This is my journal entry from November 2, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Book 5 — Daily Autobiography — my real, unedited days, published in order.
It’s 11:08 p.m., though really it’s already tomorrow if it weren’t for daylight savings time. I got a pretty rough night of sleep, even though I wasn’t lonely. The woman I had over last night stayed, and we were together again when I woke up this morning. I felt surprisingly energized.
The downside was that she seemed ready to keep going all night. She kept talking to me on and off, waking me up right when I’d finally fallen asleep. I’m lying there thinking, how am I supposed to sleep? I actually need my rest. Still, I felt very energized from the night and from getting to know her in more depth. I felt seen. At the same time, there was this very clear feeling of, okay, I need my time to myself again.
I was grateful when my daughter texted me from my ex-wife’s phone at 7:30 a.m., which was really 8:30 a.m. once you account for daylight savings time. I’m not doing that math shit anymore—it’s too complicated. All I knew was, thank God, I have a reason to go see my kids. She asked, “Well, what does that mean for me?” In my head, I was thinking it was time for her to head out. What I actually said was that I was going to yoga and tennis right afterward, so she’d probably want to head home instead of hanging around all day.
She went into the bathroom and said she needed a shower. For a second I wondered if that was my cue to offer, “Oh sure, take a shower here,” but she didn’t have any of her stuff, and who knows how long she’d be in there. I was ready to go now. I wanted to see my kids. It was kind of ironic—after spending almost ten hours with this girl before we even fell asleep, and then still feeling like I’d been “with her” all night because I woke up so many times—I suddenly really wanted to be with people who actually love me and who I truly vibe with, not just someone I’m seeing casually.
Hanging out with the kids felt refreshing and grounding. At the same time, I can still say this woman is fantastic. There was so much newness. I really enjoyed not knowing her—getting to know her mind, not knowing what she was going to say or do next. I know I talk a lot of shit here because it’s funny and because that’s honestly how my mind works, but overall it was a joyful experience. It helped me expand, helped me feel less desperate, and helped me appreciate my alone time even more.
It’s 11:11 p.m. now, and I’m so happy to be here alone. I don’t want anyone else here. If I’m going to have a woman in my space every night, I need to really, really, really like her and want to do everything with her. If that’s not you, then you’ve got to go so I can be here by myself doing my thing—which right now is recording books. I’m not leaning on the solo stuff tonight, and that feels great. I don’t feel any desire for it. Okay, maybe a little, but last night was good enough that I’d rather hold onto that energy. I want it to motivate me to actually get out and create real connection, and to let my body be genuinely present and excited rather than forcing anything. Yeah, yeah, I know—I said that yesterday too. Here it is again.
After I visited the kids, I went straight to tennis with my tennis coach and another guy. The other guy hasn’t been playing as much tennis as I have lately, and he’s missing more shots than me, which I honestly enjoy more than I probably should. Every time he shanks one, I’m like, alright, that makes me feel a little better about my own game. My tennis coach is feeding balls nonstop anyway, so it doesn’t even matter whether he gets it back. There’s always another one ready, which means I’m just hitting shot after shot. It’s a solid workout, steady and forgiving, the kind where you don’t overthink anything.
I had considered canceling yoga that morning because I barely slept, but I decided, fuck it, let’s go. I did the full hour tennis lesson and then went straight into hot yoga flow afterward. I changed my underwear and shorts in between so I wouldn’t be completely doubling down on the sweat, though the second I walked into the hot studio I realized it was kind of pointless. That place is so damn sweaty that it doesn’t matter if your balls are already soaked when you walk in or if it happens ten minutes into class. I put my mat right next to the door, which was a great move, because two or three times during class I got a blast of cold air that took the edge off the heat.
I don’t really mind the heat the way some people do. The first time I took that class, though, I was a total idiot. I set my mat right under the lights and felt like I was being rolled into a crematorium, like I was already inside and about to burn up. I genuinely felt like I was dying and then being reborn by the end of it. This time, I felt good. After an hour of tennis, barely any sleep, sex, and then hot yoga, I still felt okay. I put my mat between two girls I wasn’t attracted to, which wasn’t ideal for my arousal, but honestly, after last night, it felt greedy to even think that way. Don’t worry—I’ll be back at it soon enough, getting phone numbers again.
I hung out and talked with a friend a bit at the studio and got him thinking about tennis again. I made a point to look up and smile at as many women as possible, just seeing who might be interested next. There are some beautiful women at that studio, and yeah, I’d love to meet someone there. I’m going to work on that without apologizing for it anymore.
After yoga, I went home craving a big-ass cold salad to cool off. I showered, threw in some laundry—because yeah, the sheets absolutely needed to be washed—and thought about how nice it was going to be to have fresh, clean sheets in a few minutes. Just me, snuggled up by my damn self in bed, which sounded perfect. For the salad, I threw chopped carrots on top, some kale I’d picked up for ninety-nine cents at Rolling Oats the other day—fresh, in season—along with nutritional yeast, which I’ve learned isn’t the kind that feeds candida. That’s good, because I love nutritional yeast and would like whatever fungal shit is going on in my body to clear up. I’m not too worried about it. It usually does on its own. I added my custom seasoning blend, drizzled olive oil and tahini by hand, and topped it with my tennis coach’s hot peppers—Patty’s Peppers as they’re labeled in the grocery store, though I get them straight from him. He just gives me cases of them, which is great. After eating, the exhaustion finally hit. I dragged my ass into bed and knocked out for a three-hour nap in the middle of the day, and it felt amazing.
