This is my journal entry from October 21, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Learning to Live Alone Again — my real, unedited days, published in order.
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I dreamed that I was hanging out with Tupac. He was carrying a massive telephone pole over his shoulder like it was nothing, just walking calmly with it as if it weighed no more than a broomstick. In the dream, I felt like we were equals, just two people spending time together. There wasn’t any celebrity energy about him. He was just present, grounded, and real.
In another part of the dream, I was looking everywhere for my Kesha album. I couldn’t find it anywhere, even though it felt like it was something I really needed to have. I was searching with my ex-wife, and the setting shifted between what seemed like a huge house and a kind of school, with older people wandering around. The place had the energy of a long, confusing maze. I remember pulling an entire boat out of the water with my own hands, but even that didn’t help me find the album.
We went from room to room, and for some reason, we kept ending up in bathrooms. There was this strange sense of frustration running through it all, like the dream itself was trying to keep me distracted or misdirected. At one point, I saw a broken diving board above a shallow pool at what looked like a hotel. The pool wasn’t deep enough to jump into safely, and I remember thinking how dangerous it would be to leap from that height.
Later, I sat down at a table, setting out my things to do some kind of work. When I came back, a guy—overweight and slightly sloppy in his manner—had spilled all my things and taken some of them. I confronted him, telling him that I knew his family and where he lived, not as a threat but to remind him that his actions had real-world consequences. I tried to balance firmness with kindness, encouraging him not to be a bully. I wanted peace, but I also wanted him to know I wouldn’t let him walk over me.
After that, I turned to everyone else at the table and said, “Are you going to let this guy bully you the way Europe let Germany bully them? Or are you going to stand up for yourselves?” It was an odd thing to say, but it made perfect sense inside the dream. It was about courage, about not allowing fear or apathy to rule.
Back in the dream with Tupac, we sat together talking about his music. He told me that his lyrics were simply his way of saying whatever he needed to say to get his songs played—that he was an artist doing what was necessary to be heard. There was no pretense or moralizing in it. He was honest about being strategic, about expressing what would reach people.
The whole dream had this layered feeling of symbolism—Tupac’s presence, the search for Kesha’s album, the bullying, and the broken diving board—all connected by a sense of trying to reclaim power and authenticity in a world full of distraction. Even in the dream, I was trying to get others to wake up, to put their phones down, to stop letting noise and fear run their lives.
When I woke up, it stayed with me. The images—Tupac’s calm strength, my ex-wife searching beside me, the shallow pool—felt like messages about balance between assertiveness and compassion, truth and performance, safety and risk. It was one of those dreams that feels like more than a dream, like a mirror reflecting something I’m still learning about myself.
I woke up at 6:30 a.m. today and recorded my dreams. It was harder than usual to remember them, but I made a deliberate effort throughout the night each time I woke up to hold onto fragments long enough to bring them into the morning. The result was a three-minute recording instead of two, and I feel like I captured more details than usual. I plan to start this entry with those dreams and maybe begin each day this way from now on, recording my dreams first thing to see how they evolve. I have a feeling that if I stay consistent with this, my recall will improve. It might even make the books more interesting for readers. This could end up being the final entry for this volume, but I’ll see how it feels when I finish.
I went down to my ex-wife’s house around 7:20 a.m., had some seaweed snacks, and talked with her for a bit before taking the kids to school. My son had his space equipment book again, and I read it to him in the same funny, exaggerated way I’ve been reading it lately. It’s one of those small routines that feels warm and familiar.
I booked a 9 a.m. yoga class at my yoga studio with my yoga instructor. I arrived early and set up my mat in my usual spot, feeling no particular intuition to move it. Then, a minute or two before class began, a woman I’ve seen at least fifty times over the last year placed her mat to my right. She’s one of those women I’ve noticed many times but never spoken to, despite how attractive she is. Today, though, I decided it was time.
