I’ve always had this goddamn complex. A beautiful, ugly, and completely schizophrenic relationship with my own meat suit. Some nights, I’m a goddamn king. I walk into a bar, and I can feel it, that quiet, electric hum. The heads turn. The eyes lock. And I just know. I know I can have that one, or that one, or maybe the quiet, sad, beautiful one in the corner. I’m six-foot-four, I’ve got a little confidence, and some nights, that’s all the goddamn magic you need.
And then there are the other nights.
Christ. The nights you’re a goddamn leper. I remember this one time at the Amphibious Base, at the E-club. I’d go there because the women were a step up, and the SEALs, those beautiful, buzzcut, and completely testosterone-poisoned bastards, they couldn’t talk to a woman to save their goddamn lives. They’d just stand there, in a tight, angry little bunch, with their foreheads all peeling from the sun, looking like they wanted to invade the goddamn jukebox. I’d usually clean up.
But this one night, I’m at the bar, and this woman, she just looks up at me, looks me right in the eye, and says, “Oh, fuck no. No way.” Just like that. A beautiful, ugly, and completely honest gut-punch. I’ve had women laugh in my face, walk off the dance floor. It’s a goddamn lottery.
And now? At fifty-seven? The mirror is an even funnier sonofabitch. Some days I look at it and I think I’m handsome, maybe I see my father in there. Other days, I just look… fried. Worn down. I’m pushing 280, but I’m feeling better, more flexible. The inflammation is down. But it doesn’t matter. The body is still old. It’s a goddamn used car, and the warranty is about to expire.
And I’ve had this beautiful, ugly, and completely honest revelation. I’m not trying to lose weight to get laid. I’m not running from a “mid-life crisis.” I’m not trying to get “young again.”
No. This is just… logistics. Maintenance on the escape pod.
I’m just trying to get this old, beautiful, fucked-up machine healthy enough to survive the last goddamn run.
I’m looking for fifteen years.
That’s it. That’s the whole goddamn request. Fifteen good, honest years of travel. Fifteen years without a goddamn needle in my arm for insulin. Fifteen years of enjoying a few drinks without my liver deciding to pack its bags and move to Florida. Fifteen years without popping a handful of pills with side effects that are worse than the goddamn disease. Just fifteen years, in good, working health, to see the rest of the goddamn show.
So you ask me, what about the old life? What about the status? What about getting shit-faced? What about being the “Master Key,” the goddamn stud of Bend, Oregon?
Christ, I don’t care about that anymore. I’ve done that. I’ve been the ice cream-addicted fool. I’ve been the popular kid in high school. I’ve given talks in the goddamn Mormon church. I’ve been the millionaire, the guy with 200 emails a day, the phone ringing off the hook, the whole beautiful, ugly, and completely soul-crushing song and dance of “success.”
I don’t pay for real estate twice.
That’s my new motto. And that doesn’t just mean a house. It means I’m not buying back into the marriage game. I’m not buying back into the “build a business” game. I’m not buying back into the “who’s the biggest stud in the bar” game. I’ve already lived there. I’ve seen the plumbing. I’ve paid the goddamn mortgage. Let the other poor, young bastards have their turn in that beautiful, fraudulent cage.
No. My focus is different now. I’m focusing on the travel. On the being. On the joy. On the peace.
I’m giving myself fifteen years for the final, beautiful, and completely terrifying project of self-discovery. “Who am I? What the fuck is this all about?”
You want to know the beauty of it? The real, honest-to-God punchline to the whole 57-year-long joke? I’m one of the few people on this goddamn rock who can say they made a million dollars in their lifetime. That’s a hell of an achievement, they tell you. But here’s the real achievement, the one that makes me a goddamn legend in my own mind: I’m also one of the few who had the balls, the stupidity, the beautiful, ugly, and completely necessary grace, to lose it all.
I’ve been there. I’ve done that. Those aren’t badges of honor; they’re just… receipts. Old skins I’ve shed. And I’m not looking backward anymore.
I’m evolving. I’m looking forward to the next, beautiful, ugly, and completely honest layer.
