This is my journal entry from October 23, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Learning to Live Alone Again — my real, unedited days, published in order.
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I woke up at 5:30 a.m., feeling a strange mix of sadness and excitement, as if I already sensed things with the woman from yoga probably wouldn’t work out. I was grateful I’d gone to bed early, even though I lay awake until 6:30 before getting up. After getting ready, I took the kids to school. They were quiet during the drive, and I had tried to talk with my ex-wife a little before we left, though it felt forced. We haven’t had much time to talk lately, and I realize I need to ask for that directly now. I miss our conversations—the deeper ones we used to have when I still lived at the house. These days, neither of us makes time for that. She hasn’t asked to talk with me, and I haven’t done more than try during the chaos when the kids are around. I could just ask her to talk after the kids go to bed one night, like tonight.
After dropping the kids off, I sat in the car reading for a while. One of the divorced moms in the neighborhood stopped in front of my car and talked for about ten minutes. It felt like the universe trying to tempt me. Still, my mind went to the woman from yoga, imagining how nice it would feel to be with a woman I was truly excited about.
At yoga, I got there five minutes early and settled on my mat. When class started and she wasn’t there, I stayed calm, choosing to appreciate the uncertainty. I heard a couple of people walk in behind me and lay down their mats to my left and right. Maybe one of them was her. Maybe not. It reminded me of Schrödinger’s cat—she both could be there and not there at the same time. The not knowing was kind of nice, in a strange way. It made life more interesting. If we knew everything in advance, it would ruin the fun. Yet that desire to know, to navigate life “successfully,” is always there. I want to ask a psychic what I should do to have the best possible life, but if it were that simple, would it even be worth living?
About ten minutes into class, we moved off our backs, and I glanced around. Neither of the girls behind me was the woman from yoga. A wave of sadness hit. She had said she would be here today, but she wasn’t. I don’t have her number, so I had no way of knowing why. My first thought was that she just wasn’t that available for me—and maybe she has a boyfriend. Whatever the reason, my interest dropped to almost nothing right then.
It had been fun having someone on my radar for a few days. My life feels like a radar screen scanning the sky, always searching but only picking up small blips at a time. I can sense the general direction to go, but what actually appears is always a surprise. Maybe the next woman will just suddenly show up—someone who’s actually where she says she’ll be and available for me.
I’ve been finishing More: A Memoir of an Open Marriage by Molly Roden Winter, and it stirred a lot in me. I found myself wishing my ex-wife had been open to trying something like that, instead of immediately pushing me out. Although she said I could stay in the house for a while, I was the one who felt desperate to get out and live on my own again. Maybe I moved out too soon—but she clearly wanted me gone too. The same day we told the kids, she was already showing me rentals.
My thoughts have been scattered all day between those memories and everything else. My ex-wife loves me, and she’s trying to let me go so I can fully be with someone else. She doesn’t want to hang onto me through some halfway version of an open marriage. Still, I feel discarded—by someone who knows me as deeply as my own mother.
There’s jealousy too. I think of all the people out there living freely, feeling desired. Meanwhile, I’m alone, while they’re not. Maybe that’s what this is: a test of patience, surrender, and whatever lesson I’m supposed to be learning in this stretch of solitude.
I keep wondering how much of what I’ve learned over the last decade I actually know. After years of sobriety, therapy, reading, and spiritual practice, it’s easy to feel wise when life is going well. But how do you know what you’ve really learned until it’s tested? Until you’re broke, single, and still trying to hold your head up? That’s where I am right now—no money coming in, nobody to date—and it’s the perfect test. Now we’ll see if I actually know how to date, how to make money, and how to stay at peace while I do it.
This morning I tried setting up an Amazon ad campaign for my book. It says it’s “delivering,” but I haven’t seen any results yet. I set the budget at $12 a day, figuring I might as well give it a try. I believe the title itself is marketable enough to sell, but it’s frustrating watching nothing happen. What’s been bothering me even more is how long it’s taking to get my author copies. I ordered them on October 10, and here we are thirteen days later with no shipment update. It’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but I’ve been so eager to hold hundreds of copies in my hands and give them away. That’s the dream—my books out there in people’s hands.
I emailed a local shop about stocking some copies, but they haven’t replied yet. After that, I went to yoga. It felt great to stretch after running last night. A yoga instructor taught the class. She mentioned she might take up tennis soon, and I laughed, telling her I’d been thinking about quitting. She said maybe we could play together sometime, which was sweet. I’m realizing now, as I dictate this at the end of the day, that even small interactions like that lift my mood.