My yoga instructor led a creative flow with unique transitions and deep, satisfying stretches. I was grateful for the physical challenge, but my mind kept drifting toward the woman beside me. I realized I’d never truly looked at her before. At one point, while we were in a wide-legged forward fold, she placed her hand on her lower back, and something about that movement was so sensual it made my whole body react. For a split second, I felt lightheaded. I knew I had to talk to her after class.
She had one tattoo and no rings on any of her fingers—an encouraging start. I sent out a silent signal, a kind of mental invitation, asking for a sign through her body language that she’d be open to me approaching. The way she moved and packed up her things made it seem like she was receptive. So, I went for it.
I told her I’d seen her at so many classes and figured it was about time I introduced myself. She lit up with a huge smile that completely transformed her face. Her name was the woman from yoga. I told her I’d never seen her smile before and that it was beautiful. She seemed genuinely happy I’d approached her, and we chatted for about three minutes while she rolled up her mat and headed out. Before we parted ways, she mentioned that she usually takes the hot yoga classes.
Now I’m debating whether to switch things up and go to those classes to see her again or just keep going to my usual ones. This feels like the beginning of what I think of as the “tension-building phase.” When I had a crush on another woman from yoga before, what made it interesting was that so much tension had built up before we even spoke. I can already feel that same energy forming with the woman from yoga. I don’t know if she’s single, but intuitively, I get the sense she might be. I’ll need to find a way to confirm that—maybe steer the conversation toward relationships next time and see what she says.
After yoga, I stopped by the bank and withdrew $500 because I saw no reason to have an empty wallet. I like having cash on hand—three $100 bills and ten $20s this time. I wish this Chase branch offered $50s in their ATMs since they make it easier to pull together odd totals like $90. With just $20s and $100s, it’s always neat, even amounts, which feels limiting.
When I got back home, I felt a surge of excitement about what I want to prioritize next. I’ve decided my top goal is to dictate I Was Famous on the Internet into an audiobook. That’s where I’m focusing my energy now—bringing my story to life in my own voice.
To prepare for work, I had some hummus and started listening to Before and After the Book Deal: A Writer’s Guide to Finishing, Publishing, Promoting, and Surviving Your First Book by Courtney Maum. I picked it up because several people, including a psychic and one of my friends, have recently told me I should look into traditional publishing. But the more I listen, the more convinced I am that traditional publishing is completely wrong for me. It sounds like an enormous headache with very little reward, especially at this stage of my career.
If I ever go that route, I want it to happen naturally—after I’ve done such an exceptional job self-publishing that agents start approaching me. That’s the only way I’d be interested, not by playing the part of a desperate writer sending out manuscripts to a hundred agents and collecting rejection letters like lottery tickets. That whole process feels degrading and unnecessary. Unless there’s a very compelling reason, I want nothing to do with it.
Even with the fiction book idea I’ve been considering, the thought of having a traditional publisher dissect and sanitize my work turns me off entirely. I’d rather focus on the projects that can immediately help people in my local community—my money book, my health book, and my sobriety book. The fiction project can wait. Or, if I do it, it’ll just be an experiment—a low-stakes creative exercise. I’m not putting pressure on myself to make it perfect.
In Maum’s book, she talks about revising a manuscript ten or eleven times before submitting it. My reaction to that is simple: fuck that. I’m not trying to spend months or years obsessively polishing manuscripts until they’ve lost all soul. The world already has more than enough over-edited books that feel lifeless and sterile. My writing is different because it’s real, unfiltered, and alive. Sure, it might get wordy or meander sometimes, but that’s part of its charm. That’s the difference between something human and something manufactured.
After thinking it through, I realized that my top priority should be turning my books into audiobooks. That’s where my voice and energy really shine. Today, I set out to record I Was Famous on the Internet. I logged into ACX, the platform authors use to self-publish to Audible, and officially claimed the book. Then I stepped into the studio and started dictating.
