This is my journal entry from October 26, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Book 5 — Daily Autobiography — my real, unedited days, published in order.
After hitting that peak of euphoria yesterday, how do you think today went? It was fucked — and not in a good way. My dreams told me everything before I even opened my eyes. I barely slept because I was so wired from the high of meeting the woman I met, but the little sleep I did get was full of dreams where she and I weren’t going to date, where she wasn’t into me, where the whole thing fell apart before it even began. My subconscious delivered the verdict early.
So what do you think I did this morning? I wish I had followed the dreams and said nothing. Just let it be. But no — I sent her an audio message like a lovesick idiot. I told her I hadn’t slept right because I was thinking about her. I invited her to the violin restorative yoga at my yoga studio that I was going to that night — the one a violinist plays live for, with a yoga instructor teaching. It’s one of the most beautiful classes they offer, and I genuinely wanted her there.
And what did she say? Essentially: fuck off. Not literally, but close enough. She said she didn’t have any time for me “for the next month or two.” Cold-blooded. She did wrap it in a nice little shit sandwich, though — a soft line about being glad we’re friends, that it was great talking to me, that she appreciated the invite. But the meaning was the same: No. Not happening. Not now. Not soon.
Destroyed. Absolutely destroyed. I cried off and on all day. Thankfully the violin yoga was incredible because I needed that release. Holy shit, I sobbed my little eyes out in there. I cried so hard I had to mouth breathe for a minute, which in my religion is basically a mortal sin. I was mouth breathing like a motherfucker on that mat, trying to get myself together. Eventually my nose reorganized itself and I got back to nasal breathing within ten minutes, but before that, I came dangerously close to wailing. I had to clamp down on it — the sound that wanted to come out was some ancient grief, like an animal howl. But it was good. I got it all out.
Last time we did this restorative violin class, I was there with the family — my ex-wife, my daughter, and my son. We laid our mats next to each other in a perfect row. We looked like this perfect little fucking family, breathing together, resting together, a picture straight out of a brochure about mindful parenting. And now what? Now it’s destroyed. Now I’m on my own. Now I’m out here getting shot down like I’m in Top Gun. I’ve got no wingman. I’m out there solo, taking hits from all sides. But still I rise. Again and again. Even on days like this.
There was a beautiful girl behind me tonight in restorative yoga — and she had been at the spiritual community last night too, though I didn’t realize that at first. I had just finished crying my face off for thirty minutes, lying there completely wrecked, trying to rest. When I finally looked back, I saw her. She was pretty. And my first thought was, Fuck, I do not want to do this right now. Then she made eye contact with me and smiled, and I thought, Why the fuck is this bitch smiling at me right now? Don’t you see this is not the time for this? For once I wanted to be fully present in my own damn body without another girl appearing to test me.
But curiosity got me. Something in me said, Go find out what this is. So I got up and walked over. I said hi, and she said hey, and then she said, “I saw you last night.” That surprised me. She introduced herself — a woman from the event the night before. She said she had been at the spiritual community too. I barely remembered seeing her there, though she did look slightly familiar when she said it.
It hit me then how small this community really is — how much overlap exists between yoga studios, ecstatic dance, healing events, the spiritual community, my yoga studio, random workshops. Online you can burn bridges all day because there are infinite people to replace the ones you alienate. But in real life, especially in a city like St. Pete, everyone circles back. People show up again and again — at yoga, at spiritual events, at tennis, at cafés, everywhere. So I told myself, Be nice to everybody. You never know when someone is going to show up again — or when they might decide they have to have you in a month.
After I sent the woman I met that first voice memo this morning, she wrote back with three texts in a row. And then I sent her a second voice memo — the one that was basically my downfall. I said something like, “Look, that’s crazy. I know you had so much fun with me last night. What else are you doing in your life that’s as fun as hanging out with me? When have you laughed that much recently? It’s important to prioritize fun and be around people you enjoy — like me. I know you’ve got time. We could meet for an hour after work, go to a yoga class or something. You’ve got time.”
She told me last night how stressed she’d been, so I kept going: “The antidote to stress is hanging out with people who make you feel good, people you laugh with, people who give you connection and play. That’s how you reduce stress.” And even though I didn’t say the next part out loud, the subtext was there: Most of the stuff people do to fix stress is bullshit. If your life didn’t suck, if you didn’t sit alone scrolling Instagram, if you didn’t isolate yourself and push away the people who actually like you, you wouldn’t be stressed in the first place.
I didn’t say that last part, but that was the energy behind the message. And immediately afterward, I felt bad. The whole thing landed heavy. It came across as toxic, like I was lecturing her — when I should’ve said nothing at all. My new policy, I’m thinking, is that when someone sends me a message like she did today — something distancing, something closing the door — I won’t respond. I’ll let them go. If I see them again, fine, I’ll say hi. But I don’t need to chase people who aren’t choosing me clearly. It just means something is off, and I need to move on.
