This is my journal entry from October 9, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Sober Through Separation — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I woke up in my new house for the first time today, jarred out of sleep by my alarm at 7:00 a.m., right in the middle of a dream. I grabbed a couple of Lara bars for breakfast and walked down the street to my ex-wife and the kids’ house. Everyone seemed well-rested and in good spirits, getting ready for school. It felt strange to be there helping them prepare for the day but not actually taking them to school—and even stranger not having slept there. Still, I reminded myself this is part of the transition. It’s new, and that’s okay.
When my ex-wife left to take them to school, I walked back to my place to wait for the Frontier technician to arrive and get the internet set up. Before that, though, I fell into the black hole of online dating again. I decided to give Hinge another try. I spent about three hours before the Frontier guy came over optimizing my profile—after roughly half an hour of organizing around the house. I carefully chose six photos that I thought represented me well and ended up paying $55 for a month of Hinge Premium. I swiped on what felt like hundreds of profiles, got one like on Bumble, but decided I wasn’t going to spend another $70 there too. Hinge seemed to have a larger dating pool anyway.
By the time I finished, I felt sad and disappointed with myself. I had wasted the whole morning on an app instead of doing something that actually mattered to me. There’s so much I want to accomplish, and yet I’d spent my morning chasing digital validation.
The Frontier technician arrived, upbeat and friendly. He told me he was from Cuba and had immigrated here in 2013. I asked him what was different between Cuba and the U.S., and he said, simply, “Everything.” He told me this is the best country in the world. I couldn’t help but think how refreshing it would be if some of the people here who constantly complain about the U.S. could hear that perspective. It’s remarkable how two people can live in the same country and have such opposing experiences of it. Perspective really does shape everything.
He mentioned that he has a girlfriend and two ex-wives, with a child from each. Somehow, the conversation even drifted to online dating, which I laughed about because I was already hooked again myself. When he finished the installation, I was excited to finally use my new internet on my computer—something I couldn’t do on my phone because my cheap data plan doesn’t support a hotspot.
The day felt like a mix of progress and stagnation—new beginnings layered with old habits I still haven’t shaken. But at least the internet was working, and that made my new house feel a little more like home.
I’m thrilled to see that I Was Famous on the Internet has officially been approved by Amazon. I go straight to Amazon.com, search the title, and order a copy for $13, with delivery expected within 48 hours. I can hardly wait to hold it in my hands. Still, a little nervousness lingers—what if I messed up the cover? I realize that fixing it would require creating a new edition, which would be a hassle. Going forward, I know the cover needs to be one of the strongest elements of the design, or at least I should start ordering proofs before hitting “publish.” Another lesson learned in this ever-evolving self-publishing process.
I text my ex-wife to let her know what’s happening, and she replies that she’s ready for me to come pick up more of my things from the house. When I arrive, I tell her about my new dating profile, and she looks it over. After reviewing it, she says it represents me well and looks good. I find it amusing—fourteen years ago, we met on Match.com, when I had what most people would call a much worse profile. Life has a strange sense of humor.
Later, I pick the kids up from school. My daughter’s going home with a friend, so it’s just my son and me. I notice something’s off with my car’s air conditioning. Earlier this year, I spent a couple thousand dollars at the Toyota dealership for a new compressor, and it worked beautifully for a while. Now, though, the something is acting up again. When the car’s stopped, it barely cools at all, but once I’m driving, especially around 70 mph on the interstate, the air turns icy cold. I experiment by revving the engine to see if the RPMs affect it, like before, but the temperature doesn’t change. It’s probably not the compressor this time—hopefully something simpler. After spending close to $10,000 at the Toyota dealership this year between my ex-wife’s car and mine, I’m determined to try an independent mechanic next time. We could have practically bought a new car by now.
My son and I stop by my new house on the way home to have a chocolate bar. He seems impressed with the place, which makes me happy. After that, I drop him off at my ex-wife’s and head to my AA meeting. When I get to my meeting, I can’t stop checking Hinge, frustrated that after hours of work and hundreds of swipes, I still don’t have a single like or match. The obsession has its grip on me already.