I recorded the introduction first, then adjusted the microphone slightly to get better audio quality before rolling into the first couple of chapters. After a little over an hour of steady recording, I felt my voice getting tired. Technically, I could have pushed through, but it didn’t make sense. I got the insight that a more sustainable rhythm would be to record about an hour of audiobook narration each day. That kind of consistency feels better than trying to grind through three or four hours in a single session.
This realization ties perfectly into everything else I’ve been learning lately about creative discipline. It’s not about exhausting myself for a single big push. It’s about showing up every day, doing meaningful work, and letting the results accumulate. I like the idea of building an audiobook library one hour at a time—steady, sustainable, and completely on my own terms.
After about an hour of recording, I noticed on Amazon that the proof for my new book The Kind Divorce had arrived. I’d sent it to my ex-wife’s house instead of mine, since her place is only a short walk away and I couldn’t be bothered to have it delivered to my address. I texted her to let her know I was coming, then walked down the street, enjoying the warm air and the satisfaction of seeing another finished project come to life.
When I got there, my ex-wife greeted me, and I stepped inside to fill up my water and chat for a bit. We were both in genuinely good spirits, happy with how everything has been unfolding with the divorce and the directions our lives are taking. She mentioned that her mom was buying her a new king bed for “her next man,” which I thought was great because I already have a king bed ready for my next woman. The tone was lighthearted, full of humor and mutual understanding.
We joked about my current approach of not being available for anything beyond friendship right now. My ex-wife said she thought that strategy would actually make me more attractive to the kind of woman I want to meet. I agreed—it feels like the right mindset. There’s no need to chase or force anything. When it’s time for the next relationship, it’ll happen naturally.
After she left for a work meeting, I headed back home around 1:00 p.m. I took The Kind Divorce with me, eager to read through the proof and decide whether to finalize it. The day was too beautiful to spend indoors, so I figured the best way to review it would be outside. That’s when I remembered I still had a beach chair in my car. I don’t have any actual chairs in the house—just a couch, a bed, and my standing desk. My mom had given me an old folding chair once, but the screw she’d used to “fix” it snapped after the second time I sat down, so I threw it out.
I pulled the beach chair into the backyard and found a perfect spot under a tree where the shade blocked just enough of the sun while still giving me natural light. Sitting there, I took a long look at the cover, and I felt proud. It looked exactly the way I wanted. Then I started reading, beginning with the introduction and the first few entries.
It’s rare to impress yourself, but I was genuinely blown away. The tone, the structure, the emotional pacing—it all worked. I found myself speeding through the pages, skimming parts until I hit the sections of peak drama when my ex-wife and I began to realize we needed to divorce. Those conversations and that unraveling of our marriage were written so vividly that even reading it now felt like watching a story unfold rather than reliving my own life.
The book had come together beautifully. The title was perfect, the narrative strong, and I could easily picture readers holding this book alongside Author in St. Petersburg and I Was Famous on the Internet. The three complement each other perfectly—starting with I Was Famous on the Internet, then Author in St. Petersburg, and finally The Kind Divorce. Taken together, they chart my journey from online fame to creative rebirth to emotional freedom.
After about an hour of reading, I felt confident in the final product. I made a few small corrections—just minor typos—and then went into Amazon to submit both the paperback and Kindle editions for publication. Soon I’ll be able to order my author copies, probably fifty or a hundred of them, and start distributing them to local bookstores and shops around St. Petersburg.
I’m excited about the possibilities. I can imagine walking into stores with a stack of my books in hand, offering them to independent bookstores, yoga studios like mine, and other local businesses. I want these books circulating everywhere—sold, displayed, and given away. At the same time, I can feel how much potential there is in creating audio versions. People love hearing stories in the author’s own voice, and that’s where I know I can stand out. It’s clear now that both formats—print and audio—are essential parts of how I’ll share my work from here on out.
One of the most helpful sections in Courtney Maum’s Before and After the Book Deal talks about audiobooks and how much opportunity there is in that space. She mentions that narrators often charge around $200 per finished hour of audio, which means that every book I dictate myself is worth thousands of dollars in professional narration fees. Hearing that really hit home. It reminded me just how valuable my skill set is. ChatGPT was absolutely right when it told me I have abilities I often take for granted.
