This is my journal entry from November 22, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.
If this book ever gets published, this might be the climax. Tonight is pure agony. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m exhausted from getting excited about people who can’t even reply to a simple text message. One question. One sentence. Something basic like, When are you available next? Apparently that’s too much to ask. I told my ex-wife tonight that the divorce felt like the most painful thing I had ever been through, and that it had cost her financially as well. There’s no love in it. No joy. Nothing but damage. I don’t see the point of any of this anymore. It all feels pointless, useless, stupid.
I read these spiritual books that talk endlessly about love, about how much love there is everywhere. Where is it? Humans are destroying it. Sometimes it feels like the planet would be better off without us pouring so much harm into it. It’s almost impossible to live here without causing harm. The entire system is built on money, exploitation, and slave labor. This feels like a prison planet. It’s miserable. And every time I feel joy or hope, it feels like a setup, like a betrayal that’s only going to deepen the suffering later. We looked at the house today with my ex-wife, the kids, and my mom. I’m making no money. What am I supposed to do, move in with my mom? Absolutely not. I’m not living like that. There are other things I could be doing. I could be off building stars or living in some reality where love is actually obvious.
These spiritual books say, Look at all the love. Really? You see love in industrially farmed animals being raised and slaughtered while people starving on a planet with so much abundance? In everyone glued to their phones all day, addicted, medicated, sick? I meet an incredible woman last night, and today she can’t even answer a simple text of course. I’m so tired of it. I told my ex-wife straight up that this divorce is cruel and horrible, and that she was the primary driver behind it. The day after we talked about divorce, I wrote her a letter. I offered to reconcile. I offered to do anything. I was willing to fight and go to any lengths to save the marriage. She said no.
I told her that continuing down this path might not go well for either of us. I felt that by choosing this, she was okay with the kids growing up with their parents apart, that she had chosen this instead of doing even the tiniest bit of character building. She’d rather just kick me out. People’s lives here feel so pathetic. Why should I stay and keep fighting for this? I felt completely alone in this house.
The first thing that stops me is the kids. But then even that spirals. Why do I even want more kids? What’s going to happen to my children? Most people I know with kids are struggling, addicted, medicated, barely functioning. Hardly anyone’s life is actually going that well if they’re honest. But this isn’t a planet of honesty. It’s a planet of lying, cheating, and stealing.
If I’m being completely honest, I keep thinking that if I had just lied to this woman last night, I probably could have made out with her and she might have liked me even more. God forbid I tell the truth. God forbid I don’t just act like a fraud and blatantly lie—say I’ve never been married, don’t have kids, just erase my actual life. I could lie online too. I could lie my way into millions of dollars a year. I know exactly how that works. Just say XRP is amazing and going to ten dollars. Tell people to copy-trade me on some exchange. Say whatever bullshit needs to be said. I could make millions doing that. But that’s not what I want. I want to do something that actually helps people, and I don’t see any guidance on how to do that. Is there any real path? Any real instruction? ChatGPT says I should write a book called I Deleted Billions of Views and publishers will throw fifty or a hundred thousand dollars at me. Sure. I’m sure it’s that easy.
What I actually wanted tonight was some kind of conversation where my guides would explain what was even worth doing here. The first word that comes up is curiosity. What am I curious about today? Maybe whether the girl I was so excited about yesterday will even text me tomorrow. That’s it. And I’m tired of it. It feels like women don’t deserve a decent man. They deserve pieces of shit. Sometimes it feels like everyone who stays on this planet deserves to wallow in filth. This place feels horrible. Huge sections of the ocean are filled with plastic. We’re slaughtering fish, animals, everything. Where is the love here? I don’t see love. I see insanity. I see suffering being farmed at scale. I don’t understand why I should stay here and participate in it. It feels like by continuing to exist, I’m endorsing all of it. Every breath, every heartbeat is like saying, this is fine, this is acceptable.
