I’ve been sober for over a year now.

So what? Plenty of people can say that. You’re not special. Non-descript “achievement.”

A year was marked as of August 21. I went to Laguna Beach with my fiance and one of my best friends.

It was just another day.

Except it wasn’t. No single day can encapsulate the psychological terror of everything this day, and this sobriety, means to me.

It is embarrassing to admit that. Why? I’m used to being vulnerable. But this feeling? Raw. Not vulnerable. It psychologically hurts to write these words and relive these experiences.

How can a human possibly understand the mish-mash of emotions that cycle through my psyche when I read beautiful writing such as this?

Words, a perfectly imperfect medium. The finger pointing at the Moon. Let’s arrange the alphabet and give it a shot.

Awe, in the sheer talent, skill and suffering that cultivated such power of the pen. Mystifying fear, like Narcissus gazing into the water: frozen in the abyss of the realization of seeing yourself, mirrored, through a doppelganger.

Triggering, to re-live, through the life force of carefully crafted words, the drug experience. The debauchery. The escapism. The transcendence. The insight. Ephemeral!

The stunning realization that I am still an addict, sobriety be damned.

Denial is a funny thing. The tarot reader was right: I may not be using drugs, but that doesn’t make me sober.

The six weeks leading up to the fateful anniversary were fast-twitch days full of anxiety, resentment, amorphous confusion, discontent and discombobulation. Circumlocution and self-loathing filled my pores.

What the fuck am I doing?

I have met my soul mate. I am head over heels in love. My Father is dying, as if he hasn’t been dead for years. I am struggling to finish my undergrad in pursuit of becoming a therapist. My sexual identity has never been more Plutonian and Uranian. Friends have dropped like flies. Priorities have cataclysmically shifted. Yoga evolves the cellular formation of my spirit on a daily basis. The dichotomy of good versus evil ceases to impinge my palette of the world.

The unconscious psychological tremors of my family permeate my dreams, destiny and psyche. Addiction, sobriety, neglect and trauma dot the periphery of my perspective.

How could swaths of months of sobriety — months that were “supposed” to be long and hard — have been such a cakewalk, but now, at ten and a half months, at 11 months, at 12 months, at present day, feel like a sensory deprivation experience in molasses?

The false idols of my denial came crashing down. Yoga won’t save you, Adam. Juicing won’t save you. Rap won’t save you. God won’t save you. Money won’t save you. Love won’t save you. Distraction won’t save you. Spirituality won’t save you.

Naivete and colloquialisms. Friendly exchanges. Facebook status updates. Melancholic lyrics and idyllic summer days. Acupuncture. Supplements. Writing, reading and astrology. Friendships, witticisms and ego: none of this will save you, Adam.

None of this will touch your unconscious. Check your premises. “Save” doesn’t exist. You thought the detached blissful terror of the ego death of a third plateau DXM trip was an adventure?

Welcome to life.

Shut the fuck up, Adam. An addict is an addict is an addict.

You traded one addiction for another. You’re compulsive obsessive, except you’re not obsessive for anything that matters. You’re focused on Mew2King chain grabs, Bisu timing attacks and the nuances of Rotoworld’s over-reliance on the word ‘interesting.’

Self-flagellation is always one thought away. The perfect is the enemy of the better.

Refraining from drugs has helped clear the fog, but the retraining of the mind has only begun. None of the concepts you’ve held dear to your heart will do you a world of good if you lack the temerity to delve into the ugliness of the world.

Satan. Evil. Selfishness. Greed. Ego. Incest. Rape. Torture. Power. Despair. Self-immolation. Suicide. And, worst of all: stagnancy. You will never transcend mental prison until you jump head first into the Shadow.

I have seen enough of the Shadow to know that I know nothing. The past eight years of my life contain a lifetime of experiences; the past year a decade.

You are dead inside. A living zombie calcifies you from within. The flesh-eating bacteria you call pride and aesthetic cultivates your cowardly heart.

Three hundred seventy-five days. And counting.

The world’s longest tear-drop.

What the fuck, man?

What the fuck!

I can’t call it, yo, I’m a sugarholic
Always got my Push Pop in a Whatchamacallit

Sunday, August 30:

We’ve made up. I definitely overreacted.