At the meeting, I’m a little distracted but still engaged. There are five of us tonight—three of us long-term sober members sharing deeply, while the two newcomers mostly listen. One of the women there catches my attention. She’s definitely attractive, and from what I can tell, she’s single. When the meeting ends and she starts to leave, I want to talk to her, maybe walk out together, but I hold back. All the time I’ve spent chasing digital connections has dulled my motivation to make a real one right in front of me. As she walks out, I feel a pang of regret.
Next time I see her, I’m going to ask if she’s single and see if she’d like to get together—maybe for tea or a walk on the beach. After all, what’s the point of swiping through hundreds of strangers if I can’t even start a simple, honest conversation with someone real?
Right after the AA meeting, I headed straight to the kids’ school for their Trunk or Treat Halloween event. My ex-wife was already there, having decorated the back of her RAV4 in a full Harry Potter theme. My role was to supply the soundtrack—she’d asked me to bring the music—so I played it from YouTube Music on my phone. Even though I deleted all my channels, my old premium subscription is still active, which means no ads, thankfully. I promised myself I’d delete the app again once this was over.
The event was lively, with kids in costumes running between cars and parents chatting in small clusters. I ended up talking with a dad I’ve known for years, and we spent over thirty minutes discussing divorce. It turned out to be the best part of the evening. I’d judged him in the past—both for his own divorce and for dating another divorced parent—but now that I’m in a similar place, I feel more connected to him, like we’re on the same team. He told me how he dated online for years, met several odd or incompatible people, and eventually gave up on apps altogether. That’s when he met the woman who would become his future second wife. His story left me questioning whether I should even bother with these dating apps at all.
Afterward, I took my son to the library. He wanted a rock-smashing kit, while I was hoping to find a book he might actually enjoy reading. I found a brand-new space encyclopedia—over a hundred pages, filled with beautiful photos—and told him I thought he’d love it since he’d checked out three space books in a row recently. But he insisted on wanting the rock breaking kit. I felt a flicker of irritation and disappointment, so I wandered off to browse something for myself.
I ended up flipping through a football book, which was strange considering I haven’t followed football seriously in about a decade. I only learned last week that the Eagles won the Super Bowl—seven months ago. As I turned the pages, nostalgia hit me seeing players like Deion Sanders, Champ Bailey, Jerry Rice, Emmitt Smith, Aaron Rodgers, Randy Moss, and Terrell Owens. Those were the legends of my childhood. Growing up in Texas, I rooted for both the Cowboys and the Oilers, and these names brought all that back. It amazed me how strong those feelings still were for people I’d never met and hadn’t even watched on TV in years. It reminded me exactly of what I wrote about in I Was Famous on the Internet—how deeply attached we become to distant figures on screens that once filled our lives.
Eventually, my son came over and said he’d take the space book if I paid half, which came to $9. I agreed, bought it for him, and he ran off to play with his friends, completely satisfied. My ex-wife and I chatted for a while after that. She was happy I came, and the whole evening felt lighter than it would have when we were still married. Back then, there was always tension hanging over us—resentments, unspoken issues, the pressure of knowing we’d probably have to face our strained sex life later that night. It made events like this uncomfortable, so one of us often avoided going altogether. Now, everything feels more peaceful, easier.
I took the kids home afterward since my ex-wife thought she might be leaving later, but she ended up getting home first. I tucked both kids into bed and snuggled with them for a while. My son kept trying to grab at my nipples—his new running joke—and after the fiftieth attempt, I finally told him I’d had enough for one day. We laughed, and I went to the kitchen to have some hummus from my ex-wife’s fridge before saying goodnight to both kids and heading home.
When I leave my ex-wife’s place tonight, I feel a growing sense of comfort about returning to my own home—a place that’s finally mine. My ex-wife’s house still feels familiar, still a place I’m welcome, but I’m beginning to appreciate the difference. My home is not her home anymore, and that separation feels right.
