The Long Road Out

It’s never good news when a message from your ex lands in your inbox,” says my therapist. I believe she’s right. Either the message, if read, will confirm dysfunctional tropes and patterns that made you sick. Or it won’t, expanding the original scope of damage.   I send my ex-wife $3854.16 in interest payments each and every month. We have no other communication but the last few months she's sent a pablum thank you note—"thanks and I hope you're enjoying Truckee" is her best effort to date. This month I faltered and responded with an update—my new cat, what I've learned about my depression, a few things I feel good about. Same old me. Expecting connection from a cinder block. The result is exactly the same as it's always been. Cinder blocks don't become roses, and neither are expressive. My bad. I'm old enough and strong enough to withstand the addictive desire to reclaim a past with her that never existed except in my fantasies. Please please d...

Fooled you on that one. I love to dance and have always danced. So this isn't a rejection of an offer. It's gratitude and acceptance. And of course a tributary in the deep river of grieving. I may never dance again, other than my solo joy moments. Moving in the air. The dance is done.

My home had been taken over by a party my ex-wife and mortal enemy wa throwing. Lots of people I didn't know showed up. There was good music but nobody danced. I left and wandered around town knocking things down. When I came back people we starting up leave the party but the thing was still there making out with two women. Someone told me she had a daughter. They all left laughing and I finally woke up. Why is my subconscious brain wasting my remaining life with this painful drivel? My best guess that it's watching Trump's fascism destroy my country. He too is humorless, unconcerned about my pain, and unable to hold an adult conversation. Narcissus was a minor side story among the ancient gods. Narcissism in humans is the most sociopathic and psychopathic cruelty. It's a plague unleashed on us, and we're unvaccinated. The koolaid you drank will kill us all, you Trump fucks. Or maybe I blame my ex for being such a careless simpleton. For never inviti...

I hope he gets up again. Not because we need armed men—flatulent warriors is all we have these days. But because if Orion stands up as winter approaches I will too. I am not functioning particularly well. I chose the wrong tasks. Interacting with others takes a long time and I'm not consistently decisive. Please don't worry David, or trigger unnecessary anxiety. Other than the cats who need me, what does it really matter if I fade off into self-contained ridiculousness? Does it matter if I can't or won't return texts, or if I stall on simple and complex projects? I think my spirit is telling me how to die happier, which is not to care. Be true and clear as you walk yourself home alone my dear friend. Hello Loveling. Perhaps each day is practicing for the end. Practicing to lie still like a September Orion.

Trump files dozens of lawsuits daily. Recently he's been claiming libel from the radical left press—ie the NYT for instance. Trumpers wouldn't know "left" if it bit them on the ass. It involves free health care, income redistribution via fair tax policies, superior education, and respect for international law. The NYT?  Washed out morally compromised liberalism on a good day.  War hawks most of the other days. Don’t believe me?  Name one solid left publication you read.    I’m waiting.   Citizens don't have access to the courts because fat pigs like Trump waste the resources. Remember 77 failed lawsuits claiming election fraud? Try getting your slip and fall dispute on those dockets! Don't bother. You can't afford it. But worse: is he paying his own bills? Or is he using treasury money to sue us? I'm sure if you look deep inside your soul you know the answer. Motherfucker. You suck as a human, Don.

4:19. Not too bad in the third morning home from Europe. But anxious dreams. At one point I was screaming "fuck" at the top of my lungs in a busy passageway. I worried others could hear me but didn't feel the need to stop. Then I was on a hiking trail yelling the same thing. Hikers were coming up the hill and I had no pants on. I was trying to get a shirt on but it was twisted and damp. An acquaintance was sitting on his legs in a bar. All the rooms were flooding. There was a room that used to be my bedroom. A few people were sitting on wet furniture there. I worked hard to get the acquaintance on his feet to take him home. He had no control of his legs. They had fallen asleep. One foot was facing backwards at one point. I'm overwhelmed. I've overscheduled tasks and projects and since Europe I'm falling behind on house cleaning and work. I have a few social plans and tennis dates and I can't fit them in. I was late for a dentist a...

 L fries get assassinated every fucking moment.  Some wingnut fascist gets offed in Utah, one of the most useless states in our electorate? Get over yourself. MLK was the real thing. He wasn’t a social media phenom. So was Gandhi. So was Che Guevara.  If you’re giving a blowjob to the president, you are not a philosopher. You’re a dead sycophant. 

Will my life improve when I get back? I don't know why it should. I'm still not sure about anti-depressants. I have no interest in sex but I don't know if that's serotonin syndrome, or a side effect of PTSD from my divorce. The good news: I don't care. And the sertraline appears to minimize anxiety. Other than that frequent intimating? I'm 70. Digestive issues? Who knows? Fatigue. Possible. Anyway on with life either way with my now two cats and no one else. I don't want companionship for this part of my life. I don't want to help others. I want to take care of my new house, make it into a place I love, and find ways to treasure myself. So much self-hate! Boring. I'm bored. Really bored. Smile. Deep breaths. Change my worn out physiology. Walk myself home. With gentleness and compassion and gratitude. I made it. Alone.