Had a great day yesterday. One of our finest.

The Routine is coming along well. Ready to ramp it up a bit this week. Surya Namaskara A and B x5, lifting 1x, bike 2x, run 2x, minimum.

Becoming more organized. Dad’s house is a mess, though. Need to devote an hour or so to cleaning that up.

Ready to start decreasing sports time substantially. Add knowledge instead.

Ready to ramp up the school life.

And so on.

Starting to gain clarity on the cuckold/polyamory aspects of our relationship. The fantasy in our sexual relationship is quite strong. We just had an intense sex session lasting a couple of hours. She had many orgasms as I talked dirty about a Bull we found. Him being more masculine than me: bigger, stronger, and potentially well-hung. (Not sure about the last part.)

It was extremely hot, probably our hottest sex yet, save for when we were in Chico and we were fucking like rabbits. But I now feel uncomfortable with it. Insecure. I have been feeling, increasingly, that it’s wiser to cut out all porn, all distractions, for a couple of months, at least. See where we’re at. Gain solid financial footing. Focus on discipline and what we need to do. Have organic fun within the relationship.

Focus on our work.

That’s what I want to do. Need to do. Am I strong enough to do it?

I must be.

Friday, August 28:

We had a big fight earlier today.

I’m pretty much through.

I’m tired of her (perceived) lack of compassion and sensitivity. I was with a client. I forgot to text her the safe word. She said something to the extent of, “You didn’t text [safe word]? Wow.” I could feel the disgust through the text.

A compassionate text, coming from someone who’s playful and optimistic, who tends to give the benefit of the doubt? “I’m assuming you’re with your client now? You and your memory! You forgot to text [safe word]. I’m worried about you.”

I flipped out. That was the straw that broke it. I’m so sick and tired of her negativity. It’s quite simple: she can’t provide me what I need. I need self-awareness and open communication. She’s afraid. She’s a lot like Caitlin.

She claims she’s so independent. Then why is it so threatening that I want some space? She’s said a number of hurtful, obnoxious things that she’s not even aware of or never actually apologized about. If she does apologize, she never demonstrates understanding of what she’s even apologizing for. It’s just “Sorry,” or “I apologize.” Yeah, that’s better than nothing, but it’s not enough.

She has the gall to keep criticizing how “dirty,” “disgusting,” “gross” and “nasty” the house she’s living in is. My house. My Mom’s house. Our house. Minimizing the honest to goodness attempts we’ve made and make to become cleaner. (And then in the same breath she’ll criticize me for claiming that I want her to change overnight.)

If you feel that strongly, clean it yourself! As my Mom noted, it’s not like her room is pristine. It’s quite cluttered. She’s had a problem with black ants in there — we’ve had an ant problem all summer — and she’s just bitched and moaned about it, like it’s all our fault, like our dirtiness has infested her room. This after we — her and I, not my Mom and I — paid for a housecleaner. She just bitched bitched bitched about how they did a terrible job. Yeah, maybe so. But you can choose to see that, or you can choose to see that it’s significantly cleaner now. And that you can’t blame us for ants in your room. I don’t eat in there or leave my clothes in there or anything.

If you feel that strongly about it, clean it up yourself! Keep it clean and pristine!

She doesn’t realize that paying $500 to rent a room in a nice house is dirt cheap. Realize how good you’ve got it or pack your bags up and go. We’re not going to tolerate negativity.

There’s a way to be honest and communicative while also being tactful and constructive. Constructive criticism, not just criticism. For someone so independent, why do you have to room here? Why do you have 10K in debt? Why don’t you have a car in your name? Why did you pay for a $700 phone when you were swimming in debt? Who told you to do that? That’s independent and responsible? Get over yourself.

Live within your means. Humble yourself. Show, don’t tell. She’s paying $500. What does she get? A spacious house. Exercise equipment in the garage. Two bathroom home with only one other full-time participant living there, so there’s a bathroom open 99% of the time. AC. Internet. Water. Utilities. Refrigerator. TV. DVD player. A place for your cat to stay (we don’t even like cats!).