Still, underneath everything, I feel disgustingly needy for validation. My ex-wife used to give me so much affirmation and affection, and that constant reinforcement is gone now. I catch myself resenting her for it, even though I know that’s not fair—she doesn’t have anyone else she’s giving it to either. It’s petty, but it’s real. And noticing it shows me how much I’ve been leaning on outside validation.
The irony is hard to ignore. I used to imagine I’d be the bachelor of St. Pete—this confident, desirable guy with endless dating options. Instead, I’m sitting here eating a big slice of humble pie. Nobody I want to date seems to want to date me. The options that do exist don’t interest me. There are plenty of single moms around, but I’m not attracted to women who are overweight, unstable, or constantly drinking. There are girls at yoga and in AA who might be interested, but I’m not drawn to them either. They’re not my match—not attractive enough, not sharp or funny enough.
That’s the hard truth: I expect a high-caliber woman. And lately I’ve been wrestling with whether it’s better to just stay single than settle for something less. I think that’s the virtuous path.
While recording I Was Famous on the Internet for my audiobook, I came across a passage that hit home. I wrote about how I could never fully commit to being greedy or virtuous, and how that in-between space caused me the most misery. If you go all in on greed, at least you get the full rewards of greed. If you go all in on virtue, you get the peace that comes from that. But when you try to straddle both worlds, you sabotage yourself.
I saw that with a small project I launched once. I went into it half-hearted—it started from greed, but I tried to stay virtuous—and ended up keeping only a fraction of what I could have. If I’d gone full greed, I’d have maximized it. If I’d gone full virtue, I wouldn’t have done it at all. Instead, I got the worst of both worlds—felt bad about it and made almost nothing.
So with women, I’m choosing clarity now. I’m going full virtue mode. Either I meet the woman of my dreams, or I stay single. No half-measures. Give me the woman who’s passionate, wants to have kids, is emotionally available, intelligent, and not some dopamine-drained bot glued to her phone all day. Give me that, or I’ll happily stay home on my own.
I’m not settling for “regular.” I’m an anomaly, as a friend once told me. I know it sounds arrogant, but it’s true. I’m not a regular guy who hangs out in bars and drinks to feel confident. In that open marriage memoir I’ve been reading, every guy she hooks up with sounds like the same regular-ass dude who gets drunk before being intimate. It makes me cringe. The drinking, the lack of presence—Jesus, can’t anyone have a good time without getting wasted?
Maybe that’s the point. It’s hard to be intimate with someone you barely know without a few drinks first. Which is exactly why I quit drinking. I’d rather stay sober, wait, and meet someone I can actually connect with—someone I don’t have to get drunk to feel close to.
I’m enjoying hearing more of Molly’s journey in her book, More: A Memoir of an Open Marriage, even though she’s not someone I’d ever want to be with. We’re very different. Then again, I guess I feel like a mess today too. Maybe that’s why I relate to her honesty. Like her, I’m willing to expose my chaos. This—everything I’m dictating right now—is my mess, laid bare.
By late morning, I still felt like the day was only halfway done when my older friend arrived. He came over around 11, and it was great to see him. My older friend’s in his seventies, but you wouldn’t know it. The man could pass for fifty, maybe even forty, and he’s got an incredible life story. I told him straight up, “You’ve got to get this in a book, man.” His stories deserve to be written down. What amazed me most is that he dictated for two hours straight—no breaks, just talking his life out into the recorder. Even for me, that’s impressive. I rarely dictate that long in one go.
As I listened, I felt honored by how much of his life he shared and the depth of detail he remembered. It made me wonder how I’ll help him publish it. I think the best approach would be to release it under his own Amazon account so he keeps full control and I don’t take on any liability. But I’m also thinking through how much of his story is even publishable—there are some wild parts in there I’m not sure could go in a book. Still, I’m so glad he came over today. Spending time with him gave me clarity.
Of course, he also suggested again that I consider getting my own books published through a traditional publisher, which to me sounds like the exact opposite of what I want. I can’t imagine a publisher letting me ramble honestly like this, without sanitizing every paragraph. If a publisher ever approached me—if they wanted me and could explain why it’d be good for me—I’d listen. But I have zero interest in chasing one down like a desperate author trying to get picked up. I’m not going to sell myself out to a corporate machine that profits off my work and tells me how to write it.