No matter who the president is, people hate them. If it’s the one you voted for, you’re embarrassed. If it’s the other one, half the country is ruined and everything is collapsing. The attitudes are unbearable. I think of myself as a good man, but women don’t want a good man. My ex-wife doesn’t want a good man. She’d rather be alone than be with me. She’d rather go to counseling and work on herself than be part of a team. She says she loves me. She says, “I love you.” What does that even mean? Love is an action word. Kicking me out of the house when I was at my most vulnerable—right after I deleted my entire body of work, when I was counting on support and time to figure out who I was again—that’s not love. I’m making basically nothing right now. And I refuse to be the guy who just endures one of these sad fucking stories. Everywhere I look, it’s sad stories.
I think about my father. He stayed in a marriage that seemed miserable for the last fourteen years of his life, one he felt like he couldn’t leave. He sat on the couch, watched the news, smoked cigarettes. What kind of life is that? No wonder he died. He just chose a slow, painful death instead. Years of suffering. Like a cow being farmed for suffering. For what? For what purpose? It’s ironic, because I’ve said before that my father should have divorced my mother fifteen years earlier—really, more like twenty-five years now. And yet here I am looking at my ex-wife’s actions and thinking, don’t they show that she doesn’t give a shit about me? That she doesn’t care if the kids grow up without a father? That she doesn’t care what happens to me? You divorce me. You kick me out of the house. You’ve made it clear you don’t care what happens to my life. We were a team. We were married. We built an entire life together. And you’re just going to kick me out? You don’t get to do that and then act like you care. You don’t get to end a marriage that way and still claim love. How fake is that?
I’m tired of giving a shit about people. I get excited, meet some woman who clearly could use a man in her life, and then watch it fall apart. I think about the woman I met last month. She would rather stay stressed out at work and keep doing some bullshit plant medicine than laugh, relax, and actually enjoy life with a man. It makes me think that dying is an incredibly effective form of protest. A lot of what gets labeled as viruses or epidemics feels like mass protest. People, collectively, saying, fuck this. After World War I, the Spanish flu wiped out huge numbers of people. That was a protest. People looking at the world and saying it was disgusting and opting out. The plague was the same thing. People saying, this is fucked, I’m out. I tried to help clean this place up, but I don’t feel like I’m doing anything. I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing anything at all. Nobody’s getting healed. The planet isn’t being taken care of any better. If anything, things are getting more fucked. Dating alone is unrecognizable compared to fifteen years ago.
It’s absurd listening to a woman talk about wanting a man who’s accepting and nonjudgmental, and then watching her judge the shit out of me. Oh, your divorce is so fresh. Who the fuck are you to tell me how long I should take? I want to move on, but nobody else wants me to move on. Except my ex-wife. She’s fine with it. Go make money. Find another woman. Not my problem anymore. Fine. Then raise the kids by yourself, because you seem perfectly okay with that. Go for it. My kids would be fine without me. That’s the implication. I would love for some guides or guardian angels to step in and actually explain what’s worth doing here. Why stay? Why tolerate this?
A friend of mine died of cancer a year ago. He came to me in a dream and said he was in a much bigger reality than this one. That sounds nice. That sounds incredible. And you can’t even be honest about thinking this way. Say any of this out loud and you risk the police showing up, getting locked in a psych ward, pumped full of drugs. Nobody wants you being honest about how broken this place can feel. When I look at the planet as a prison designed to farm suffering, it starts to make sense. Take loving, divine beings and condition them to produce suffering. Take babies full of love and turn them into suffering cows. The goal is suffering. Well, I guess I’m playing my part right now. But I’m not going to keep doing it. I’m not going to keep producing suffering for the suffering factory.
