Canadian Redemption PART-2
February 2, 2026
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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
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.
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
The ice in my glass had melted down to jagged little shivs, floating in a pool of amber that cost too much and burned too good. Across the table, Charles—my