No, we really should be charging $800, minimum. No way in hell she’d ever be able to find a comparable place for $850. It’d likely be $1200, minimum. Go on, Miss Responsible. See for yourself.

I’m done with her until she shows me something. Over days, weeks, months. I have left all kinds of little hints. Start building up your own querencia, your own personal life. Don’t just stay here all day. Buy groceries, cook, exercise, write in your journals, cultivate your creativity, attempt to build a social network. It’s not like you’ve just moved in. I was with you all the time for a month straight. It’s normal for me to want some me time, to have more space and figure out my life. Make sure my routine is on point. Because at the end of the day, I’m the one who has to live with it if I don’t get straight A’s, if my yoga practice isn’t up to par, if my food intake isn’t correct, if I have debt, if I’m behind on sleep, with dealing with my father’s impending death.

Can’t baby you all the time. Get thicker skin. It’s not like I am not extremely compassionate, sensitive and intelligent. Like I don’t listen to you and give positive feedback all the time. Like I don’t tell you how beautiful and capable you are every single day. Like I don’t pamper you. How about you show your appreciation? “Adam, I did [this] for you. I just wanted to show you my appreciation for [that].” Nope, none of that. Not anything. Just empty words. And not even particularly eloquent words at that. It’s like pulling teeth to get ’em out of her.

I’m better than this. I’m not just going to change my mind. We’ll work together. That’s it. If she gets her shit straight, shows and tells me what I need to hear, and it’s consistent over weeks and months, I’m open minded. But if you want to move out, date other guys, either of us meets someone, blah blah blah, that’s fine, too. I’ll help you as I can, platonically.

So we’re separated indefinitely in my book.

Other than that, things are going great! Seriously. I’ll update with more another day. :)

Thursday, August 27:

Hey, I’m back in just two days!

I am starting to feel better. Nice to get back on track. Psychologically my health is gradually increasing, too.

Still don’t give a fuck about school. Will I ever?

Melinda grated my nerves today when she was, once again, attacking — it feels like an attack, anyway — her home environment not being up to her perfectionist standards of cleanliness. It’s okay that you have your own form of neuroticism about that, but it’s not cool when you impinge that neuroticism onto others. I feel like she’s beating a dead horse at this point. We invested $200 to help clean the house. But all she did was complain about how awful they were and this and that. It’s a lot of complaining, which makes the positive action pale in comparison. It just makes me feel unappreciated.

It’s not like her room is perfect anyway. The other day she was complaining about the ants in her room. I dunno, what am I supposed to say? My mindset is, If you feel that strongly, do something about it. I can help you do something about it, to some degree, but you can’t use me as a tool to deal with your anxiety about insects. If it’s so gross and filthy and disgusting, then keep your room immaculate. Pull everything out of the room, sweep and wipe down, and do that daily. Be incredibly vigilant about keeping it neat.

I never eat in there or anything like that, so it’s not like I’m contributing anything more than tangential dirt. It’s also, like… be more positive and appreciative. You’re paying $500 for rent. You’re getting way more than $500 worth here, that’s for sure.

It also bothers me how when I calmly speak my mind — which is, typically, calm — she clams up and shuts down. Like it’s never to be spoken of again. That’s worse than the unconstructive criticism.

I don’t mind helping. But you gotta come at me the right way, basically. “Hey, Adam, I would really appreciate your help with this.” And you know what? There’s no guarantee I’ll say yes. And if I do say yes, I might begrudgingly do it. That’s just how I am at present moment. I need the freedom to be moody, too.

Make an offer. “Hey, remember the cleaning company you were looking up?” (I never got a thank you for that, did I? If I did it obviously didn’t make an impression on me.) “I’ll go half on you with that.”

But if she can’t truly appreciate how, overall, wonderful the home is, she really should look into other places to live. I know if she reads that she’ll get massively butthurt and blow it out of proportion, but I’m not saying that out of hate or bitterness. I’m saying it out of love. It doesn’t mean I don’t love her and wouldn’t want to be with her if she did that. It means that, if that’s what you gotta do to become more grateful with what you have, then do it. Look around and see how rough things really are out there. The chances are very low you’ll find a comparable place for anything less than $800. $1200, most likely.