The strange thing is, my life doesn’t actually look hopeless. It could go really well. This woman might text me tomorrow and say she wants to meet up, and suddenly it’s happily ever after. And yet that almost makes me not want to try again. I don’t want to be here as some goddamn zombie, like so many people are—drugged up, drunk, doped up—just numbing themselves to survive, or blaming everyone else for the problem. The truth is, you’re the problem. You’re the one who keeps choosing to breathe and stay here. Not everyone else. You. And I see that clearly. I’m the one deciding to stay and put up with this. I’m the one deciding to try to help people and fix this place. I’m the one who thought I could come in here and gentrify the planet, make it a little nicer. What an ambitious soul, thinking I could pull that off. It doesn’t feel like it’s going very well. If anything, I think I’ve contributed more suffering than love.
My sister had hit a really low point, and she was back home, hopeless. I can really relate to that kind of collapse, and I understand the question underneath it: what’s the point of this? If life won’t support you in living joyfully, if you can’t even have a place to live when there are tons of empty places unless you serve this evil money machine, what are we doing here? I look around and see people selling bullshit, exploiting others, ripping them off, ending up with huge houses and nice cars. Sure, you get rewarded. You drain people, just like I used to when I was an influencer. You extract value from them. Congratulations. You deserve the nicest shit. Here, have some drugs and alcohol to dull the edge of how bad things actually are, because deep down you know what you are. A parasite. I was kind of hoping this would be therapeutic to say out loud, but so far it doesn’t feel like it’s helping much. I don’t even know if anyone will ever hear this. And honestly, who cares? Once you’re gone, what difference does any of this make anyway?
Sure, I can see moments of love. When I drop the kids off at school, there’s love there. But what are we actually doing? Preparing kids for a lifetime of suffering and servitude. Is that love? Taking their joy and replacing it with obedience, telling them to do what they’re told, to stop rebelling. Is that love?
I know things could turn around. Maybe one day I could be really happy. But even if that happens, it won’t last. That’s the part I can’t unsee. At this point, the one upside is that I have nothing to lose. I told my ex-wife that. I asked her if I could talk, if she could just sit there and listen without arguing. That’s one of the hardest things about her, and I guess I should have known what I was getting into marrying an attorney. Everything turns into an argument. She always has to make a point, always has to be right. You can’t just speak and be heard. I explained all of this to her. Being rejected by someone you don’t know is one thing. Being rejected by the person who knows you better than anyone else is something else entirely. To be kicked to the curb by your wife, to be told to get out and not care what happens to you, and then still hear “I love you” attached to that—it’s the meanest thing anyone has ever done to me. Instantly destroying our entire marriage without even hearing one argument for continuing the team we built together. Just erasing it. That’s what this feels like.
I told her that before I sign a lease on this house, it might make sense for her to at least consider coming back. I said this whole divorce is insane. I asked her whether she really plans to live alone for the rest of her life. Most of the guys out there feel like losers or bots to me—go to work, grind some meaningless sales job, come home, drink beer, numb out, repeat. Zombies. Pathetic. I don’t even know if all of this is going to make it into the final book. It might be too much to leave untouched. I might have to edit it manually. Still, I’ve worked really hard to get here. From being a baby to becoming an adult, to standing on the edge of signing a lease for an expensive house. I could probably make it work for at least a year by just borrowing money, even if I made nothing at all. One year of fuck it. I’ll see the kids. I’ll try to date. I’ll try to get a book published. I’ll borrow whatever I can.
If life won’t support me, I’m not going to support life. If life won’t give me what I want, I’ll go find a better deal somewhere else, in some other reality. I want to be there for my kids, but I look around and see other people’s kids glued to screens, absorbing the dumbest ideas imaginable, basically turning into bots. It feels like I’m living in a world of zombies. Who’s actually alive here? Who’s going to surprise me? Could anyone pleasantly surprise me? Could one of these women surprise me by actually following through after a real conversation and a genuine connection, instead of being flaky and unable to respond to a text or suggest another time to meet? Or take my ex-wife—she went through all of it with me, and look how that turned out. She got tired of a nice married life. Get out. Don’t care what happens to you. You don’t matter anymore.