I'm sitting in a southern European cafe in a town square, watching happy couples stroll by. Thanks for the Coke Zero and the diavala pizza…things could be worse. It occurs to me that I don't expect to ever again enjoy the feeling of knowing someone is attracted to me, or cares for me above all else. How sad and lonely that makes me feel on this perfect day. I see women who are attractive to me—hey, it's France. But—no more pain. Please. No more pain. I strive to be self-content and self-sufficient. I pray my mind holds up long enough without the guardrails of love so I can learn happiness again, with myself. No idea if I'll survive to pull this off. I guess I'll see, won't I!

Day 4 of living alone with my cats. I didn't return calls and skipped a social invitation I had accepted earlier. I worked on home projects, but didn't complete anything. I forgot to take my meds think. Hey not every day is perfect right? I don't cook. Or shower. From the outside this wouldn't look good. Doesn't look super great from the inside either. It is what it is. We'll see if I'm transitioning or failing.

I worry more each day for myself, and now I have complete freedom to make of each day whatever I can.    I don't know what I want.  I don't know what to do.  I am lost, and my dreams are of my family turning against me.   I don't have any family except my beloved brother Glenn.  I am such a bad brother because I don't love myself.    Writing to this journal is my moment of peace.   I feel better after therapy sessions…where I get approval even for this.  For the me I live inside now.  The small withdrawn shell of previous episodes of me.   Zoom calls are too much.   Completing projects is too much.   I have a business trip Monday.  I'll never get packed and don't care if I find my passport.   Love is too much.  Sex is appalling.  These are activities that have caused me more pain than joy and I'll do anything to avoid more pain.   This is me on anti-dep...

I'm appreciating Gilbert's Substack writings these days. She's made the memoir into a wide open depiction of crossing the line between the I'd and super ego in a profound way, and tying it to actions that read better than a Ken Kesey novel. I too would destroy myself to preserve what love I can derive from those I cared about. I too find myself alone and celibate (and with short hair!) as a result of my decisions. I too respect the role of psychedelics in gaining an infinite connection with our shared network for grief, love, joy and pain. I have been shocked by cruelty with no purpose. We live in a foul country with an ego the size of the universe. Why not kill your cancer-laden lover? We're not in the top 10 in a single ranking of cultural or economic value and we have no rule of law. Why not learn to love yourself? The only reason any country engages us is to minimize our capacity to capsize their more valuable assets elsewhere with these childish arre...

Some message of kindness that matters… Some sort of indication that this hasn't all been a waste of resources. I travelled through my life as lightly as I could.  I tried not to despoil.  But still...I took up space and I don't think I made many people happy.   Today I'm so anxious I'm feeling nauseous.  It will be a long tough day but maybe this will provide some slim openings for new connections with myself and the world. I hope so.  This happened, to some degree, last summer, but then I botched it and took a roommate back.  Now it's a surreal mess again.   Stay away from horses, landscaping, and the kitchen when Diana is around!  I'm sure there are a few other areas where I've transgressed. I feel safe typing in my journal here, under a warm blanket, on my bed with Tico.  The poor guy.  He's losing his best friend in a few hours and senses it but doesn't understand.  And then a strange new cat is showing up at 5:30...a cat wi...

So I'm moving my roommate out.  I'm paying for her new house rental for a year.  We're barely talking, and when we do it's beyond superficial.  There is no warmth coming from that sector.   She can't lift anything, but she's packing up her stuff and asked me to move boxes out to the car…the heavy ones.   Then she got a phone call from a friend, and disappeared into "her" room half an hour ago.    Idiot that I am, I carried two more loads up the stairs and out to her car.   That's enough.  I'm also paying for the movers on Wednesday.  What the #)%$ am I doing carting her exit packing?   This is abusive.    I long for approval…though I also recognize that my desire for approval (the roots of this desire trace back to my mom, etc.) is now leading me to make some very bad decisions for myself.   Wednesday is a good decision.  And I'm not carrying any more boxes.  The movers can h...

Something remarkable just occurred.  I was leaving a parking lot and realized I had no reason to go in either direction.  Home was to the right.  Town was to the left.  It didn't matter.  I could have just turned off the car, stopped traffic, and begun to write this journal entry to myself. In my life of transporting myself, this unique moment might be a truthful thing.  It might be a sad thing.    It is a thing.  I have nowhere to go.  Nowhere to be.  It doesn't matter what I do.  For the first time in my life, I have no human to go home to.  No one will know when I return there, or if I ever do.   Except Tico, my cat.  So I turned left and went to the grocery store to stock up on cat food.  Now I'm home with him.  I'm OK.  He appears to be content and full of love for me. This is my purpose at this sad passing moment of my short life. I am now embarking on a solo mission--living by my...