The truth is, most people don’t appreciate insight when they’re not ready for it. I’ve tried offering people clarity, direction, perspective — and instead of seeing the value, they get offended, defensive, or uncomfortable. They stop wanting to be around me because I hit too close to home. And maybe that’s just something I have to accept: not everyone wants the truth, even when they’re drowning in the problems the truth would solve.
At the AA meeting the other day, I watched everyone sitting with their arms crossed while the person before them shared about being open and receiving spiritual gifts. And I thought, How the hell are you going to receive anything when your whole body is clenched shut? Arms crossed is the posture of someone defending themselves, comforting themselves, trying to stay safe. When I pointed that out, someone said, “It’s cold in here.” Bullshit. It wasn’t that cold. If your arms are crossed for an entire meeting, you’re not letting anything in. You’re not hearing shit. Maybe a few people are open, but most look like they’re in protective mode — and when you’re defending yourself, openness dies on the vine.
So yes, your boy is still single — if that wasn’t obvious by now. And I caught myself laughing tonight, thinking how ridiculous it would be if this woman from the event ended up liking me more precisely because I didn’t give her much attention. I walked over, said hi, but I didn’t smile, didn’t flirt, didn’t turn it on. It’s funny how reverse psychology works. Meanwhile, last night I was so enthusiastic with the woman I met that she probably woke up thinking, I can’t handle this shit. He’s too much. Too needy. Too desperate. Too old. And he probably wants sex every day. Which, to be fair, is true.
While going through the divorce parenting course today — because I’m a fucking winner, baby — I did wonder if I was saying “fuck” too much. But fuck it. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. My first YouTube video ever was literally me saying “fuck” over and over. It went, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” and that was the whole video. Somehow, that guy went on to rack up hundreds of millions of impressions. That’s the origin story.
As I listened to this divorce course, with its narrator basically saying, “If you fuck up, your children will hate you and join gangs,” I started laughing. That was the general tone: fear, fear, fear. And then something clicked — when kids get afraid, they often withdraw. That’s what these women are doing with me. I come in like a force of nature — big presence, high energy, switching lanes at 100 miles an hour. Jerry Banfield incoming, giant ego, giant confidence, giant metaphorical schlong, shaking up their whole lives and dragging them off the dance floor like whoa. It doesn’t translate neatly into text, but you get the audio vibe: I’m overwhelming some of these women. They’re timid. They’re not ready for someone coming in like a wrecking ball — in their bed telling them, “Put the goddamn phone away. Delete Instagram. Start living your real life. Stop doom-scrolling the way I used to while I was making a living off everyone else doom-scrolling.”
So yes — hi. I know I can be a lot. But here’s the thing: I’m not going to be fake just to try and get women. I’m not going to pretend to be anything other than exactly who I am. I really am excited about romance — even a messy, bad romance, like that old Lady Gaga song that was stuck in my head. I want that energy again. I want the connection, the passion, the intensity. I want a great relationship — another one worthy of my whole heart.
Today was still a great day in its own strange way. I spent the morning, the middle of the day, the evening, and the night with the kids — except for when I slipped out for yoga. In between all of that, I was working on my audiobook. I actually finished dictating I Was Famous on the Internet today. I somehow skipped over a chapter in the middle of recording, and only realized it at the end, so I went back and recorded the missing piece. I’m genuinely excited about how it turned out.
And honestly, I think I’m about to get major paid in this audiobook game. These dictated books are so much better than podcasts. Podcasts are shit — I can't stand podcasts. But audiobooks? This is living-legend material right here. Though I can already hear the review: One star. Jerry sucks cock for a living. He should stop going out with women. There’s always a voice ready to talk shit.
It has been an emotional roller coaster — the kind that climbs sky-high one night and drops your ass straight into the abyss the next day. As soon as I sent that message this morning, I felt it: This is not being well received. She’s telling me to fuck off right now. And she did. I had this moment of just wanting something — anything — to go right the way my marriage did for most of its duration. Last night I was triumphant. I walked out of the house after two weeks separated and thought, Damn, I’ve already found a new girl. Twenty-nine years old. Let’s go.
But apparently it’s not going to be quite that easy. Maybe the next one will be thinking, Why wasn’t I pretty enough for him to remember my name and pay attention to me? What can I do to get him to notice me next time? Maybe I’ll buy one of his books. Who knows.
It’s been a ride — painful, yes, but funny in its own twisted way — and what amazes me is how ready I am to go again. Not tonight. No, absolutely not tonight. But tomorrow? I’ll probably wake up ready to pick somebody up at yoga again. That’s one of the things I genuinely love about myself: I go for it, I get destroyed, and I’m ready to try again almost immediately. I don’t waste time, and I’m glad the girl didn’t waste mine. She didn’t drag it out for a month or two, or years, the way some people get strung along. She shut the door immediately.