What’s the point of all this? There isn’t one. It’s meaningless. Just as meaningless as dreams. Some people insist dreams have meaning, but this whole world feels fucked. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I don’t know how many more times I can feel like this. I keep hoping there’s some kind of enlightenment or breakthrough on the other side of this, because the more I try to love here, the more I suffer. The more I give, the less I get back. And even when I do receive something, it doesn’t feel good anymore. If this woman finally texts me, will I even care? Will I even still be here emotionally? It feels like it might already be too late.
I don’t even feel comfortable talking this honestly with all of this technology listening. And I dread becoming one of those people who has a near-death experience and then walks around preaching about how amazing life is. That feels like bullshit. Sometimes the gratitude I hear from other people in meetings feels hollow to me, like something I can’t reach from where I’m standing right now.
I know there are things I could be grateful for. My body is in fantastic health. But who gives a shit? Who actually gives a shit about that? It’s like when I deleted everything online. Years of building an audience, millions of followers, and then just—gone. Thanks for following me. I’m deleting all of you. Being an influencer was exactly like that. I built up all these followers, thought people loved me, thought they cared. They didn’t. I deleted my content, and how many of them bought my books? Less than ten. Millions of followers, and hardly anyone even bothered to change platforms. They didn’t care about me. They were addicts, and I was just supplying the fix. I was basically their drug dealer. Maybe people miss their favorite drug dealer for a minute. Some dealers are better than others.
I see the same thing around me. People try to help, and most of the time it doesn’t work. Some of the people who helped me the most are gone now. Cancer. Divorce. Living alone. One man in particular stands out. He was in his seventies, on his third divorce, living by himself. I remember asking him directly, why are you here? What are you doing? What’s your purpose on this planet? He died not long after that. And I keep asking myself the same question. What is my purpose here? To suffer every time I feel hope? To get excited only to realize it was a trick? Look, this woman really likes you—until tomorrow, when she doesn’t give a shit. She was proud of you last night. Today, nothing.
My ex-wife fell in love with me fourteen and a half years ago. Tonight I told her plainly that if things go really badly for me, yeah, that’s on me, but she played her part too. She’s the one who put me back out into the wild. She’s the one who decided she didn’t want to love me, didn’t want to take care of me, didn’t want to be a partner anymore. So if the kids grow up without a father, she contributed to that. Ending the marriage. Kicking me out. That’s consenting to the idea that the kids don’t really need a father that much. Fuck him. I’d rather live alone, have full control, do whatever I want, not deal with his sex drive, not deal with his money. Tell him I love him just enough to string him along.
I keep wishing some guide, some presence, would step in and actually say something useful. I’m open. I want to feel better. I want this to make sense. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of falling in love with people who tell me I’m exactly what they want and then can’t handle my honesty. They don’t have the love to return. I’m tired of betrayal. Tired of watching people I love suffer endlessly and do nothing about it. Tired of looking at my kids and seeing how badly they want the addiction, how much they crave the screens, how
Seeing how things went when we went to the mall a week ago just added to it. Half the experience felt miserable. Why even bother doing things together when so much of it turns into suffering? Half the time was spent dealing with frustration because I didn’t immediately buy my daughter a Build-A-Bear the second she asked for one. I do want to feel love. I want to feel like I’m actually here. But I’m exhausted by the mismatch. People want to be with me that I have no interest in being with, and the people I’m genuinely interested in never seem able to meet me halfway. All these women who would love to be with me—no thanks. And then there’s another woman from last night who was clearly interested, but I wasn’t attracted to her at all. Meanwhile, the beautiful woman who said she really liked me, who had a deep, meaningful conversation with me, turns into one- or two-sentence replies the next day. I ask a simple question—when are you free to hang out again?—and hours go by. No response. No effort. Like it’s too much trouble to even acknowledge me. That’s what I’m tired of. The casual disregard. The indifference. The sense that I don’t matter enough to warrant a basic reply.