I try calling my mom, but she doesn’t answer, so I text her instead. She replies, saying I can come over around 9:15 p.m. I’m oddly excited to have some uninterrupted time to scroll through dating apps before then. I end up swiping and reading profiles nonstop until 9:20. When I finally drag myself up to go, I already know I’ve pushed it too far. I get to my mom’s around 9:25 and feel guilty for being late. I knew exactly what time it was, but I couldn’t stop.
She starts talking, but my mind feels hijacked. I can barely listen. After about ten minutes, I admit that I can’t really hear what she’s saying. My attention, my energy, even my sense of presence—all of it has been consumed by these apps. I tell her I feel completely off-balance, like my body and mind have been scrambled. Maybe other people can use dating apps casually, but I can’t. I can tell when my thinking is distorted, and tonight it’s unmistakable.
I tell her that within twenty-four hours of downloading them, I’m already addicted. The only solution, I say, is to delete them completely. She suggests maybe I just take a break, but I shake my head. Taking a break would only make me obsess more—thinking about what I’m missing, building up emotional pressure until I cave. I tell her I’ve learned that the first sign you’re out of control is the impulse to control. When you’re living joyfully and naturally, you don’t need to manage yourself so tightly.
So, I delete Hinge, even though I just paid $55 for a month. I delete Bumble, too—thankful I didn’t waste $300 on the lifetime subscription I almost bought earlier. And I even delete Tinder, which I never actually created an account for. The moment I do it, I feel lighter. Free.
When I get home, I put on The Midnight Library audiobook and start organizing the house. As I listen, I can see all these new possibilities opening up precisely because I’m not numbing myself on dating apps. I see how fake and superficial the whole system is—for both men and women. Women sort through men like they’re shopping for a product, filtering by job title, height, whether he has kids, what kind of dog he owns, or how his photos look. Meanwhile, men—myself included—judge almost entirely on body shape and size. If a woman is overweight or hiding her body in every photo, I don’t even look further.
Yet in person, it’s totally different. I’ve been told I’m good with women in real life, and I believe it. I can connect, flirt, charm, and hold presence in a way that can’t be captured in an app. I know I could easily attract a woman in her twenties in person—or meet someone in her thirties who wants kids and is ready for a real relationship. Online, though, it feels like a grind, full of effort, frustration, and distractions.
After only one day, I can already feel how my self-confidence has slipped. Yesterday, I had what I’d call “delusional self-confidence”—not based on external validation, but on a deep knowing that I’m an incredible partner, that any woman would be lucky to have me. But now, after a few hours on these apps, that grounded certainty has eroded. I replay the moment from earlier tonight, when that woman at the AA meeting was leaving. If I hadn’t spent the day swiping on strangers, I know I would’ve had the courage to walk out with her, smile, and ask, “Hey, are you single?” Instead, I stayed frozen—scrolling through illusions of connection while the real one walked right past me.
When I put the pieces together, I can see exactly what happened. Spending all that time on the dating apps gave me the illusion that I’d made progress in my love life, when really, I hadn’t done anything of value. I swiped through hundreds of profiles on Hinge and didn’t get a single response. It hit me: the same dynamic I wrote about in I Was Famous on the Internet applies here too.
The dating platforms thrive on volume. They want as many profiles as possible, even if most of them are inactive or fake. My own Hinge and Bumble accounts are now part of that graveyard—dead profiles that women can swipe on forever without realizing I’ve already deleted the apps. I’d bet at least 90 percent of the profiles I interacted with were inactive. What a waste of time and energy. It’s another trap, another digital illusion dressed up as opportunity. A Trojan horse. The pitch is irresistible—Look, endless women to meet from all over the world!—but the reality is hollow. If I had spent those three hours trying to meet someone in real life, I’d have a far better chance. That’s three yoga classes I could’ve attended.
