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 check-in bag.
Think about the sheer, unadulterated violence of that act. I am taking a sledgehammer to “James the Homeowner.” I am putting “James the Executive” into a woodchipper. I am erasing my footprint until all that’s left fits in a nylon sack that weighs less than a well-fed dog.
And while I’m doing this—while I’m liquidating my past on Facebook Marketplace for pennies on the dollar—I am also planning to swan dive into the Sexual Abyss.
I have two weekends left. Two weekends with the Phoenix Siren. We aren’t going to hold hands and watch the sunset. We aren’t going to “get to know each other.” We are going to lock the door of a hotel room, turn off the phones, and engage in a level of physical debauchery that would make a Roman emperor blush. I am going to wring every drop of serotonin and dopamine out of my brain like I’m juicing an orange.
Am I fucking crazy?
Am I insane for burning the candle at both ends right before I get on a plane to the other side of the world? Am I nuts for faking my way through safety awards and corporate high-fives while planning an orgy on the side?
Maybe. Or maybe I’m just the only one who realized the building is on fire.
The Coward Code and the Sainted Monster
I look back at the men who came before me. I look at my dad.
He never stood up. He knew the abuse was happening. He knew my mother was a feral animal who ruled the house with terror and chaos. But he did nothing. Why? Because he was paralyzed by the Coward Code.
He bought into the spineless societal lie: “Motherhood is the hardest job in the world.”
Bullshit. Being a good mother is hard. Being a bad mother is the easiest gig on the planet—you just destroy everything you touch and then demand a Mother’s Day card for your trouble. But society protected her. The schools, the neighbors, the institutions—they all looked the other way because she was a “Mother,” and Mothers are saints, even when they are monsters.
My father died clutching that code to his chest. The “Great Man” died of politeness. He died of silence. He circled the drain of respectability until he was just another dead battery in the clog, used up and discarded by a system that never loved him back.
The Toilet Bowl of Death
I look around at my peers now. The men my age. The ones I see at the brewery, drinking their ice water because the bartender told them to.
They are sexless. They are tired. They are circling the toilet bowl of death, waiting for the flush. They have pensions they will never enjoy because their arteries are clogged with regret. They have wives they don’t touch and lives they don’t lead. They are “safe.”
And me?
I am yearning.
I am hungry. I am horny. I am angry.
I am faking my way through the workday, nodding at safety awards I don’t care about, pretending to be a “Company Man” while I have a grenade in my pocket. I am selling the furniture so I can buy freedom. I am diving into the sexual abyss because I want to feel everything before I go.
I want to burn out the sensors. I want to redline the engine until the pistons fly through the hood. I want to leave this country with my tank empty and my soul full.
I’m not crazy. I’m alive.
And in a world full of the walking dead, being alive feels a hell of a lot like insanity.
So, pack the bag. Book the hotel.
If I’m going to go out, I’m going out screaming. And I’m taking the last laugh with me.
