Explore raw, unfiltered reflections on life, loss, identity, and love. From monogamy to madness, these real-life stories pull no punches — and they just might hit home.
Part 1: The Midnight Disposal It starts in the dark. It always does. There is something eerie about breaking into your own life. I drove to the job site in
After our weekend in Portland—after the redemption at Jake’s and the fog at the soaking pool—it didn’t take long for the old programming to kick in. The goodness I had
We left Portland in the rearview mirror. We left the crime scene at the Marriott—the wet mattress, the shame, the smell of a man who had almost pissed away his
Let’s be honest: Koreans are the SIDS of Asia. There is a lifelessness here, a sudden infant death syndrome of the soul that seems to plague the male population. They
The fiasco had settled. The “Wet Spot Incident” was buried under a pile of towels and a solid eight hours of “Tantra-style” damage control. I had broken her down. Not
We were in the hotel room. The Marriott. The bed was made up like a crime scene to hide the wet spot where my dignity had leaked out during the
I was new on the scene. Fresh out of the cage of a twenty-year marriage where I played the part of the good corporate soldier, the Mormon provider, the man
You know my stance on the “masses.” I think they’re sheep. I think they’re asleep at the wheel, driving the whole goddamn country off a cliff while arguing about pronouns.
am fifty-seven years old. And I am currently performing a magic trick: I am compressing fifty-seven years of accumulated American junk—the trophies, the suits, the tools, the “memories”—into a 120-liter
I spent forty years treating my body like a rental car I paid for with a stolen credit card. I poured whiskey into the gas tank. I ran it redline.
You know what the heaviest thing in the world is? It isn’t concrete. It isn’t steel. It’s stuff. I spent twenty years collecting the trophies. The big house in Bend.
It was Brush Creek. High up in the Sierras, where the air is thin and the granite remembers everything. I was thirteen years old, standing in water that was cold
