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.
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
I’m leaning against the bar, looking at a reflection that finally stopped looking like a cautionary tale and started looking like a threat. I’m officially forty pounds lighter than the
I am officially forty pounds lighter than the bloated wreck I was in August. I am winning the war on gravity. But to understand the victory, you have to understand
You want to know what the psychiatrist’s problem is? He’s scared. He looks at a man like you—a man who went from a feral, cat-killing thirteen-year-old to a disciplined sailor,
That old drunk Bukowski said to find what you love and let it kill you, and I suppose that is exactly what I have been doing, slowly, methodically, and with