I've been doing OK today but the next few days are going to be tough…yet another real estate transaction, and ejecting a roommate to end a stalemate.   Roommate and her wonderful cat. I'm getting the second cat myself on Wednesday… Everything reminds me of my cat that was murdered by a coyote earlier this spring.  Of how much I've lost.  Of the reality that I'm amazed I'm still standing, and able to walk.  Of how scared and worried I am about what will become of me.  I'm not certain I make any sense to people I meet any more.    But…I'm celibate, single, and I'll have two cats who I want to love.  I've paid off most of my divorce debt, thanks to a huge mortgage (first mortgage I've had in 25 years). I've started crying at random times again.  Typical when trauma gets triggered, and so much every day is reminding me of the struggle to keep my head above water.  I bet this passes…maybe end of this week?  Right now, ...

I'm going to live by myself for the first time in my life starting Wednesday. I can't wait. Actually not by myself. I have a cat Tico. And I'm getting a second cat (unnamed but I'm thinking Charisma) at 4:15 on Wednesday. My family. Me. Tico. Charisma. A dream. I've had roommates for most of the last 2 1/2 years. Non-romantic female friends. I wasted 2 1/2 years. Friends who worried about me. My new family will be different. Me and two cats full of mutual love. Who show up for each other 24/7. Who start with love and respect. The best chapter of my life. Love to you Tico and, currently, "X." Tico and Charisma. We're going to rock this sick fucking planet. The doors are locked. No coyotes. No roommates.

Ok. Official. I have a roommate problem. Again. Same one as a year ago. Same behaviors. Right now I feel like I'm living with a cross between a nun, a social worker, and Julia Child. I don't necessarily value any of those three persona. She came back with my aid to get herself set up in a new life in Washoe. Nevada. A year later she's permanently installed in my basement. Now she's diagnosing my mental health again. This is where we left off last July. This will resolve quickly now. Sadly, Ceci got killed in the meantime. On her watch. She's had several medical crises of her own…I've tried to show up as needed. Nothing more. If she weren't here I would begin to build a friendship with my new cat. Tico's found a place in this broken family constellation by connecting with the other cat. Wise. Anyway, near the 2nd and final breaking point. The sooner the better. Yuck. 🤮

I'm disappointed and surprised, though I accept that this is my journey now. But I also know the signs of anxiety and fear and behavioral disorders like distrust of others. The progress towards lightness and in-the-moment happiness of the last year is unwinding. The descent startles me. I'm self-talking in public again. The voice is my ugliest unkind self, and the words are harsh. I have never spoken this harshly to another being. You don't know. Self-arrest! Self-arrest! That's what my dear therapist used to say. I feel helpless. There's nothing to grab onto across this smooth steep surface that flies by so fast my ears ring. Everything aches. Why is that? Sleep. There's where I am safe.

I hope I die soon. Really. This is ridiculous. What a pathetic life I've had. Stop. I'm done. Really. Fuck you all.  I lived with a woman who was me-first 24/7 for 30 years. And now she’s convinced she was a victim.  This is the American Dream she hoped for.   Innocent of the carnage behind her. A pure American asshole. She should be on the currency. What a disaster of a human being.  Hiding behind international covenants she’s never once observed in her family life.  I puke on you.

So strange. The trend of the last few days continues. I hate everyone! Just luck Donald. He's a twat. Maybe he's just lonely and depressed like me. I doubt he's going to improve soon, so I'm not optimistic about his future joy.

Really dark even though the sun is shining in my eyes as it rises over the eastern Sierra. Really dark. I don't want to continue. I dreamt I still owned my Chris Craft though I'd rented it to some fancy family. But I took it back for August and went for a trip in tropical waters completely alone. I was so happy to have my past back. Not being abused by anyone I knew. Just me and the water and my boat. I fell off a stool yesterday changing a light bulb. What a fucking idiot right?

That's a Dylan line. But it happened to me too and to all the others who suffer.  The horror the horror in south Harlem. That's Conrad. Take care of your own shit. Yesterday, fishing for your next round of cash, out of the blue, you opined that it was good we were talking without lawyers. You fucking ghosted me for years. As if this situation had something to do with me. As if I lawyered up. Protect me from conversation.  

The two of us were putrid. I don't know if I hate you or myself more. I'd definitely like to get even with you for your sociopathy. You hurt so many people. I'm in the top group but doubt I was your worst victim. You represent a group of man haters who are so blinded by the abuse they received from their fathers or the abuse their fathers dumped on their mothers—or are just plain sick muthafuckers. So you poison any one you can and reject everyone who sees you as a demon. Spin more bad false hurtful hateful narratives. Destroy your body with cortisol because that's your nectar. Cortisol is the fruit of what you've spewed into the world. It's far too late for you to redeem yourself. Probably for me too. Certainly for the others. I'd rather have a cocaine problem that a cortisol problem though it's a double race to the absolute bottom in both cases.