Underneath all the anger, I’m scared. What if I go to bed and don’t wake up? What if there’s more love here than I can see right now? What if I’m missing something obvious, something important? Maybe there’s something I don’t understand yet. I can admit that much. I’m just having a hard time seeing it. Everywhere I look, it feels like people are living these half-lived, zombie lives—destroying animals, trees, water, the atmosphere—sleepwalking through existence. I don’t feel like I’m helping. I try to help. I publish books. I give books away. I put my phone number in them. And not a single person has reached out. Not one message. Not one thank-you. Nothing. And yet someone can get offended that I included my phone number at all, as if that’s the problem. The whole place feels broken.
I think about a man I knew, who died a couple of years ago. At the time, I felt resentful toward him. I wished he’d reached out, wished he’d asked for help. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. He seemed lonely. It didn’t seem like anyone really gave a shit about him. I imagine there were women he cared about who didn’t have time for him. Things he wanted from life that life had no interest in giving him. People he loved who didn’t love him back. I can imagine him asking the same question I’m asking now: what’s the point? I can imagine him feeling almost exactly like this.
Now my sister wants me to come stay with her. I don’t know if I’m in a good enough place to support her. She’s fresh in that hopeless place herself, fragile and raw. Part of me thinks it might actually be good for both of us, but it would mean leaving everything here behind for a while. And I already feel like I’ve been tricked. I worked so hard to build this life. I put years of effort into my marriage. I believed I had this incredible partner. And instead, she reveals herself as someone willing to instantly end our marriage, kick me out, and not care what happens to me or what that does to her own life. She just argues that she’s right about everything. She won’t change the things she could change to be a better wife. And here I am, looking back and realizing I didn’t even appreciate the intimacy we had while we were married.
Tonight I found myself thinking about how, years ago, I once sought out paid companionship right before I moved. I caught myself wishing I could find some simple, no-strings arrangement like that now and thinking I’d probably be fine, that I wouldn’t even need a girlfriend or a wife. And then I look around at how broken everything feels around intimacy. You’ve got guys who are single and checked out. You’ve got other guys who juggle two or three women at a time. It’s ridiculous. Things have gotten insane. I don’t see the point in making any more effort.
I tried to do everything right. I did well in school. I followed instructions. I got a job. I built a career. I earned a master’s degree. I started a business. I made money. I taught people. And this is where I’m at: living in a house that isn’t even mine, kicked out of the home I spent seven years caring for, loving, and building with my ex-wife. The day we talked to the kids about getting divorced, she was already showing me Zillow listings, trying to get me to move out. I took the hint. Fine. Now I look back and think maybe I should have protested more. Maybe I should have fought harder for our marriage. But she didn’t want me to fight. She got angry when I did. The day after we talked about divorce, I wrote her a letter saying I didn’t want it, that I’d do whatever it took. I was ready to fight for us. She didn’t want that.
It feels exactly like dating now. Women say they want an emotionally mature man with his shit together, but look at the men they actually choose. Either fixer-uppers who are falling apart—like I was when my ex-wife met me—or zombies who trade their health for money and worship it. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of getting excited about life only to feel like I’ve been tricked every time. It’s always the same pattern. For a moment, it looks like things might finally be good. And then—wrong.
I haven’t even experienced a lot of the truly awful things that can happen in a life. Objectively, I’ve had it pretty good. Things could be much worse. When I look at my mom and the amount of suffering she endures daily, it’s almost unimaginable. It seems insane that she keeps going. And yet I’m still asking myself why I continue to endure this too. Why? For other people who seem largely committed to their own suffering? My kids find endless, pointless things to fuss over and suffer about. If my ex-wife and I are any indication of where that leads, that’s not encouraging. Pitching fits over every little thing. It feels like my ex-wife would rather be alone than have me around. And sure, I could probably find companionship anytime, but what is that? So many people seem unwell now anyway. It’s different from twenty-five years ago. Everyone is glued to devices, constantly consuming, eating to self-soothe, medicating themselves, numbing out.
Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow. I hope this isn’t the end of my story. It might be the end of this book. And that’s the fucked-up part—can I even publish something this honest, written in the middle of a struggle like this? Probably not. Some overly reactive parent would call the police the second they read it. Too much honesty. Quick—sedate him. Make sure he can’t think clearly. Make sure he keeps enduring the suffering like a cow that briefly considers pushing against the fence. Cows could smash through those fences if they wanted to. They don’t, because the life on the other side doesn’t look much better.
I hope I can publish this anyway. This is some of the realest material I’ve ever written. I keep thinking about how much joy I’ve had over the years. A lot of joy. I’d say it’s been mostly joy. But what if it’s not going to be that way anymore? What if, going forward, it’s mostly suffering?
That feels like the key calculation. And the problem is that when you’re suffering, you can’t make that calculation accurately. But how could anyone ever truly know how much joy versus suffering they have left? I think about my friend—the one I asked, years ago, why he was still here. What I was really asking was whether there was any reason left to keep going. What’s the point of an existence that ends up alone after a third divorce, living by yourself in your seventies? Yes, he could have done things differently, but he was also on heavy medications that dulled his desire, flattened his experience, took the edge off life entirely. And that’s the real problem.
You get on these medications and they take the edge off, but then actually handling the edge of life becomes harder, especially when you drop into moods like the one I’m in now. I’m sure some smug professional somewhere would be thrilled to slap a bipolar label on me or something similar, but I don’t buy the idea that polarity itself is the problem. You need polarity to have brilliant ideas, and I have brilliant ideas. You need polarity to fall in love, because without it, how do you feel that rush, that euphoria of loving someone? I look around at so many people in my life and it doesn’t seem like they love their lives at all. They’re on autopilot, moving through the days like zombies. Maybe at one point they loved their spouse, but now they’re just going through the motions. That’s how my dad was for the last decade of his life—no raw energy anymore, no enthusiasm, none of the vitality he had when I was a kid. There was just this man who couldn’t really feel alive, but also wasn’t ready to die, stuck in some dull, half-lit middle space.
That’s the part that gets to me. Sure, my life looks hopeful right now, but what happens when it doesn’t? What if I were overweight and unattractive, with no good business ideas, no leverage, no upside—just a series of probable outcomes that amounted to continued suffering and humiliation? I can understand why that would feel almost unbearable. I’m attractive. I have ideas that could be worth a lot of money. I’m in great health. And because of that, I’m very sensitive to the question of why people tolerate so much suffering. Why do people wake up day after day in physical pain, look in the mirror and hate what they see, live alone and lonely, numb themselves with TV and endless scrolling on their goddamn phones, then go to jobs they don’t care about just to pay the bills? Why are you here? Is this really the best use of your time? Even from what I’d call a relatively good position, it still takes effort to convince me why I should keep putting up with this at all.
I remember thinking that if I had no chance of meeting women I found attractive, there would be no point. None. Maybe I could evolve to a place where I appreciated all forms of beauty, but maybe not. I had some harsh, judgmental thoughts about appearance and self-control that I’m not proud of. And then I catch myself and realize all the harsh stuff I’m saying is ugly too, isn’t it? It’s just that my face doesn’t look like it. Ha. Jesus Christ. There’s something darkly funny about that.
When I get into this headspace, Jesus starts to feel like the devil. Anyone trying to inspire people or help them do better looks like the enemy, like a promoter of suffering. It’s as if they’re encouraging cows to eat grass and fatten up so they can eventually be slaughtered. I could feel my thinking sliding into a dark, nihilistic place, and I knew none of it was sound.
Sometimes I grieve how much harm we do to this planet, and I wish we treated the Earth, the forests, and the oceans far better than we do. I’m sure there’s a better path too. Maybe we could become more conscious somehow. Maybe there’s a way through that doesn’t end in despair. I don’t know. Right now, I give up trying to resolve it. That’s enough out of me for tonight. I’m curious to see where this goes from here, and I appreciate you being along for the journey.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.