Tuesday, August 25:

The juice fast didn’t go too well. It lasted about 18 hours. Then I ate poorly the next few days.

Yesterday and today have been good, though. Sunday too, really. I’m pretty much back. It was odd how “it” tailed off. Despite the many efforts of willpower I made to say, “This is it!” it failed to turn out that way. Instead, it was sort of like the feeling of a wave passing: “Meh, I’m pretty much over this. Let’s go back.”

Today has been productive. Mercury in Virgo effects, maybe. Moon in Capricorn. Lots of organizing, budgeting, cleaning. Biking, running, yoga. Light, all of it. Things will be light for the next three to four weeks.

Consistency is key.

It’s about getting my energy back. Working on the same things: writing, sleeping, exercise, budgeting, so on. Time management. Sobriety. It’s tough, slow-moving work. Believe me, I want to just get out there and kick some ass. Grind on the laptop with astrology for hours on end. Work on websites. Write. Read. But the energy simply is not moving in that manner. Must be patient and do what I can.

Hit a year of sobriety last week. Celebrated by going to Laguna Beach. Not sure how I feel about it. It’s an accomplishment, sure. But it’s still just one day at a time. Always will be. A psychological wave swamped over me the past three months. Only now is the shore even within sight. I’m tired and sore from swimming — or attempting to swim — to safety, and there’s still so much further to go.

Thinking about how far there is to go won’t help. Just gotta keep moving.

Tuesday, August 18:

First day of class. The official end of summer vacation. So the unofficial end of self-indulgent debauchery!

Day One of a juice fast reset. A badly needed reset.

Three days away from one year of sobriety. The last month has been brutal. From about January (the discovery of Onnit!) to June it was more or less smooth sailing; I hardly thought about it. But since then…

That may be an oversimplification. It probably is. Maybe it was from March to June, or March to May, or whatever. You get the point. It wasn’t a struggle.

Depression is a predictable occurrence for me: cease working out and depression soon follows. I honestly think that’s the case for human beings in general — exercise is necessary for quality of life — but for me in particular it’s a stark contrast. I feel the itch of self-pity after just a few days. Within a week it borders on crisis. After 10 days there’s a massive indulgence in something uncouth. If it’s not narcotics or hallucinogenics, it’s sugar. Or fat and salt. Or lust. Or all of the above. It’s gotta be something, yo. Whatever keeps that dopamine flowing.

I don’t know what caused it this time. I felt it creeping, slowly but surely, for months. That feeling of slow, unbridled disillusionment. Of willpower weakening. It’s the psychological corollary of the ache of your muscles as you reach that penultimate half-lap on your brisk run, or your fourth of five sets of weight training.

You see, it’s never been the end of physical fitness that’s been difficult for me. That’s the easy part. You can’t get up for the last lap? You’re almost done! That’s the easy part: surrender and give everything you have.

But the part where you’re 60 or 75 percent of the way, and you feel drained, where you have been giving everything you have, where you had to drag yourself onto the map, or into the gym, or wherever, to keep the demons away? And where you’re floating on pure muscle memory, the memory you so painstakingly detailed into the fiber of your being that demands greatness even when you psychologically feel completely incapable of maintaining it?

That’s what the muscle memory is for. Your brain doesn’t have to do it anymore. Rather, it doesn’t have to think about doing it. It simply takes you along for the ride.

But what happens when you aren’t even allowed on the ride? You’re too short; you do not pass go, you do not collect 200 dollars; your arms are too short to box with God.

Then what? What happens when that “fix,” that healthy habit that you have relied on for energy, purpose, calm, and healing is, temporarily at least, simply not an option? When your nervous system has, in no uncertain terms, made it clear you’re burned out?

But are you burned out? Those are the doubts. You try different things to trick the system. Have a slow dayHave a rest day. Do something different. 

Create a new goal.

Start small.

Ignore it.

Nope. Nothing works. It’s burnout, kid. You have to wait.

But when is it over? Who knows. How do you snap yourself out of the cycle? Who knows. It’s different every time. But it’s the same every time. It makes no sense. It’s not supposed to. Perspective is the first thing that goes. Any true addict knows that. Anyone who’s ever fallen in love knows that. Anyone who’s ever dedicated themselves to their craft knows that.