I look at how the industry works—authors flooding agents with manuscripts, begging for attention—and it’s sad. The nicest thing I could probably do is stay out of that circus altogether. If fewer people were clogging up agents’ inboxes, maybe they wouldn’t need eight weeks just to respond to a submission. Eight weeks! It’s absurd. The whole system feels wrong for me.
What I love most about self-publishing is the freedom to say exactly what I want. My books are polarizing—you either love them or you hate them. That’s how I know they’re alive. The worst thing I can imagine writing is some lukewarm, watered-down, over-edited piece of sanitized crap that sits politely on a shelf. I’d rather people hate me than feel indifferent.
I do have a fiction book in mind that I’m excited about. It’s edgy and raw. If I went the traditional route, I could submit it to agents, sure. Maybe in a fantasy scenario I’d land a $50,000 advance after months of back and forth. Even if everything went perfectly, though, I’d have to spend months compromising—letting someone else edit, tone things down, and smooth the rough edges. That’s not me. The edge is the point.
There’s a balance between asking for advice and trusting your own instincts. If my books are great, they’ll spread on their own. Readers will share them. In that case, I don’t need a publisher. And if my books aren’t great, then I really don’t need one, because why would I want to push mediocrity to more people? Great work doesn’t need permission—it just needs time to be found. Maybe I’ll test some Amazon ads, build a base that way, and let word of mouth do the rest.
It’s the same logic I apply to dating. If I’m really that great—if I’m the kind of man I believe I am—then the right woman will sense it. Her radar will pick me up. She’ll come into my life and make it clear she wants me. And if that doesn’t happen? Then maybe I’m not that great, and I should just accept being the perennial date for all the single moms around town. Either way, the truth will reveal itself.
I talked to my sponsor on the phone today, and our conversation left me thinking about two completely different perspectives I keep hearing. Earlier, I’d told my older friend about my dating situation, and based on everything I said, he thought the best path for me was to stay single and wait for the right woman—someone who truly excites me and feels like a clear yes. My sponsor, though, completely disagreed. He said I might as well get out there and have some fun.
Then he joked about my dating life, and I laughed.
We riffed about how transactional most relationships really are when you strip them down, and how strange it is that society draws such hard moral lines around what two consenting adults choose to do. Who even decides what’s moral or acceptable?
Still, the thought brings me back to something deeper: the truth that what we do ends up proving what we are. I remember in early sobriety thinking that if I drank, it meant I was stupid. Staying sober meant I might be smart. That lesson stuck. I’m realizing now that if I’m willing to have sex with women I’m not actually into, that’s proof I don’t think I’m worthy of the kind of love I really want. But if I can wait—if I’m willing to hold out for what I truly desire—that’s proof I am worthy.
The same thing applies to my writing. If I’m willing to write unapologetically, publish independently, and hand my books out to whoever will take them, that’s proof I believe in my work. If I start chasing publishers, begging for validation, then I’m sending the message that I don’t think my work is enough on its own. If I’m really that great, a publisher or agent will eventually find me. And if they don’t, that’s fine too. I’m the one creating. I’m the one doing the valuable work.
Amazon gives me 70% royalties on Kindle self-publishing. A publisher would give me maybe 25%. Audible gives me 25% of audiobook sales now, and even that’s probably higher than what I’d get through a publishing house. I can make and distribute everything myself, and I can do it fast. I don’t need someone else to bless what I create.
Later in the day, I looked over the paperwork my ex-wife gave me for the financial affidavit. I’m struggling to fill it out and will probably need her help. Then I went to my 4 p.m. AA meeting, which was grounding. It’s always good to see familiar faces from my home group. My friend chaired today, and I got some validation from her presence and energy, which I needed more than I realized.
We had a few newcomers in the room, a couple of people just a few months sober, which always adds a certain freshness to the space. I shared about how I used to drink to avoid the exact kinds of feelings and thoughts I’ve had today—the loneliness, the frustration, the craving for validation. Now, I don’t have to drink to get through an ordinary day, and that’s something I’m deeply grateful for.
After the meeting, I spoke with a homeless guy who’s been hanging around the church lately. He keeps coming in and out, making noise, distracting the meeting. The woman who cleans the church told me he’d been asked not to be there. I approached him gently and told him that. He left without any trouble, which was a relief.