After the nap, I wake up and I’m genuinely relieved that I’m still alone in this house. Nobody else here. Just me. I get on the computer and start talking to ChatGPT, basically saying, look, I need to refine my workflow because I feel like I’m wasting time fucking around. My books are getting too long, and I’m losing momentum. After going back and forth through a bunch of messages, what I land on is this idea of doing more short books. It looks like a lot of the hustlers and grinders who are already deep into books are cranking out these short-ass projects—thirty minutes dictated, forty minutes, maybe fifty—and they just grind out a ridiculous number of them. They run them through virtual voice and dump them on Audible, and people are actually buying and listening to them. Sure, they get a lot of shitty one-star reviews because the work is rough and repetitive, but they’re still out there grinding, and it’s working.
That got me thinking, I can do that. I would love to be able to knock out an entire book in a single day. The other thing I like about it is how it works locally. If I had fifty or a hundred short books on all kinds of very specific subjects, I could literally set up a table somewhere, maybe even rent one of those tiny carts in a mall, stack it full of books, and just give them away. Fuck it. Take the books for free. If they’re that small, they should only cost a couple of dollars to print anyway. Alright—moving on.
The ChatGPT conversation really got me inspired. I honestly think having sex with someone and spending the night like I did stimulates all kinds of new thought patterns. It feels creatively energizing. I notice my mind opens up. I start connecting dots differently. I’m thinking more freely. I’m also thinking I’ll probably be more open to connection going forward, because that stimulation seems good for me. Then my brain starts bouncing all over the place, like it always does. I get an old D12 song stuck in my head and I’m laughing at how some of those lyrics still stick after all these years. A lot of this stuff stays with me because it’s funny, and if I can be funny like that, you’ll tolerate all the other messy details of my life. That’s kind of the deal.
Random memes start popping into my head too. That old “you’re a dummy, bitch” line still makes me laugh for some reason. I also keep thinking about deadmau5’s song Aural Psynapse. I swear there are subliminal messages in that track—every time I hear it, the synth sounds like it’s saying something suggestive. I actually made my own version of that idea years ago and called it She Did. I still think that was clever. I whistled a similar pattern—not the same one—and somehow it created the same effect. Even without knowing shit about music, you can hear it in my track too. Then I made another remix called She Really Did. And at that point I’m just sitting there like, goddamn, what are we even doing here?
I should probably say I digress, but really it’s just boredom and a restless mind. I’m not going there today. But I do think it’s funny to imagine someone getting a kick out of this—not the sex, but the humor. Like someone laughing along at how ridiculous it all is. Hey, if that sounds like you, you should text me.
I’m going to jump ahead a bit. There’s an AA meeting tonight, and it’s basically all dudes—like thirty guys—and then one woman. I couldn’t even tell much about her, which immediately had me thinking, you need to wear your glasses so you can actually see. I considered sitting next to her for a second, then I was like, nah. She gave off a vibe that told me we weren’t a match. And one part of my brain went there, and another part was like, you’re not doing that anymore. That’s not where you’re at.
The woman I’d been with earlier—technically this morning—felt different. And yeah, it feels really good to be wanted again when it’s been a while, even if that “while” is less than a month. Being responsible about protection wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected either. But still, sitting in that meeting, I was like, I’m going to let this one go. There are thirty dudes here, some circling way harder than me, and honestly, I’m looking for something more substantial.
Then she casually mentions she had an ankle monitor for a fifth DUI, and I was like, yeah, no. That’s not a woman I need to be messing with. Not where I’m at. The woman I spent the night with felt mature. In a lot of ways, she felt like a teacher—teaching me how to be intimate again outside of marriage, how to move slow, how to talk about boundaries, how to communicate. That was actually really good for me.
I ran into my sponsee there and talked with him a bit about the night before. It made me realize I don’t really have the same kind of guys in my life that I used to. Back in college or in my early twenties, you’d be with someone and the reaction from your friends would be, “Oh shit, tell me everything.” I remember in 2010, my friends were losing their minds over a story where I’d been with two different women at a friend’s place. One of them even passed around some private pictures one of the women had sent me, to people at a bar. I wasn’t there for that part, thankfully.
The wild part is that one of the guys at the bar turned out to be dating her. He’d already heard the story earlier in the week and thought it was hilarious. Then he realized—sitting there at the table—that the story was about the girl he was currently dating. That shit is incredible. I still laugh thinking about it.
Sometimes I wonder what stories people tell about me now. And then I’m like, no, you don’t want to know. I don’t know what they’d say. What I do know is I still haven’t dated anyone over forty yet. And at forty, that’s not really a “girl” anymore. But who knows—maybe I’ll get there next.
I’ve got a bunch of other transcripts I could turn straight into books too, along with narrating some new ones. I’d love to take those old videos I already made and convert them into books so they can actually live somewhere instead of just disappearing into the internet void. I did a lot of videos on health—I could easily make a health book. Same with dating. Take one solid hour-long video, turn it into a short book, and now it exists in physical form.
I’m genuinely excited about this. I want to crank out a stack of shorter books—forty or fifty pages each—that are cheap to print. Print ten or twenty copies at a time, fill a table with twenty or thirty different titles, and then figure out where I can go locally to put them in front of people. Markets, events, random places where humans actually gather. Just give them away. Let people take them.
Online, I want the opposite approach. Put the books out there, let them get discovered organically, and collect royalties quietly over time. Passive income from my own words, sitting out there indefinitely, doing their thing without me chasing it. That feels right.
It’s 11:31 p.m. now. Time to shut it down. Checkout time. We gotta go. We gotta go. You’re a dummy, bitch. Ha.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.