We’re here now.

How much damage did you do?

Jung would say, It doesn’t matter. Life is a spiral. You are destined to come back to the same point on a spiral, just from a different perspective. This is life. Be grateful to experience even that.

Maybe. Or maybe I don’t know shit about a dead man’s perspective.

How much damage did you do?

Assess. Obsession. Assess the obsession.

Who the fuck knows? I know I’m still sober. That’s about all that matters. I know that a year from now, when many of the same triggers and thoughts occur, I’ll have the comfort of experience of, if not conquering, at least surviving the situation. Preparing the soil to allow me to conquer it the next time around. Or to at least make an attempt to conquer it, rather than holding on for dear life.

How much damage did you do?

Looking back on the past three months of my life, what have I done? Aside from falling in love, not much.

Yes, falling in love is good. Great, even. But remember that bit about perspective? This is one of those things where I won’t really know what it means, even have a hint at it, until two, three, six months down the line. But yes, it is, of course, absolutely amazing.

But what else? None of my goals have truly been met. Almost everything in the tarot reading came true. Pretty insane, right? She said, in her own way, some shit like this would happen. She said the depression wasn’t over. She said, What will you do when life doesn’t go your way, when your plans and goals are completely askew, when all your planning was for naught?

On one hand, it doesn’t matter: the plans still exist. The only thing stopping them is me. And the only thing stopping me is me. And I am not stopping myself. I am spread thin and doing the best I can. And I have never stopped doing the best I can. Not a single day goes by where I say to myself, “I am satisfied with where I am, with who I am.” And that’s a good thing and a bad thing. The good and bad thing are the same thing: ambition.

My ambition will not die. My pursuit for self-perfection will not die. That perspective will hopefully die, one day, but I cannot rush that. It has not outlived its usefulness. The fire shall never die. I will never stop offering myself at the altar of purifying, searing fire.

On the other hand, it does matter: where are the results? What money do you have? What certifications? Where’s your website? What books have you read? Where’s your knowledge? Where’s the practice?

I’ve been surviving rather than thriving. Well, I suppose it happens. One can’t thrive every second of every minute. I’ve once again underestimated the stupefying effect drugs have on oneself. Sugar, marijuana, caffeine, narcotics, hallucinogenics: it doesn’t matter. It’s all self-limiting with regards to authentic self-expression.

Sure, at times they may serve as bridges, similar to the bridge my current ambition has. The finger pointing at the Moon is not the Moon. The ambition is not what is one is ambitious for. Hence there is no point in judging. Judging someone else’s bridge, whether it be in the form of Mary Jane or a Reese’s Pieces, is judging my own. It doesn’t matter.

I possess an uncanny ability to look at things with startling objectivity. No wonder people get offended, so bathed in their own subjectivity.

We’re here now.

Libra Ascendant has been exceedingly prominent.

One of the foundational characteristics is a willingness to sublimate personal desires/wants for the perceived good of the relationship.

I have started to notice a complete lack of respect for my preferences and values. For example, this morning we went to Lily’s Tacos. She wanted a breakfast burrito; I didn’t want anything. I have stated many times recently that I don’t eat red meat, that I have been tempted recently, and etc.

She ends up talking me into getting a sausage breakfast burrito.

On one hand: my fault for allowing myself to be talked into it. On the other hand: I clearly state a value of mine and there is absolutely zero concern or attention paid to it. That is completely disrespectful in my book and a major red flag.

Things like this are why I often view her as selfish.

Another example: I have stated many times that I value feedback in conversation exchanges. This morning we had an appointment at 8:45. Around 8:10 I texted her saying we’ll  leave no later than 8:30. At 8:22 I say I’m in the car. I call twice within the next seven minutes. It is almost 8:32 when I resist the urge to leave her and instead walk back in to see what’s going on.

She gives an excuse (“I was brushing my teeth”) and says nothing more. You may have been brushing your teeth, but that doesn’t explain why you didn’t respond for the other ten minutes.