The fact that I can write, edit, publish, and now narrate my own books—while handling every part of the workflow—is incredible. It’s not just convenient; it’s empowering. I realize how much of an honor it is to be able to do all of this myself, from the creative to the technical to the business side. For people who can’t manage these steps, traditional publishing makes sense. But for me, it doesn’t. I have the tools, the drive, and the independence to do it my way.
After a productive day of writing and recording, I headed to my AA meeting. A few regulars were there again, along with a few new faces—about eight of us total. Some of them were clearly in the hardest early stretch, the part where staying sober even a week can feel impossible, and I could see the frustration on them.
That meant at least three people in the room were in their first week of sobriety, which made me want to speak directly to that early struggle. I shared that the beginning of getting sober can feel impossible, but it’s also the doorway to a completely new life. I told them that I love my life today because I’m sober. I’ve been able to handle my divorce gracefully, record audiobooks, dictate new material, and publish two books in the last two weeks—with a third one about to go live.
By the end of this month, I’ll have three books self-published, plus several others in progress. I’ve already started building out a dating book and have at least an hour of material for my health book that I haven’t even reviewed yet. All this while parenting my kids, staying active in yoga and tennis, and showing up to AA meetings daily. I told them, “I get to reach my full potential now. I can actually be all that I’m capable of being because I’m sober.” That’s the truth.
After the meeting, I chatted with a few of the guys outside, then headed home to change shoes and get ready for tennis. Before heading to the courts, I stopped by my ex-wife’s house to see the kids after school. I spent a little time with them, grateful for the chance to just be present and supportive—something I didn’t always have growing up, and something I want them to have.
I met up with the guy from the tennis ladder for tennis at the tennis club. He’s currently at the bottom of the ladder, and I went into the match feeling optimistic that I might finally pick up a second win on the board. But as soon as we started warming up, I could tell I was in trouble. His strokes were clean, consistent, and practiced. Then I remembered—the guy from the tennis ladder usually plays on the higher skill court in the men’s tennis clinic.
We played a single game before we got kicked off the court since we could not get a full reservation straight through. Rather than fight for space, we took a break and sat outside at the restaurant by the club. We talked for about twenty minutes, and it ended up being a really nice conversation. I asked him what the most interesting thing happening in his life was, and he told me he’d just moved in with his girlfriend. Like me, he’s divorced, though his divorce is final. He mentioned that he knows several people going through divorces right now.
I told him I didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing. To me, being willing to change relationships shows flexibility and growth. It’s healthy to recognize when something isn’t working and make a change, even if society often frames divorce as failure. I tend to rationalize my choices by believing they’re universally wise, but in this case, I stand by it. Reinvention feels like the essence of life.
After the father and daughter on a nearby court wrapped up early, the guy from the tennis ladder and I grabbed their spot and started our match. He beat me 6–1, 6–1. I did manage to win one game each set, but it was rough. As the match went on, my frustration spiraled. I found myself hitting the ball as hard as I could just to get the tension out, missing all over the place. My conservative approach wasn’t working either; even when I tried to play safely, I’d hit into the net or send the ball out.
What bothers me most isn’t losing—it’s how unfun the game becomes when I’m caught up in self-criticism. I want to enjoy tennis, to just play, relax, and move my body without my mind attacking itself for every missed shot. But when I start losing badly, the frustration floods in and steals the joy.
As I was walking off the court, I remembered something my ex-wife’s grandfather used to say: “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.” I thought about that all the way home. Maybe my competitive spirit isn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it’s healthy for me to get my ass kicked sometimes. It humbles me, but it also keeps that fire alive.