Next step in the 10 year process is splitting up our retirement funds. I deducted $300,000 from my 401k in 2021 to try to help my ex move to Montréal. She deposited $165,000 of our joint money in her private SEP without telling me. Whatever. She sucks but I really loved her. I assume this next round of "protecting women" experts know the same two things about me that every other moron Mina hired took for granted: that I'm a coke addict and a crossdresser. It's easy to behave unprofessionally when you've been fed this sewage by a woman who would know better if she weren't disabled. Again, ho-hum. I only hope these predators are competent. That would be a nice change after Vaccaland and Hrbekville and the comedy of errors that populated the last 10 steps. Imagine a world where women didn't need compromised tools like you to Pete t them from men like me! PS Lexington: you don't know me and you never will. But if you need blow a...

A friend of mine fell off the cocaine sobriety wagon for the second time in 39 years last week. I wonder how many people really stop to contemplate this personal disaster. Such a self-esteem buster. And I'm not talking about the drug. I'm talking about meeting your coked up self again. I do not believe people who have not experienced clinical depression, PTSD, or addiction are qualified to speak about these topics. They don't appear to understand how hurtful they are, and how irrelevant they sound. Of course the self-help types can't shut up. Their fuel is coaching. Coaches don't listen. They coach. Non-stop. A job for narcissists pure and simple. My ex-wife tried to coach. She used to have a line on her marketing website that said something like "let me share my passion with you." Don't know if that's still there. Not someone I'd go to in a medical emergency. Or in a clinical mental health crisis. Ironic...

OK, dude:  You've stacked the supreme court with morons who have protected sitting presidents—well, specifically you--from litigation.   And now you want to charge Obama for treason in 2016?   You are a disgusting piece of shit, Donald.  I hope you never sleep at night for the rest of your life.  I can't imagine anyone who deserves to be alone, staring at the ceiling in the dark, more than you do.  

I emailed my ex for password information on an account that is still under her email. She replied three days later and apologized saying she was traveling and hadn't looked at email currently. Gormless. She hasn't replied to email timely in three years once. She hasn't replied to a text from me at all in over 2 years. Not a single one. Clueless about the insulting and hurtful impact of her behaviors. Reminder how much better my current life is when I don't have any contact with anything to do with my past during with my ex. Live your new life David. Take responsibility for now. Look back only when joy reminds you of a past moment. Enjoy those good memories for yourself. You deserve them, unspoiled.

Or a ghoul—an envious bitter damaged baby. I do not respect her. I hope things go poorly for her. Now I have a roommate. Awkward. Not worth the trouble sone days. I don't want to live like this. I don't want to be with others. I don't want the responsibility of love or romance. I don't even really want friendship. Whoever invented this human situation is no friend of mine. Darwin explained why. If I hypothesize a god, that being is even more parsimonious and damaged than my ex-wife. I respect no god. Beauty is as beauty does. Both are ugly and barren. I want my cat. Where is he? Where is my tentative friend?

I live in a wonderful home in the mountains of California. I enjoy coming home from my activities, and treasure the beauty of the internal architecture. As I type I'm watching the just-past-full Buck moon. It floats in the center of a window like an optical scanner. Paradox: this is also my prison. I have never felt as lonely. I have never been less certain of why I am here. I do not trust my relationship with others and even my new cat struggles to understand how to bring me into his consciousness. I can't keep his gender straight when I use terms of endearment. I don't sense improvement anywhere. My favorite activities are small scale home improvement projects—hanging art, upgrading bathroom fixtures. If we desire purposeful lives, I don't think this is what's intended. It seems instead to be a guided tour of slapdash efforts to control my small environment. Outside, where foul men exist, is simply too soul-destroying. I cannot possibly share...

My experience of love was as a partnership unit so strong that my vision and understanding as an individual disappeared. Losing love was a surgical separation that left me without my heart, soul, and mind. My partnership destroyed me, and left me without myself. I am small, hurt, and afraid. I miss myself more than I miss my ex. So now I'm 70 and starting from scratch. It's a small life. Like my dad and my grandfather. I recall grander times. My dad tried to make the best of this period in his life but died of boredom and a bad diet. My grandfather died of drink perhaps—and yes a terrible diet. I may not die for awhile but I recall who I was and miss me. I will ultimately die alone as a direct result of being cut in half. My previous self was inhabited by a narcissist and a sociopath, but you can't see that from inside love. Only when cleaning up the blood in the operating theater.