This is a pattern. At no point does she ever — whether it be minutee, hours, days or weeks later — say, Hey, I apologize/am aware/blah blah blah about whatever.

Need another example? Yesterday evening I am talking about a friend, about an issue that still bothers me. In the middle of my exposition she flippantly interrupts me with a comment on the font of a sign she saw as we are driving through.

And then she acts indignant about my offense. She says, “I was listening!” Um, show, don’t tell. (That’s the first rule of any good artist…)

She can’t understand why that interruption bothers me. That pissed  me off and I shut down. I feel like she’s like the 5-year-old kid on a sugar high who can’t control their impulse at the first shiny object.

I almost always listen thoroughly and patiently whenever she opens up to me and talks about something  meaningful to her life. For her to interrupt me about something completely irrelevant — is how the font on that marketing billboard makes a simultaneous ‘d’ and an ‘o,’ or whatever insipid observation spewed out of your mouth, at all that riveting? — and finding my response completely unreasonable… What a painful lack of awareness and empathy!

I did not want to turn this into a big fight, because, if addressed, it truly isn’t a big deal. So I was mad for a while, and then I let it go a little… waiting for her to ever say something  about it. Gave her a not-so-subtle hint — “I’m still mad” — and still nothing.

She just doesn’t get it. This is a big deal to me that goes far deeper than just this one incident. Does she really need to feel the cold shoulder to understand  I’m not happy with her? Does she need me to do the same thing for her to realize what it feels like? An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind, but if that helps you to learn; if it’s the most effective way for me to prove my point…

What if I truly asked her to smoke weed? How can I have any confidence she’ll fight for my sobriety and stand strong? When she doesn’t stand strong about any of this stuff? She pays lip service to my sobriety but she clearly isn’t fit to support it. I occasionally don’t think she’s fit to sort through messy issues like these. They threaten her too much. She’s too scared. Fear runs her life.

On one hand she perceives my mentioning of things like this as nagging or picking at her. I see it as clearly stating my needs. So then I don’t mention it and see if she’ll  ever just catch on, show some self-awareness, attention and unselfishness, and address it herself. Yet she never does. I’m still waiting. I’m always the one to address these things.

She had no idea how close I was to just leaving her and letting her drive to her appointment. And if I did, rest assured she would’ve blamed me and been extremely mad. Yet she never would have stopped to say, ‘To be fair, you did say no later than 8:30, and I was late.” I guarantee she never would have said that!

Do you see why I view these things as power issues as well? Instead of working with me and saying, “Adam, I see you’re going through a lot. I understand my desire of this burrito may be tempting you. I value your health, too, and I want to help you get back on track. I don’t want to be perceived as holding you back.”

It’s not the exact words that matter but the awareness, the intention. Fact is I don’t think she sees any of this unless it’s told to her. As a result she typically reacts very defensively when it is told to her.

For me it’s becoming very simple: we can either work together on these things, or I realize that for me to live up to my own standard on these things, I will need to go my own way with regarda to food intake and such, as I do not feel like I can count on her for it.

I know I can do it myself. That’s not a problem at all. I don’t need her help in this area. But when I finally am fed up and I say, Thanks, but no thanks: I’m going to eat my own meals and buy my own groceries myself to get, and stay, back on track, she’ll  feel offended. She may even feel like it’s a threat, or a power play, or that it’s come out of nowhere.

No, it’s coming out of these tiny — but oh so powerful — exchanges that, to me, speak to a lack of awareness, sensitivity, and thoughtfulness. It’s coming out of a repeated inability to depend on her for open and honest communication. Communication  where I don’t have to keep asking for it, time and time again, but where she can recognize the patterns, address the underlying energy, and connect the dots. Communication that doesn’t involve me constantly holding her hand, metaphorically speaking.

You can’t  expect things from people they are not prepared to give. I’m increasingly discovering evidence that she just can’t give it. So I am preparing myself to stop asking. Which means more space, individuality, and autonomous behavior in order to preserve my own quality of life.

“That’s why we’re [cens0red].”

Welcome to America! The land of selfish individual success. The land of ruthless corporate competition, where the third-world are stepping stones to financial solvency.

