And learn to live in this tension. I know I wasn’t able to save her. I always knew who she was, and I loved her anyway. And she loved me.

When we weren’t performing, it was actually… incredible.

But, life is a performance. She will continue. And now I will too.

The man who is moving on. Leveling up. Adding boundaries. No more Mr. Nice Guy, as it were.

Lord, I loved you. And I can no longer stand here while you keep fighting me on everything.

And I wonder who will relieve the pressure. Who will call whom first? Tick Tock.

What i'm listening to:

Everything She Wants
Wham!
Make It Big

When I call you up, your line’s engaged
I have had enough, so act your age
We have lost the time that was so hard to find
And I will lose my mind if you won’t see me
You won’t see me

I don’t know why you should want to hide
But I can’t get through, my hands are tied
I won’t want to stay, I don’t have much to say
And I can turn away
If you won’t see me
You won’t see me

Time after time, you refuse to even listen
I wouldn’t mind if I knew what I was missing

Though the days are few
They’re filled with tears
And since I lost you
It feels like years
Yes, it seems so long since you’ve been gone
And I just can’t go on
If you won’t see me
You won’t see me

What i'm listening to:

You Won’t See Me
Anne Murray
Love Song

Remember who the fuck you are.

You stumbled upon a Facebook ad (does anyone really stumble upon anymore?) for a bracelet with this message and forwarded it to me.

Poignant. Because we both struggle with this. Between life and overthinking and each of us getting in our own way—and each other’s way.

Yet we have that look between us. We want this to work. Finally.

And this is what it requires. Remembering who the fuck I am. And she needs to remember who the fuck she is. And not egotistically.

Why are we constantly at war with our minds? My lord, our minds can construct elaborate scenarios. And make us truly hate each other. For a second, anyway.

You know, Mona had a dream once where I hit the dog with a car. She was mad at me all day—and I never hit the dog. We don’t even have a dog.

Why do we invent our personal saboteurs? When we’re so desperate for connection?

I am grateful for our connection, for it is incredible. The way we can look into each other’s eyes, hardly saying a word. And we feel each other. Intentionally.

Remember. Who the fuck. I am.

This is why she’s here. Because I choose her. Because I am intentional with her. In our presence with each other. In love. In sex.

This is why I am an experience to her. One she can’t get enough of.

Yet, occasionally, I stop to think about this. Am I delusional? Then the disconnect. Another thought, “Maybe,” confirms the delusion. Life keeps us apart for an extra day. She’s mad at me. For no reason. I’m mad at her. For no reason. She’s not thinking of me at all.

Me? Well, I think of her a lot.

We reunite. The look confirms the experience. If it didn’t, the touch definitely confirms it.

We’re just two crazy kids in love. When we remember who the fuck we are. When we are who we are.

Then there’s society. Society doesn’t want us to be who we are. We’re supposed to perform. We’re supposed to care about things that don’t really matter. Because other people decided it matters. Why are we taught to deny ourselves?

Trust me, that tree outside the window doesn’t give a fuck.

I don’t know if the tree remembers who the fuck it is… yet it doesn’t have to. It doesn’t “know” anything else. And animals. Why are we plagued by our own minds? With the intelligence to actively talk ourselves out of being who we are? Out of remembering who the fuck we are?

Because we aren’t who we WANT to be? Foolish.

Perhaps this is why only fools are able to learn. And the intelligent struggle where they shouldn’t. Life is hard enough, why do we have to make this shit up?

Remember who the fuck you are. And be aware of just how beautiful life is when you do. You rediscovered the woman I fell for.

And I’m rediscovering the man who keeps you safe and seen. The shore for your sea to wash upon. The calm for your storm.

Remember.

You are no longer the woman I fell for.

I suppose that goes without saying. We change, or we don’t. Entropy exists. Apathy exists. Performance exists.

True, we have our moments. Truly sensational moments. Yet that is all they are. Moments.

Nothing is permanent. Hell, none of this is real. We’re all attracted to the next shiny object. The next titty snap.

So why pretend? Why perform? Is it love? Perhaps. Because I do. Love you.

I dream of you all the time. The way you grip me and hold me in at the same time your muscles convulse and try to push me out. The way your legs shake around my waist, before you put your calves on my shoulders. Still trembling.

Do you dream of me? Maybe you do.

Yet I know this intermission will end. A break between performances. No one can know what we really do. Behind closed doors. In the dark.