I always tell people, “Don’t waste my time. Either you want to fuck me every day and marry me and have my kids, or let’s move on.” There’s no need for ambiguity. I appreciate that the woman I met didn’t try to string me along. She spared me that.
Still, I took an emotional beating today. I went through all the classic rejection thoughts: I’m too old. I’m not good enough. Maybe she doesn’t think my dick is big enough. Was everything last night fake? Is this what every girl is going to do — act one way in person and then send a cold message the next day? I honestly felt like when she texted me this morning, it was up to me to at least try pushing through the resistance — testing whether it was real or just fear — and that’s why I sent the message I sent. But the answer came back loud and clear.
I still went to the 10:00 a.m. yoga class this morning, partly because I wanted to see that other girl I’d had a crush on before. Right after last night, I still went looking for her. I skipped tennis so I could go — in case she was there — because I wanted to tell her I’m divorced now, tell her to forget about her girlfriend, tell her to meet me at the hotel. That energy still lives in me, even when I’m heartbroken.
Honestly, 10:00 a.m. yoga was the peak of my happiness today. I woke up halfway delusional, still convinced things might go well with the woman I met. She’d laughed a hundred times last night. She was pretty. She liked me. We were compatible on so many levels. I let myself believe it had a shot. But nope. Not today, boy. Nothing went well for you in that department. At least everything else did.
I had real time with the kids today. We played Uno No Mercy, and I got a ton of snuggles. I was around the house with them most of the day — present, involved, part of the family rhythm. I even had dinner over there tonight. Despite feeling gutted and drained, and despite barely sleeping last night because my mind was spinning in circles over the woman I met, today was still a better day than many I’ve had in my life. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud that even after a hit like this, I’m ready to get right back on it tomorrow. I’ll go for it again and again and again because that’s what life is — either chasing women or romancing the one you’ve got.
This guy after yoga today tried to hit me with some philosophical bullshit. Indian philosophy (thought he’s not Indian), something about how one day I’ll quit chasing girls, how desire fades, how I’ll outgrow it. He also told me he was gay, so my immediate thought was, What the hell does this dude know about chasing girls? Maybe he quit chasing dudes when he turned forty-eight, but I’m not quitting anything. Desire hasn’t gone anywhere for me. I want women just as much now as I did in high school. That fire hasn’t dimmed one bit. And I don’t think it ever will.
I’ve seen men in their eighties and nineties still chasing women, still alive inside because that spark never died. I already told the story about the eighty-six-year-old man whose girlfriend was ninety-three, and they were still having sex every day until he dumped her for being “too old.” His next girlfriend was ninety. That’s me. I’m going to be that guy in the nursing home — not that I’ll ever be in one — still trying to fuck something. That desire, that instinct, is not dying out. If anything, it feels stronger as I get older because I understand how precious connection is.
That’s where my dad got it wrong. He started as this vibrant young man chasing women everywhere, full of life and sex and fire. But after decades with my mom, resentment built up, and the flame went out. Once that flame dies, the body follows. It took ten or fifteen years, but it happened. That will not be me. I won’t let it.
So when this guy today was talking about karma — how desire fades, how I’ll stop chasing — I didn’t buy any of it. I don’t believe in karma. Karma is just the momentum of past choices but I create my own reality. I can change direction whenever I want. And maybe the woman I met woke up feeling that same thing: I can’t handle this man. He’s too much. He’s going to tell me to put my phone away at night. He’s going to try to be my dad. I get that. Some women don’t want that, or they think they don’t. But she does need guidance. She does need someone grounded. She does — she just doesn’t know it yet.
What amazes me is how good I feel recording this tonight. After last night, I was actually looking forward to sitting down and telling you how fucked up I was today, how deep the pain went, how hard the crash hit. And yes, it hurt like hell — the kind of hurt that sits in the chest and refuses to move. But the difference now is that I know I can handle the pain. I don’t fly off the handle anymore. I don’t implode. I don’t do stupid shit. I let myself feel it. I let it burn its way through me.
And I also know this: I’ll be high again soon enough. Naturally. These girls are my drugs now — they get me high, then drop me low, and make me feel something. And feeling something, even when it hurts, is better than being numb.
It feels good to feel something. To me, the real sign you’re close to dead is when you stop feeling altogether. Zombies don’t feel anything — at least the ones I used to shoot in Call of Duty didn’t. Being alive means feeling things, and even when the emotions are brutal, they give you superpowers. I even had a moment today where I thought, Maybe I should just do what everyone else does and get on the doctor-prescribed drugs that even everything out. Then I imagined myself floating through life like a muted version of who I am, leveled out into some monotone, boring-ass person. No offense to anyone who needs that, but for me? Fuck that. I’m not trying to dull the highs and lows. I can’t do what I’m doing right now without a huge emotional range. This kind of performance — this kind of creation — requires extremes.