Do we want to go to the beach in San Diego? Do we want to work? Or do we want to order Chinese and watch a movie? Do we want to go to Whole Foods and channel our child-like wonder?

But we have responsibilities! We are neglecting! I need to call Verizon. And Chaffey. And she needs to call CESI. And pay her phone bill. And we need to budget. And write down our food logs.

All we want to do is spend time with each other. We are languidly lavishing, cavorting and frolicking in the laissez faire indulgence of our ego-like Venus-ruled ascendants.


I just skimmed through the Primary Series on YouTube, taught by Pattabhi Jois. Now I miss yoga.

Maybe I am going about this all wrong. Don’t ease into it. Jump into it! What, Adam, you think you can’t do it? You think you’re scared? JUMP INTO THE FUCKING WATER! DON’T BE A PUSSY! YOU KNOW YOU CAN DO THIS!






I don’t like cats. I never have and never will.

This cat, in particular, is absurdly needy. It is fickle, as all cats are, yet needs a seemingly inordinate amount of attention.

I’ve always felt like cats are selfish, and my little cat theory is that cat-like people acquire cats as pets: selfish, needy, fickle, cold.

Whether that theory is true or not, unfair or not, the truth is cats annoy me.

The Missus’ cat is named Vanellope — even the name I despise! — and has been a tyrant since we returned from a five-day trip up north. We did not take the cat with us: thank God, as far as I’m concerned! But when we came back, ants infested its food, and now it’s being a cat’s typically needy, fickle self.

I resent this on multiple levels. After all, my Mom, who the Missus is renting from, does not like cats either. My Mother did not verbally object to bringing the cat here, but maybe she should’ve. If the cat wasn’t here, cat food would not have been here. If cat food was not here, neither would ants, at least not nearly to this extent. And it’s been a few days since we returned and She still hasn’t cleaned up the food/water thingamajigs that the ants infested; the oversized contraptions are sitting in the kitchen sink.

The fact of the matter is She is extremely attached to Vanellope. That’s not going to change. Neither is my dislike for cats going to change. So the only thing I can do is change how I react to these things. The only acceptable solution for my own peace of mind is to get as far away from this cat, as often as possible, as I can.

So no more sleepovers. I’m tired of this cat waking me up. I don’t like having to keep the door cracked because the cat is too needy or too stupid to sit down, shut up and go to sleep. I do not think it was a coincidence that I had an incredibly restful night of sleep the other night when I slept at my father’s house.

I resent the significant chunks of hair this cat leaves everywhere. That’s one of the biggest reasons cats suck.

But an even larger reason is that I feel cats, and all but the greatest pets in general, inhibit freedom. Take the traveling, for instance. One of the perks of our work is that we are free to travel quite a bit. But not if She is constantly worried about this incessant cat and has to make accomodations for it. Even worse: bringing it along! I don’t want that cat anywhere near me or our travels.

The cat undoubtedly senses this, and while I have never been outwardly hostile towards it, it knows well enough to run away from me as I walk about. Good for her. Get the hell out of my way!Why do you keep standing or walking right in front of the hallway? No, I do not think cats are cute at all.

Dogs? They’re cool, but a lot of the same logic applies. If it’s too hairy, I don’t want to deal with it. Dogs are even needier, yes, but they are also much more loyal, reliable, predictable, and full of love. Train it and it shall listen to you. Extremely needy, but they will never turn away from you when you call on them and thus provide emotional support in a more predictable sense than a fickle cat.

Yet they too are a worrisome burden: medium to big dogs take up too much space and eat too much food; dogs in general require even more attention than cats, what with needing frequent works and play time; (most) dogs shed and are dirty, too; and, just as cats, they impinge on freedom and travel.

It’s like having a kid. There’s a reason why I don’t have any kids, and don’t want any within the next eight to ten years. I have a lot of my life to live, and I want the freedom to do so. If I want to pick up and go travel somewhere for anywhere between a couple of days and a couple of weeks, I can do so and I don’t need to account for an annoying pet. Pets sound all nice and dandy, but it’s challenging enough attending to my own needs on a daily basis. Please, spare me the additional burden of a pet.