Even though they do. Know.

No wonder I am going insane. The performance continues. We barely speak.

Then the ding. Notification. Titty snap. A video of you playing with yourself. Nearly three minutes. A breathless “oh, fuck!” A text. “Come over.”

My short stay in hell. Or is it heaven?

Lord, it feels like heaven. So, it must be hell.

Hours spent in sultry, glistening passion. Before days addicted to “the struggle.”

Girl, life doesn’t have to be like that.

Life’s throwing bricks at you? Really? Why aren’t you building a castle with them?

There’s no nobility in suffering. Stop romanticizing your struggle. Stop shrinking to fit the mundane life you’re addicted to. That fucking screen that numbs you most days.

None of this is real. Smoke that cigarette. Fuck those girls. Sleep in afterwards.

Or…

Build that empire. Fall in love. Get more. Have it all.

I believe in you, but only if you can find a way to believe in yourself. Until then, we’ll just continue to fuck ourselves between heaven and hell.

What i'm listening to:

REALiTi
Grimes
Art Angels

Women would rather be a whore to a top guy than a queen to an average guy. Tell me I’m lying.

The average man offers loyalty, attention, flowers, commitment. She calls him “husband material.” Translation: Useful, but not intoxicating.

Then her guy appears. Better looking. Higher status. More options. Less available. Suddenly every standard she lectured you about develops an emergency exit.

She made you wait. She made him breakfast. You got boundaries. He got exceptions. Never listen to the rulebook. Watch who she burns it for.

This is where nice guys get slaughtered. They think, “If I treat her better, she’ll want me more.” Wrong. You cannot negotiate raw desire with good behavior. Attraction is not a loyalty program.

She can KNOW you’d make the better boyfriend. KNOW you’d treat her better. KNOW the other guy will probably break her heart. And still check her phone hoping HE texted. That’s the lesson.

Women don’t break rules for the man with the strongest resume. They break rules for the man they’re afraid to lose. One gets interviewed. The other gets invited upstairs.

Never become the safe guy trying to outspend, outcare, and outcommit another man’s raw attraction. You’re bringing flowers to a war your competition already won without ammunition.

This is why abundance changes a man. He stops asking, “How do I convince her?” And starts asking, “Does she desire me enough to deserve my investment?” Completely different game.

Never accept being tolerated because you’re stable when another man was worshipped because she was hungry. Be desired first. Respected second. Commit last. Anything else is negotiating against yourself.

What a world we live in.

I’m awaiting a package—eagerly checking the tracking.

Finally, ding! It shows delivered. Yet, when I arrive home. No package.

Tracking page shows a photo. Proof of delivery.

Except the photo is simply of a box. In a hallway. In front of a door. No apartment number in the photo. Not much identification at all.

The low resolution photo shows a box on the floor. There is blue light leaking through the door. And I can see the moulding around the door.

I step outside my apartment. The moulding around my door is different. The carpet is a different color. Hell, so are the walls—my hallways are beige. And no light leaks through my door.

Great. My delivery driver is an idiot. The box is clearly in a different building. And there aren’t enough identifying hints to tell where. My apartment is surrounded by other buildings. All restrict access from the outside through keys or electronically.

Where is my box.

So I contact the sender. Push back. Are you sure? The photo shows the box was delivered. Does the apartment manager have it? A neighbor?

Finally, I’m able to convince them I don’t have the package. A replacement is sent, reluctantly. To my work this time. I received it yesterday.

How did we get here? How is a low resolution photo proof of delivery? If the photo had geo-tagging, at least I could possibly figure out which building it’s in. Does the shipper have this information, even though it isn’t in the photo on the tracking website?

Anyway, I’m simply shocked at how little proof is required. And I don’t want the company to lose product or money either… I guess I’m surprised this system isn’t better at tracking loss.

This heat is incessant. I can’t eat. I sleep, but I can always use more. Sugar is outright painful to consume.

And my mind is consumed with sex. Judging by the titty snaps I get, mine can’t be the only one.

Perhaps this is the best part of the summer. Two tingling, sweaty bodies tangled together until both collapse on the sultry sheets. Bathe each other, and then do it all over again.

Plus, with the kids going back to school, why not take advantage of the empty house and the emotions that accompany that?

What else is there to do? Work? Sit at home alone? Watch trash television? Watch the news? Is there a difference between those latter two?

No, baby. Let’s fuck.