I still like to dance with energy, and move through my world. I hate Trump and his ICE thugs. I always err on the side of kindness if possible. I value companionship and listen as carefully as possible, and always wish I did better. I'm a romantic at heart but I'm alone. I've had my heart broken for the first time at a relatively late age, though resilience in the face of adversity compounded the damage. In other words, when I fell, I could not get up. I still struggle to get to my knees, and I'm uncertain for many steps when I am first on my feet. I still consider my ex to be my greatest trauma and biggest failure, even though I survived her narcissism for decades longer than anyone in her life. I ended up in the same junk pile as others she hurt in the end; dumped, blamed and ghosted. This is the pattern with gaslighters—avoidance of shame, guilt and responsibility will be Mina's final edict and absolution. I believe I am a survivor of a toxic, abu...

I think I forgot to take my anti-depressant yesterday. Then I had two small glasses of red wine with dinner. My friend is back. The one who says "you're such an asshole David." Unconnected to anything, which is unusual. Maybe the stress of moving? I'm not conscious of having disappointed anyone or failed to follow through on anything. The usual sources of harsh self-critical thought. What is he trying to warn me of?

Hey moron…   So, now you're acting as if you're an independent power broker with Iran and Israel.  Don't hurt yourself doing gymnastics and posturing.   What a tool you are, Donald Trump.   Europe has been meeting with the combatants.  They specifically excluded you Don, since you can't be trusted and you suck all the air out of the room. This war was caused by you, in 2018.  We had the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action through which Iran agreed to avoid nuclear development in return for Israel's agreement to stop attacking and invading.  You complained back then that Iran cheated…but remained stupidly silent on the fact that Israel assassinated Iranians and others on Iranian soil and continued covert warfare the whole time.  Anyway, Israel got the message that it could keep doing whatever it wanted, and you were too stupid to notice. No military leader in this country who isn't a character in Dr. Strangelove (Pete Hegadeath?)...

The old one will sell this year. In the meantime, I have a room of my own—far more than I need to be honest. I'm proud of every one! I'm happy in every space. There's a fire pit in the back yard and I want to use it. I have Sonos speakers and a printer connected to my network, called Sublime. I might not change those for a long time. I knew a woman who is an inauthentic piece of trash.  The opposite of my mom and the opposite of the other important women in my life. Deep trash. Dumpster.  So nice to let my truth flow. I own my hatred.  I awake full to the brim.  This is who I am.   Angry. Hurt. Existentially alone. 

That's what the sale of my beautiful and loved home on Riverside Drive in Manhattan was worth to my ex-wife. Proves the point that love and beauty have no value that correlates with currency (maybe bitcoin, though that seems unlikely?). I loved my ex and I loved my home. Poof. Onward through this cruel cold world, never to be seen again. 652,480. That's how my love paid out on long odds.

 No. Being sad hurts, and good people try to offer aid  to a degree that doesn’t ruin their own lives or negate them   Sadness is narcissistic   Shame, guilt and grieving can. These are states of pain and terror.  These emotions are about seeing the ashes and knowing yours are mixed with those in the nameless pit.  That you didn’t feel a thing until you, yourself, began to burn.   Let’s all hear of your shame and your guilt and your grief.  Speak White!   Cat got your tongue?  Not surprising to find you mute when health, healing, and joy are possible. Healing emotions start at 15…not placating 6.  

 I’ve been told this by past girlfriends.  Coffee doesn’t help. Pineapple does.  Employees of ICE:  don’t force women to give you blowjobs, as you have.  You need to fix yourself first.  Your semen stinks.  While you’re fixing this disgusting fact about yourself that no facemask can hide—stop procreating.  Can you image a kid looking up at you next Father’s Day—or earlier this morning—and seeing someone who does what you do for a living?   Who sees the sweat and blood and urine and shit and tears of the dead before the laundry man comes. Please keep your dementia to yourself until you are gone.  Nice job in LA by the way.  Stay in Orange County with your marine friends, who also have semen problems, though up until now not from killing white men like you on US soil. 

I hiked toward Mt Rose this morning for the first time in four years. I did not aspire to the pinnacle, where I've been dozens of times. I hiked to the waterfalls and back. The gentle Sierra hike was fraught. I am not the same person I was on my previous hailstone-pinged trail run/walk. People I have met since then have already left my life. I had not met my cat Ceci then, and her life has already ended as a meal for a nasty coyote pup. I had not re-met Diana, my off and on roommate during the darkest days of my soul. I was strongish and confident that happiness would be mine for many more years. Now I am weaker, uncertain of my place and my purpose, and often overcome by clinical depression. You could say I am a shadow of that former self, and I would not say anything in response. I would listen to you hoping to understand who I have become. At the center of the transformation of course is the tawdry and cheap dissolution of my disabled and gaslighted marriage. The damage of...