I am attempting to view this situation as a positive. The way I am attempting to see it is: the Missus and I have spent a massive amount of time together. We spend most of every day together. If this cat is what seemingly shall push us apart, it can be a good way for us to have more space. More space can be quite good: more time to be independent, write, create, read, and attend to myself. If being unduly bothered by this silly cat is what leads to extra space, then is it such a bad thing?

I increasingly find myself wishing for this cat to disappear, either dying or running away or what have you. I know one thing is for certain: I would never move in together with a cat, or, honestly, any pet that required too much attention.

She probably won’t like reading this. Heck, that is probably an understatement. It is 4:44 AM as of this writing and I was so moved to write this that I got up out of the bed — the cat, indirectly or directly, waking me up for the third or fourth time — specifically to vent about this. Chances are this will cause a significant emotional reaction and piss her off. But so be it. I cannot live my life behaving in such a way that avoids her seemingly negative emotions. And I find it’s far better to put my feelings and perceptions into words in such a safe space as this blog than to directly say something and risk a confrontation.

Feels better to get it out and make a decision about it. Certainly makes life simpler!

Hear, hear! A new dawn is upon us!

The Miss and I encouraged a subtle, yet fundamentally altering, elevation in communication the other night. We unconsciously participated in the cycle, recapitulated what we just witnessed, consciously addressed issues, and then consciously replayed the cycle and agreed upon solutions. What was at one time teetering on the razor’s edge of resentment, ill will and discord matured into a beautiful, yet — fresh out of the protective cocoon — cautious and bumbling, butterfly of matrimony.

This is an experience I have tried and tried to engender for years, with friends and lovers alike. Ta-da!

Issues are there and will always be there. Perfection is unattainable. But far more than issues is beauty! Erika asked me, When you think/look at your lover, what is the first thing you see/think of? I answer, beauty. She asks, what? I say, eyes.

The eyes: the windows to our soul. Every time I look into the Missus’ eyes I cannot help but smile. They snap me out of a morose mood and humble me; they nurture the boldest parts of my self, the parts that demand a sacrifice of the ego and a surrender to the selfless embodiment of love; they leave me speechless in their breadth and depth; and they initiate my nurturing, Cancerian side, for I note how woefully unaware of her true power, and how I take it upon myself to be The One — or one of the ones — to help her embody it. To be The One to turn a mirror into her Self, to be the spark of flame that ignites her Phoenician potential that shall unlock her spirituality and allow her — us — to transcend mere earthly worries.

To be continued…

My love and I just had what felt like our first authentic client as a couple.

I say “felt” because we also had a client in a 1- or 2-star hotel that was more of an ice-breaker than an experience worth writing about.

The answer is yes, I do need to change the name of my blog. All it takes is one creep to stumble across this and potentially threaten to “out” me and ruin my life.

Either that or become completely open about what I do.

It’s not my family, primarily, that I am concerned about. My brother and sister already know, even if it is the elephant in the room. My Mom and Dad do not, and for now it must remain that way, but once I move out, it matters naught.

No, it’s actually a potential yoga studio that concerns me more. Or when I become a psychologist. Or whatever. One of the careers I am working towards instead of this bridge career.

But no risk, no reward. For now I will write this and publish this, for only ~600 people view this blog each month, and probably only a small dozen will actually read this in a given month, and maybe a few thousand, max, over the next year or two.

It is more important I feel free and express myself. Heck, that is the primary reason to change the name of the blog! “Are you having fun yet?” had a nice run, but having my name in the URL is no longer apropos. I have masks I must maintain, for when in Rome…

Give a man a mask…

We had an Indian gentleman over who donated us an unspecified amount for our time. We happened to engage in acts typically reserved behind closed doors as just a couple. It was full of excitement, anxiety, and libido; having an audience both inhibited performance and provided an aphrodisiac.

It is empowering, undoubtedly. Yet the most wonderful feeling is that I feel it brings us closer together as a couple, and me as a person on the road towards self-individualization.

My thoughts are outweighed by my emotions at the moment. They are not particularly lucid or precise. I do not feel myself; I have not felt like myself, for a sustained period of time, in quite a while. But I do feel I am, slowly, on the road towards such self-discovery.


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