Riding Out the Storm
I always wanted to be in a hurricane. Not read about one. Not watch it on the Weather Channel. Be in one. Feel it. Let it remind me I’m just
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.
I always wanted to be in a hurricane. Not read about one. Not watch it on the Weather Channel. Be in one. Feel it. Let it remind me I’m just
I’m parked on my usual barstool at the local watering hole, third Hazy IPA in, watching two guys a few stools down chirp back and forth like neutered parrots. One
I didn’t marry for love. Not the kind that keeps you up at night or makes your hands shake. Those twenty years were a loveless contract held together by the
I was pretty settled into my little spiritual routine. I wasn’t searching anymore—I was orbiting. Little rituals kept me alive. Sunsets, mostly. That was my thing. I’d throw a bottle
I used to load up a backpack with two bottles of wine and a single glass. That was the ritual. No water, no food. Just the essentials: alcohol and intention.
I was working overtime in Sedona, self-purging, trying to scrape the bullshit off my soul with nothing but rocks and sweat. People had started calling me Tony Soprano, not because
I remember watching Easy Rider as a kid. The desert. The dirt. The open nothing stretching forever. That soundtrack humming like a lazy rattlesnake in the heat. Something about it
I was still married, still chained to the corpse of a marriage that smelled worse every time I dragged it out in public, and there I was, sitting at the
I threw some cash at 107.1, thinking maybe it’d turn into something, thinking maybe anything could still be built out of the wreckage. Mostly it meant getting dragged to concerts
I got off the plane from Singapore fat, sweaty, liver-pickled, and half-dead, dragging the stench of three weeks of bad decisions and half-hearted victories behind me like a dead rat
She leans back in her chair, her old corn pipe hanging from her lips, eyes half-closed like she’s already seen the end of the story. She says: “Mmm… you open
You’re sitting in an old, dimly lit bookstore. Dust hangs thick in the air, and the smell of aged paper mingles with the faint, earthy scent of corn tobacco. A