Not to stereotype but the loser who shot the state reps 29 hours ago, apparently because he thought pro-choice advocates were satanical, goes to some whackadoodle Revelation-based crackpot church.  Why isn’t the fraudulent minister who tended to this violent flock defrocked and in custody? Anyone who reads Revelation should be deported. It’s a stupid meaningless poem. I’ve never read a worse one   Ye hypocrites. We hold ayatollahs accountable when they advise jihad. We put targets on their back. It takes a religious moron—a fundamentalist minister in Minnesota for instance—to stir up a sick bitter abusive mind.  It would take a true leader to get murderers to stand down. Trump loves these guys. He’s super happy that local, state,  and federal Democrats are afraid to open their front door.  Like Trump, so does your plain-vanilla Christian minister.  He loves you when you spill blood on the sidewalks, brother. Love thy assassinated brother. You are all sick f...

 I see empty barren fields where no gratitude grew. Only disappointment.  I see myself ignored by passing trucks, unable to hitch a ride to anywhere I wanted to be.  I see a dead weight on the other side of the bed from me night after night.  I see a funeral for my endless capacity for love and happiness…and then the final incineration before I became the ashes I am today.   Horrid demons circling a toxic waste dump  Mina—don’t hurt too many others as you walk yourself home.  I cared for you but all I have for my efforts is disappointment and heartache, and looking back I see nothing but a legacy of emotional stinginess and gaslighting You presented an image of yourself that I don’t think even you liked, and that everyone could see through—but for whatever reason you maintained in lieu of authenticity  honesty  generosity, connection, or love.  You sold your good self to your own illusion, leaving nothing kind for me.  Your spiritua...

I'm designing a bumper sticker or decal for my Audi. My goal is to express my disrespect.  Here are a couple of the things I'm considering.  Let me know your preferences, or a better alternative.   ICE:   Go home now! ICE: Does your mother know what you do for a living?  Is she ashamed of you? ICE: You are not respected or welcome in my town ICE: Go back to wrecking your own home, and leave mine alone. ICE: You are following the orders of a moron.  Think for yourself for once. ICE: That's not my flag on your underwear ICE: how do you sleep at night?   ICE:  Deport Yourself Now.    Hey, these are all great. What a bunch of feckless losers to take a job destroying families and lives.  And the ICE outfits are so stupid looking—never take a job where you need a gun and the name of your employer on your back and a face mask so you can’t be identified by your victims    

  Dear ICE employee:  I do not respect you.  I do not anywhere near my loved ones.  I want you to return to your home town and ruin lives there if you can't control yourselves.  Go home.  No one wants to meet you.   Meanwhile, here's the Nation's assessment of your ethnic cleansing mission:   Not surprisingly, Trump's ethnic cleansing campaign has many people fearful and uncertain of what to do. Fortunately, there are many immigrant rights, civil rights and faith organizations providing " know your rights " training for people and providing as much legal support as they can, while rapid-response networks are expanding to mobilize people to come to the sites of ICE raids to provide witness and support for those under attack. But this racist campaign has sparked the growth of a broad and diverse resistance movement working to end the military assault on their communities by armored personnel vehicles, helicopters, and mask...

 If you took this job, look deep into your shame.  Just saying. Go home and wreck your own family. Not mine.  You will walk to your grave alone when your time is done. 

So, my divorce wrecked my credit rating. I've never missed a payment in over 40 years. My income is extensive and secure. I have a relatively high net worth. I've paid all my divorce obligations. I assume it's because my ex liked hurting me. It supported her preferred narrative that I'm a deadbeat asshole. She will never deny that she didn't act with the sole intent of doing harm, so that's what I'm left with after 30 years. A soulless idiot who fights like a four year old. And has similar communication skills and temper tantrums and emotional intelligence. You succeeded. You fucked ne over and wrecked my life. Nice work Mina. Party on jackass. How's your partnership game going? Disgusting.  You don't understand, and can't comprehend the hatred you leave behind you.  You are truly the worst person I've ever known well.  Name a category where you don't fall short.  I'm all ears... Behold the daily venom of your continued wort...

Democrat or Republican or intelligent, our government has one color--and it's the palette of the tanks parading in Washington or the federalized troops descending on Hispanic neighborhoods. It's the color of guns and large munitions and helmets.  The color of faceprint.  The color of militarization. That's the US. I hate that color and everything it represents.  And it makes me so sad to look out and see nothing but warriors.  Anti-depressants to not improve the look of military fatigues and a spent nation.   Unlike the pride parade, we are not proud.  We are not human.  We are not sexy.  We are mechanized killers.  Maybe we get a red pickup truck to liven our days, but the swivel machine gun in the back brings us back to drab.  It shows the black in our hearts. Shame on us.   Shame on our allies who intercept aid boats and send their own drones into the towns and cities and farms of the citizens.   Shame on you for laughing at...