Back at home, I grabbed a couple of peanut butter chocolate chip LÄRABARs and jumped in the shower so I wouldn’t be sweaty and disgusting when it came time to put the kids to bed. My mind kept drifting back to the woman from yoga throughout the day. She’s so pretty, and I love her smile. That feeling of excitement when there’s chemistry is something I’ve really missed. It’s not just about the destination but the whole experience of attraction and discovery. I’m grateful to even have this opportunity to date again, to meet women who inspire that kind of energy in me.
When I got to my mom’s house to pick up the kids, they were watching Winnie the Pooh. It was the Eeyore’s birthday episode, the one where they play Pooh Sticks, and Pooh accidentally drops a rock on Eeyore in the river after Tigger bounces him in. Eeyore spends most of it sulking, convinced no one cares about his birthday. I found myself watching him and thinking how entitled he seemed. Who decided birthdays were such a big deal anyway? The idea that we deserve candles, cake, and attention once a year feels absurd to me now.
I don’t care about birthdays anymore. I feel immortal. I am God, living within my own creation. This universe is mine to experience and shape. The idea of celebrating the day this body was born feels almost meaningless. Every cell that existed when I was born is long dead, and even the ones from when I was ten, twenty, or thirty are gone too. I’d bet that at least ninety-nine percent of the atoms that make up my body today are different from those that formed my body at birth.
So why would I celebrate the continuity of something that, scientifically speaking, isn’t even the same body anymore? I’d rather celebrate the present moment—the constant transformation, the ongoing creation. That feels like the real gift.
So what the hell is a birthday even celebrating? When I think about it logically, it seems like we should be celebrating the mothers, not the babies. All I did on the day I was born was lay there and get pushed out. The mother did all the hard work. It’s funny how many things in life people just accept without question, like the ritual of birthday cakes and candles.
I enjoyed birthdays as a kid, of course, but what I really loved was the cake. Looking back, even that felt overstimulating—the sugar rush was so intense it almost had the same addictive quality as screens or drugs. I don’t go on a rant about that at my mom’s house, though. The kids don’t watch much TV, and I’m glad they get to enjoy watching a little Winnie the Pooh, the same way I did when I was their age. When I was their age, I wasn’t thinking about any of this. I was just watching the Hundred Acre Wood and letting my imagination run.
By about 8:30 p.m., the kids are ready to leave my mom’s house. My ex-wife likes to have them in bed by 8:30, but I try to take a more relaxed approach. By the time we get home, I’m irritable and end up nagging the kids too much about getting ready for bed. They complain, I complain about their complaining, and it becomes this loop of negativity. Eventually, I catch myself and realize, as usual, that I’m the maker of my own madness. If I hadn’t been irritable in the first place, the kids would’ve probably gone to bed just as quickly, and the whole evening would have felt peaceful instead of tense.
After a few quiet minutes, everyone settles down. The kids are getting ready for bed without any prompting, but then my son starts in, warning me not to say anything about bedtime. I cut him off and tell him to stop, that I wasn’t saying anything and we don’t need to start another argument. A few minutes later, I tuck them in, give them hugs, and apologize for being cranky. They tell me it’s okay, that I don’t need to apologize. And I realize they’re right in a deeper way than they probably mean. Their behavior doesn’t make me feel bad—my own behavior does.
That’s one of life’s most valuable lessons. Rarely does anyone else’s behavior actually cause my pain. It’s usually my reaction to it, my attitude, my impatience. That realization makes me think about tennis again. What am I doing during matches that leaves me feeling so frustrated? Am I trying too hard? Not trying hard enough? Sometimes I swing too aggressively, trying to crush every ball. Other times, I hold back too much and serve these weak, half-hearted shots that drop into the net. It’s a strange duality—to try too hard and not hard enough at the same time.
I’d really like to have fun playing tennis next time. Just to enjoy it. To appreciate that I’m healthy enough to run, sweat, and play singles matches with someone else who loves the game. That alone should be enough.
After I say goodnight to the kids, I sit quietly in the room with them while they fall asleep and get back to work. I open my laptop and set up Author in St. Petersburg on ACX so I can get the audiobook version finished. I already recorded about half of it a month ago, but it’s been sitting untouched while I focused on other projects. Now it’s time to complete it—along with I Was Famous on the Internet and The Kind Divorce.