My yoga studio keeps calling to me. While I’m single, I’m going to meet someone there. Maybe it’ll be a woman in her twenties who assumes I’m in my mid-thirties because I look so healthy. Maybe she wouldn’t have swiped on me online, but when we meet in person and she feels the energy between us, all those artificial filters will dissolve. She won’t care about stats or profile text—she’ll just love how she feels around me. I’m grateful I can see that clearly now.
I also find myself thinking about my work. I was talking to some of the parents at school today, and they mentioned a senior living community nearby—an upscale place for active seniors who want community. They thought it might be a perfect setting for me to share my books and connect with people who’d love to talk, who have the means to pay for one-on-one sessions, and who might even hire me to turn their life stories into books. I’m wondering if I should pursue that or focus on going door-to-door in my own neighborhood. Handing out free books could help me meet my neighbors and build authentic relationships.
People tend to dislike door-to-door visits these days, but maybe that’s because most of the people knocking are trying to sell something. What if I flipped that script? Imagine opening your door and meeting a friendly neighbor who just wants to give you a free book. I could say, “I’m an author who lives nearby, and I wanted to share this with you.” Inside the book, there’d be a gentle invitation to connect further—my website, my coaching offer, a way to book a call if someone wanted to talk. That feels organic. Honest. Real.
Before I start doing that, though, I need to set up scheduling and payment on my website so people can actually book a session. Once that’s live, I’ll be ready to start canvassing with purpose—and magic tends to happen when I act on inspiration like that.
As the night winds down, I let myself relax. I find myself thinking about the woman from AA, picturing the kind of beautiful, real women I’ll meet in person. It feels healthier than the night before, when my mind was on a stranger’s photo from a dating app. This time it’s someone I’ve actually met—there’s a real possibility there.
I know some people would probably call it creepy or inappropriate, but I don’t see it that way. I’m not doing anything illegal or immoral. Maybe some book somewhere would argue otherwise. But tonight, it just feels human. Honest. A reminder that I don’t need algorithms to feel desire, or to imagine connection.
I noticed an unsettling amount of fanaticism on the dating apps. Profiles listing vaccination status as if it were a personality trait—so naturally, as someone unvaccinated, I felt compelled to include that detail on mine too. Then there’s the religious posturing: women declaring they only want a man who “loves Jesus” or who reads a certain sacred book. What a pile of nonsense. I can’t bring myself to care deeply about people who lived thousands of years ago. Most days, it takes everything I have just to care for and pay attention to the living people around me—my mom, for instance.
When I clear away distractions, it’s easy to feel her love and to return it. Why, then, would I need to seek love from some figure long dead? So much of religion feels like organized mind control, conditioning people to obey rather than think. I realize I’d never make it far with women who put that sort of thing in their profiles. I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth shut about how I see it. If a woman’s ideal Sunday morning involves going to church, we’re not a match. Now, if she’s at church while I’m at an AA meeting, maybe that could work—but otherwise, no thanks.
Later that night, I took care of some grooming I’d been putting off. It got me wondering—why are certain body topics labeled “inappropriate” while others are perfectly acceptable? What makes it different from mentioning that I trimmed my toenails or shaved my face? It’s all grooming, all maintenance of the same body. The only difference is the stigma society attaches to certain areas.
I’m grateful that I feel whole today—that I feel love and joy in all parts of my body. I was especially aware of my feet while playing tennis yesterday, noticing how strong and steady they felt. Why should any part of my body be treated as shameful? It’s all part of me, part of my life.
People sometimes tell me, “Jerry, you can’t talk about that stuff around women.” But why not? We all have bodies. The kind of world I want to live in is one where we can speak freely about ourselves without shame. You don’t change the world by fighting against it—you change it by living as if the better version of it already exists.
So that’s what I do. I try to live as if it’s already normal to talk about the whole body, and our humanity, as easily as getting a haircut. When I finally look at the clock, it’s 11:36 p.m. Time for bed.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Dating playlist.