Oh, what makes this good, Jerry? And who exactly are you talking to? Just your damn self?
Yes. And I’m having a blast in here, masterbatorily creating — which should honestly be the title of the book. I’m making myself laugh, and if there’s one thing I want to do with women, it’s make them laugh. I made the woman I met laugh at least a hundred times last night. I had her laughing on the dance floor, by the water, by the fire pit, walking around the venue, standing near the entrance — everywhere. If she doesn’t care about laughing, maybe she’s just not ready for the level of joy I bring. A lot of people have a glass ceiling on how good they’re willing to feel. And sometimes I roll into someone’s life — like the woman I met — and she can’t handle how good I feel and how good I can make her feel.
You can’t handle the truth. I’m going to say that in every damn book at this point. Because it’s true: some women cannot handle how good I can make them feel. And I have to respect that.
But I also hope I can handle the women who will take me to that next level. I think I’m working up to that. The way I narrated my earlier audiobooks compared to this one — this is another level of energy, another level of honesty, another level of pure chaotic clarity. This shit is crazy, isn’t it? And yes, I’m swearing every ten or fifteen words (although the written version has some of those edited out to make it flow better), but I’m having fun doing this. This is fun. It doesn’t have to be fun for everyone, but I want at least one person listening to this to laugh their ass off at how regular and ridiculous my life is, and how I approach it, and how I find humor even while watching a divorce course and crying, imagining the woman I met deciding at the last minute that she actually wants to date me, that she wants to come out to yoga tonight, that maybe she wants to fuck me afterward.
I genuinely pictured it: taking her to restorative yoga, letting her have a deep emotional release, and afterward she'd look at me like, You know what? I do want to date you. I do want to marry you. Get me pregnant tonight. That’s where my mind went — full fantasy.
There was a Kesha song stuck in my head all day, even if I couldn’t get the lyrics out right.
Sometimes I wonder how long these diary entries should be. They’re getting pretty long. But I think I should just go until I run out of things to say. Which, realistically, means we might be here all night. This could go on forever. And honestly? This is gold.
Can you imagine me listening back to this in thirty years? Can you picture my son or daughter hearing it one day? My daughter, my son — I love you. If you’re listening to this decades from now, I hope I’m still alive, still friends with your mom, and hopefully not divorced from the second wife yet. Or the third. Or the fourth. I also hope I’m not sitting around with some new girl doing this exact same shit at seventy-one — but honestly, even that sounds better than living like a zombie glued to a phone all day, watching videos of people I’ll never meet, numbed out on whatever my doctor prescribed so I don’t feel anything because “life is so hard.” Yeah, life is hard — but I’m harder. That’s why I incarnated here. I looked at this planet and thought, This will be fun. I’ve got eternity. I figured I’d drop in for a hundred years, experience some chaos, maybe go build a star afterward.
The other day, I had the idea to channel an alien from across the galaxy and put it in a nonfiction book. And why not? If someone can’t disprove what I’m channeling — can’t show that in the entire universe there isn’t one alien who matches what I describe — then who’s to say it’s fiction? So I’m going to channel this weird energy-being alien civilization, maybe one that builds stars and eats stardust and doesn’t breathe anything the way we think about it. Something wild. Something cosmic. And I’ll put that shit right under nonfiction. Prove me wrong.
The more I talk like this, the more I realize how much I love myself. I’m proud of how I went through this day. I wish I could take a poll right now — really ask people what they think — but I’m not trying to hear from random motherfuckers online, so I’ll just ask my massage therapist tomorrow. I’ll ask her whether the most loving, joyful, authentic move was the message I sent the woman I met — the life-coach reply — or whether it would’ve been better to ignore it altogether. You could argue either way, and I honestly don’t know which was “right.” We’ll see.
I can feel myself winding down now. Miraculous. It’s like emotional digestion — that feeling when you know the whole thing has finally moved through you. That’s what these diaries are for: getting it all out of my system in one big release. And I keep coming back to this image: my kids, thirty years from now, listening to their dad’s real talk. The stuff I wouldn’t have said to a ten-year-old version of them, but would absolutely say to a microphone at midnight. I would die to have something like this from my own father — his unfiltered truth, his messy thoughts, his humor, his contradictions, his desires, his frustrations. Even now, I can’t talk with my kids at this level, and I wouldn’t swear this much around them, but the spirit of it — the honesty — is the same.
All right. I think I’m done. And no, it’s never going to land as “that’s what she said.” Fuck.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Dating playlist.