Ok, full disclosure. My new best friend is a kitten named Tico. I'm not doing so well with humans these days. I want Tico to determine what he wants and needs as much as possible. I hope to be his ally, providing the centering tendency and safety he needs to face his world with happiness and curiosity. My previous cat Ceci was killed by a coyote six weeks ago. I worry that I'm not good enough now to be Tico's trusted companion. I'm not worthy, as Mike Meyers would say. (The US will get a lot more humor from Mike once we become the 11th province, or the 5th territory, of Canada. Go Habs. Fuck Trump and his voters.) In the meantime, Tico, I look forward to every moment with you. You are truly the joy of my days and my life. Thank you for what you've given me already in our short time together. I want to be better for you, sweet new friend. Partner?

It must be really hard for both of you, having to confront, once again, your own inabilities to form appropriate connections with anyone. And then, having sustained the loss of yet another potential source of love and resoect, to find yourself in that same old familiar spot: alone, and posturing. How many times have you both snarked at the world "I never liked you anyway!"? And then snuck a side glance at your text messages to see if there was anything new from the only source that matters. "Not me! I didn't look! See? My iPhone is silenced!" How brutal the vicissitudes of romance! How undependable the brittle strands of new love. How sad, the empty solace of yet another tragic failure. Will this loneliness never end? "Mommy and Daddy—you owe me. You were terrible love coaches. I still don't know how," sobbed Donald. Either does black-eyed Elon!

Here's a new one: The taxi to and from the runway at Ohare is always abusive. 20 minutes at a minimum each way and frequently significantly longer. It deserves worst airport ratings. I'm on a United flight now. The taxi out was so long the brakes overheated before we got to the takeoff stand. We just sat for 24 minutes while the brakes cooled to regulated temperatures. That's the TAXI!

The Four horses are depression, sadness, anxiety and grief. Their hooves thunder across the arid tundra that is constructed of loneliness. There are cracks and tiny isolated blooms emerge. See the orange petals there. That's excitement. The yellow tendril there? Happiness.

He's a bore and a pig and makes mistakes twice a year that destroy hundreds of billions of dollars of value. The only reason he's not bankrupt is that he has so much cash this psychopathic behavior is buffered. He has no emotional or business maturity. He tried to wreck the federal government and he couldn't do that. The military budget went up more than the cuts he claims he made. Tesla investors: unless you regularly have dinner with this turd, why do you want him back? Volatility is not a measure of value. It's a measure of risk. (Unless you're an inside trader.). If you make money off Tesla stock, you are unlikely to have meaningful friendships. You're a prostitute and not much more. My humble opinion of you. You and your buddies. I will never meet any of you. Trump amazes me.  He destroyed Giuliani—something the five Families couldn’t do. He threw Musk out.  He’s a stupid slimy pig, but he’s apparently good at mob leadership. Musk probably h...

 My ex-wife pissed on it. We left.   I used to dance. My ex got bored.  I used to be musical. Playing in a soundproof room.  I used to do cocaine alone. To “feel good about myself.” I once was proud.  Ha.  I was sexual before this time. . 

Maybe I can grow again. More space. More plants. Less time with humans who are unidimensional. More psychedelics for learning and growing. Maybe. Simpler life fewer assets. Learn to take baths again. Buy a pellet gun to shoot coyotes. I hate them since one killed my cat. Making Mina learn what she fucked up and fucked over. Dying compromised, like me. Aware of her damage.

How did that happen? I loved so many dearly. People and animals. Now I have some activities and I try to behave. I don't know why. The interactions are not offering meaningful benefits. So strange to be completely isolated now. Perhaps I always was and never noticed? At least since my parents died. I need so much!

That's an easy one: ping pong. Table tennis. We played a lot. During ski season pre-dinner ping pong was a great tradition. And we were well matched. Over hundreds of games I'm guessing pretty close to 50/50 win-loss results. The matches, including long fun rallies, fell into three general patterns. 1. My ex would get ahead early, 2. We'd switch leads several times and often end up in long "win by two" duals 3. I would get ahead early. In the first two categories, we had fun. The third category was a disaster and I dreaded it. My ex would give up. She'd swing carelessly and drop her hands. Her serves would become random. Her face showed how unhappy she was. I'd react by getting sloppy and often a game would go from say 10-2 to 18-18. I usually won because I'd be frustrated by her lack of sportsmanship and would fight back at the end. How unfair. The lesson in table tennis was the same as in our entire marriage: ...