I’d shaken his hand earlier in the week and introduced myself, so there was already some rapport. It reminded me of my police days. Back then, I used to take guys like him to jail. Sometimes they’d fight, and I’d have to take them down. I still get a little euphoric recall from those moments—the adrenaline, the physicality of it. It’s strange, looking back, realizing how many versions of myself I’ve lived through. From cop to author, from drunk to sober, from husband to single man again—each phase proving, in its own way, what I believe about who I am.
After my meeting, I walked over to the tennis club for tennis camp, still dragging a bad attitude with me. My mind was full of that familiar self-doubt—let’s see if I’m the worst one on the men’s court tonight. Turns out I wasn’t. Maybe second or third worst, but not dead last. That gave me a little motivation. I realized I actually want to get better at this game, maybe even commit to lessons again.
The clinic itself was fun. It’s about a ten-minute walk from my house to the club, and I enjoyed the fresh air before we got started. The coach kept everyone moving, which I loved. I hit some surprisingly solid shots, way better than when I played the guy from the tennis ladder a couple of nights ago. I even ran into the guy from the tennis ladder earlier today—he’d reserved the ball machine instead of playing with me yesterday—but he was in good spirits, and I understood.
After the clinic, I asked the coach if I could start lessons with him, and we set one up for Monday from 5:30 to 6:30. Earlier in the day, I’d been telling a yoga instructor that I either need to quit playing tennis or double down and improve. I told her about the guy from the tennis ladder choosing the machine over me, and she said the same thing happens in beach volleyball—that sometimes people won’t partner with you, and you end up with nobody to play with. She’s right. The stories are the same everywhere, just in different forms.
When I got home, I had some hummus for dinner, showered, and walked over to my ex-wife’s to put the kids to bed. That’s when the sadness hit again. My mind started feeding me those dark thoughts: You don’t have a family anymore. The kids don’t need you. My ex-wife’s got everything handled. Nobody needs you. For a few minutes, I let myself sink into it. Then I tried to shift perspective. Maybe nobody needs me, but plenty of people appreciate me.
Honestly, I don’t even know if I want people to need me. I want everyone to be okay without me. Still, I know there are people who genuinely want me in their lives—my ex-wife, the kids, my mom, the couple I rent from (who definitely appreciate me paying rent). The people at yoga seem glad to see me. There are so many faces that make up my days, people I’d miss if they disappeared—even ones I used to find annoying.
There was this guy who used to come to yoga all the time years ago. He’d wear the most obnoxious outfits—bright pink shorts with a cup, tight shirts—and he always set up his mat right in front of mine, blocking any view I might have enjoyed during class. At first, I couldn’t stand him. Then one day I said hi, and we started talking. Over time, I grew to appreciate him, and when he moved away a year or two ago, I actually missed him. It’s funny how that works.
I missed the woman from yoga in class today too. When she didn’t show up, my first thought was that my whole day was ruined. But the truth is, it wasn’t. I had plenty of laughs today. If I’d stayed home, lying in bed doing nothing, I would’ve been severely depressed. Getting out of the house saved me. Between yoga, my older friend visiting, the meeting, and tennis, I stayed connected.
This divorce would be so much harder if I didn’t have so many people in my life. Whether I need them or not, I want them. Even the regular guys at tennis—the ones who show up each week just to play—add something. I remember one night when only three of us came to the men’s clinic. The coaches canceled it, and it sucked. It’s funny how even casual acquaintances make life better. There are a lot of people I appreciate more than they’ll ever know.
After the woman from yoga didn’t come to yoga, I started wondering—am I walking around ruining other people’s days without realizing it? Do I get someone’s hopes up, make them feel seen or excited, and then disappear like she did? Am I doing that to the kids sometimes when I don’t see them on the weekends because my ex-wife already has plans? Am I unintentionally breaking someone’s heart without knowing it?
And then I wondered if the woman from yoga had any idea how much it hurt me when she didn’t show up. How much of that is really on her versus just me projecting my hopes? Part of me already knew it was coming. Yesterday, when she said, “See you at nine,” I didn’t quite believe her. Something in her tone felt off, like her energy had shifted.
I ended the night talking in my head to whoever my next woman is—the one who’s really meant for me. I could almost hear her voice saying, Be patient. I’m coming when the time’s right. The woman from yoga isn’t me.
I’ve talked for thirty-four minutes now, dictating this whole day into existence. Maybe that’s enough for tonight. I hope you’re fucking day isn’t ruined lol.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Dating playlist.