My goal is to get all three books on Audible and start building passive income. Even if the audiobooks bring in only a few hundred dollars a month, and the same from the Amazon sales, that’s still meaningful progress. It’s more than nothing, and the way I’m producing and publishing right now, I know it’ll compound over time.
I notice that Amazon has been doing an excellent job displaying my books as a series on the sales pages. Seeing them lined up together gives me a sense of momentum—a feeling that this is just the beginning of something much bigger.
I’ve decided to keep writing these diary entries as long as I feel inspired each day because I want to build a whole series of diary books that dive into all kinds of random, unexpected topics. These entries are genuinely fun for me—free, unfiltered, and real.
Later in the evening, my ex-wife came home, and I stepped out of the kids’ room to talk with her for a bit. She’d been out to dinner with some friends and said she really enjoyed it. We caught up for a few minutes, shared a good laugh, and when it was time for me to go, I told her I loved her and said goodnight.
Back at my house, I’ve got the nighttime vibe dialed in perfectly. The lava lamp glows in the living room, and I light a big glass candle—a cheaper version of a Yankee candle I picked up from the Exchange for about five or six dollars. It gives off the same soft warmth without the price tag. I carry it with me through the house, using its light to wind down. There’s something peaceful about that soft, flickering glow and the quiet space it creates before bedtime.
I also got some good news tonight: my membership at the spiritual community’s shop was approved. For $66 a month, I can attend all their events and even set up a table beforehand to display my books. That crowd feels like the perfect fit for my work—spiritually open, curious, creative. It’s also the kind of environment where I might meet a woman who truly appreciates what I do. When I imagine sitting there with Author in St. Petersburg, The Kind Divorce, and I Was Famous on the Internet laid out on the table, it feels like a strong foundation. Those books represent where I’ve been and where I’m going.
It’s 10:32 p.m., and I’m ready to get to bed a little earlier tonight. I ordered a sunrise alarm clock that works like the kids’ Hatch lights. I plan to set it for 6:30 a.m., half an hour before the kids’ light comes on, so I can wake up gently, record my dreams, eat breakfast at home, and have some quiet time before starting the family routine.
Earlier, my ex-wife mentioned she wants to add to what the psychic told her. The psychic suggested that I might eventually live farther away, but my ex-wife doesn’t think that’s right. She feels I’ll stay close—maybe there’ll be a short phase where I live somewhere else, like if I moved in with a girlfriend while we bought and rebuilt a house in the same neighborhood. I laughed and asked how much money she thought we’d have to make that happen. She just smiled, saying maybe I’d end up with a woman who already has money. I told her I was fine with that idea.
I appreciate that my ex-wife still shares her insights and intuition with me. She has strong intuitive abilities—she always has—and I’ve learned to trust them. Her intuition told her long before I admitted it that we needed to divorce, and she followed that truth with grace. I’m grateful that her intuition seems to be guiding her to keep everything peaceful between us and to help me whenever she can.
I love the idea of staying close to her and the kids, maybe even having another house right here in the neighborhood. My ex-wife mentioned that our neighbors just moved into a big new home they built, and their old house is almost certainly paid off. She suggested they could offer me a private mortgage on it. That would give them some passive income, cost them nothing upfront, and when they eventually passed, their children could inherit both the house and the payments. It’s such a practical, mutually beneficial idea that it almost feels fated.
Lately, I feel completely in sync with the universe. The timing of things, the opportunities unfolding, the sense of alignment—it all feels guided. I’m thrilled about joining the spiritual community, about showing up to those events and sharing my books with people face-to-face. I’m beyond grateful to be unplugged from the online grind that once consumed me. This is what I imagined life could feel like: peaceful, purposeful, and aligned. But I could only reach this level after surrendering everything I was doing before. Letting go was the price of arrival.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.