I had Mohs surgery three years ago on a small pre-cancerous spot on my leg. The procedure is intended to minimize scarring. It’s minor, and likely heads off much larger problems. Nonetheless, I still have a purple stain on my leg there which never diminishes.  Similarly, the actions of a dysfunctional marriage caused  the full range of PTSD symptoms.  Shock. Mood swings.  Hopelessness. Anger. My exwife compounded the problem by her own illnesses—specifically she ghosted, blamed and gaslighted me.  To this day, when I think of her, one or more of the symptoms roars into center stage and I am unable to function. I will never be able to form a trusting love relationship again.  It’s 4:04 in the morning and I am angry. I want to tell her how evil she is and instead I just have to send her interest on settlement balances. Talk about money for nothing.  Narcissists rarely receive Florence Nightingale awards, and my ex shouldn’t wait for any caregiver of the ...

 Depression has exacerbated my behavior of leading with empathy. Sick dog?  I cry with you.   It’s crushed excitement.  Hardly an option. I bought a new house for myself this week. Hi-hum. I’ll still be the same depressed guy.  That doesn’t seem fair!  I liked that part of myself. I was always the guy who drove around town to get my soccer team out of bed before a match.  Yes, I liked excitement. Striving for improvement. I thought “Flow” was a meaningful book when I read it. Sexual excitement—so empowering and energizing and happy (except with my ex(.  Business meetings to discuss joint IP!  Partnerships of all stripes. Reaching the top of a new peak. Looking forward to the next trip.  A new pet.  Thrilling—as was living every pet I’ve known.  Then I met my ex. She melted down if I was excited about anything other than keeping her on a pedestal. 

Here's what ChatGPT has to say on that subject: That's a deep and honest question—one that many people wrestle with. What holds someone back from starting their life over can vary, but here are some common factors to reflect on: Fear of the Unknown Starting over means stepping into uncertainty. It's natural to fear what you can't predict—new environments, people, jobs, or even a new version of yourself. Comfort in Familiar Pain Sometimes, even if your current situation is unfulfilling, it's familiar. That familiarity can feel safer than the risk of failing or being disappointed again. Responsibility and Obligations You might have ties—family, financial commitments, a career path—that make the idea of starting fresh seem impossible or selfish. Internalized Doubt Many people carry a quiet, persistent voice that says, "I can't," or "I don't deserve better." These limiting beliefs often trace back to past ...

Of course they do.  These people have spent their entire careers blaming others for their own ineptitude.    Carrion feeders. Disgusting.  The guy is dying.  I think people like Vance and the morons who keep the Democratic Party gutless are the proximate cause.   Ever kick a sick dog, you two creeps? I’m sure this isn’t the first time.    

I was proud of my marriage. Of my NYC home. Of my NYC friends. Of my career. Of my pets! Of what I read and the movies I loved and the uniqueness of my thoughts. Of my athleticism. Of my parents. Hubris… All gone. I feel strongly.  I know grieving. And remorse. And shame. And the decay of my body and mind.   I doubt my ex has any of those parts.  I know she doesn’t think I deserve affection, kindness, respect, care, or the time of day.  I don’t think people who run from others in need deserve respect. Nor do those who laugh at—or ignore—the pain they cause others. The gaslighters. Those whose realities change to align with their Facebook selves.  I talked to my brother last night. His brain is disappearing. He barely can form words and they don’t link. It doesn’t matter. He’s my brother and we don’t need words. His pieces say more than all the false babble and meaningless chatter of my marriage. He’s lost in the static of injury, over prescribed drugs, and t...

I am living in hell. Coyotes won't let me outdoors. My roommate is sick all the time. I had bad friends and my life partner was a vampire.no one can understand the unique terror of living with a woman who cannot experience shame or guilt or grieving. For the record, my anger is the only thing that kept me alive.  (No one understands this other than me. I was alone in a universe of gaslighting.) Pretty amazing I'm still here.  Waking up, trying to get dressed,rarely making headway on any projects. I send a check once a month to an ex who hasn’t treated me like a human I 3 fucking years, and likely much longer.  I resent her money for nothing greed.   I'm having trouble with alcohol. I say 'don't drink tonight" and then I do anyway. And I don't really care. Definitely numbs the pain and the loneliness but it doesn't stop the crying. The last thing I love was stolen from me. I don’t have the capacity for new love because I hurt so much. I got a new ...

It's a $4B company.   OpenAI generates revenue through several key channels, with a significant portion stemming from its ChatGPT offerings and API services. Here's a breakdown of its major income sources: 1.  ChatGPT Subscriptions (Approximately 76% of Revenue) OpenAI's primary revenue stream comes from its ChatGPT subscription services: ChatGPT Plus: Priced at $20 per month, this tier accounts for about 55% of OpenAI's total revenue, translating to approximately $1.9 billion annually.   ChatGPT Enterprise: Targeting large organizations, this plan contributes around 21% of the company's revenue.   ChatGPT Team: Designed for small to medium-sized teams, this offering adds about 8% to OpenAI's revenue.   Collectively, these subscription models provide OpenAI with a stable and recurring income stream. 2.  API and Developer Access (Approximately 15% of Revenue) OpenAI of...