This is an excerpt from my full-life memoir, Un Fn Myself — my real story of addiction, recovery, fatherhood, and everything in between from 1984 to 2026, including the parts most people would cut out.
By the summer of 2010, I took what would turn out to be the last full-time job I might ever have: working for the U.S. Census. They promoted me almost immediately to supervisor, which was great for all the wrong reasons. I didn’t have to do much of the actual census work. Mostly, I collected paperwork from the people who did. I got paid more, worked more hours, and had enough flexibility that when I had a day or two off, I’d sometimes just disappear to a casino. That pissed my parents off, understandably. One night at the casino, I got so fucked up and won so much money playing craps that I didn’t make it back to my room until about 7:00 a.m. The maid came in around 1:00 p.m. and I walked out immediately so I would not have to pay for another night given that one was free. I was exhausted and tried to sleep on a toilet in the casino downstairs, which did not work well although I think I got a few shitty smelling power naps.
When the census completed, I took a road trip of more than 2,000 miles. I wanted to see people before the next chapter started. I drove to Columbia to see friends, went up to Washington, D.C. to see high school friends, then over to Michigan to see family, then back to Columbia again to see a girl. I ended up sleeping with two women on that trip. One was from college—the one who’d wanted to sleep in my room back then. We finally slept together at my friend’s apartment, except she’d put on about fifty pounds. I remember thinking, why do they do this? What didn’t cross my mind at all was that I’d put on at least twenty pounds myself since she’d seen me. That irony completely escaped me.
I actually had lost some weight living with my parents. By 2010, I was down to about 190 pounds, which I hadn’t weighed since 2005. The main reason was simple: I wasn’t drinking much, and I wasn’t eating late at night. I’d wake up around noon and eat lunch, have dinner with my parents around 5:30 p.m., snack on a little popcorn with my mom around 7:00 or 8:00 p.m., and then I wouldn’t eat again until lunch the next day aside from having a box of Altoids. That was it. No late-night binges. I was also working out—lifting weights, playing basketball, spending time at the gym. I got myself looking decent again. So in that narrow comparison, I guess I’d done better than the girl from college. We slept together, and afterward she said she wanted to date me. I remember thinking, are you fucking serious? I lived in Mississippi, was moving to Florida, and she lived in South Carolina. I wasn’t trying to date her. I just wanted to finally have the sex we never had in college and close that loop.
The other girl I slept with on that trip was someone I’d met in a bar the year before. After not hearing from her for a year, she had sent out a mass text asking if I wanted a haircut. I didn’t realize it was a mass text, and I definitely didn’t realize she actually meant a haircut. I assumed she was after more than a haircut. I was genuinely surprised when she showed up and actually cut my hair—and did a pretty bad job of it. We ended up sleeping together in that brand new house.
That road trip ended in a way that felt almost scripted, like the universe wanted to make sure I didn’t miss the lesson. I was hoping to hook up with a third girl, someone I’d gone to high school with and stayed loosely connected to on Facebook. I drove 700 miles from South Carolina to Indianapolis to see her. At first, it seemed like it was going to work. Within an hour of getting there, we were making out. She smoked cigarettes, and I ended up smoking with her, which was a terrible idea on every level. I was supposed to be the designated driver that night, but I got just as fucked up as everyone else.
I didn’t know Indianapolis at all. We went out to a bar, and apparently she wanted me sitting next to her, but I didn’t pick up on that. The crew we went out with consisted of her, me, and a few of her friends. We hit it off immediately. We were playing beer pong, talking shit, having a great time. In my head, this was perfect: hang out with some cool guys, have fun, then go home with her afterward. I didn’t see the problem forming right in front of me.
One of the guys stayed close to her while the rest of us were drinking and playing. I barely noticed. I was already planning to drunk-drive everyone thirty minutes back across Indianapolis, wondering why we’d even driven that far out in the first place. I thought everything was fine. It wasn’t. She ended up going to bed with one of the guys instead. When she told me nothing was happening between us, I lost it. I told her I didn’t drive all this way to just sleep on the fucking couch. She brushed it off and went to bed. I screamed and yelled. The other guys were surprisingly calm and just let me rant without escalating anything. I slammed the door hard enough to shake the entire house and never saw her again.
After that, I drove another 700 miles—drunk—the entire way back from Indianapolis to my parents’ place in Mississippi. That was the last time I ever drove drunk. I pounded at least five energy drinks to stay awake over the next few hours. Somewhere along the way, I called a girl from Plenty of Fish who would later end up dating me when I moved to Tampa. At one point, I pulled over in an Alabama rest stop because I was paranoid about getting a DUI and was close to passing out at the wheel. Even though the car was off, I didn’t want to sleep in the driver’s seat. It was July and brutally hot, even at ten in the morning. Sleeping in the car wasn’t an option without sweating through everything in minutes.
After being uncomfortable in the back seat of the hot car, I tried to sleep in the rest-stop bathroom instead. Since it was a summer Friday morning, the place was packed. People were in every stall, taking shits. I remember sitting there thinking, what the fuck is wrong with my life? Families were out traveling, having fun. Meanwhile, I was trying to sleep on a toilet in a rest-stop bathroom in the middle of Alabama, hungover and miserable. I had been planning to meet a friend out of town that day, but I bailed on everything. All I wanted was to get home to my parents and play StarCraft II which was just releasing along with getting back to Modern Warfare 2. I made it home safely after praying to God, promising I would never, ever drive drunk again if I could just get home alive. The last stretch was brutal—back-road Alabama highways, a vicious hangover crashing down, pure exhaustion—but I did it. I would never recommend that kind of stupidity to anyone, and I would never do it again.
After I got home from that road trip, I calmed down for the rest of the summer. I poured myself into StarCraft II and took it seriously enough to climb all the way into the top ranked 1v1 Diamond division. I was wrecking people using the cheapest strategies imaginable—photon cannon rushes shoved straight up their ass, early Zergling and Zealot rushes, whatever worked fastest. My brother would watch and tell me I was doing the dumbest, cheapest shit possible. I’d tell him, fuck it, it works and the faster the game ends, the faster I level up. I made it into a top-ranked division, which felt like another small, hollow victory stacked on top of all the others.
Then I moved to the University of South Florida in Tampa. I remember thinking, damn, I really made it. In my head, this was the comeback. My dad had asked me after I quit my police job whether I thought my drinking had anything to do with having to resign. At the time, I was still angry. I told him fuck that police department, that they took the dispatcher’s side, believed all the complaints, bought into everyone else’s bullshit. What I couldn’t admit yet—what was absolutely true—was that it was me. All of it. If I hadn’t been drinking, I wouldn’t have had a single problem at that job. Not one. If I’d told them I was an alcoholic and needed help, they probably would have given me a chance if I had stayed sober and went to Alcoholics Anonymous.
Living with my parents had stabilized me enough that I walked into Tampa feeling optimistic. I was immediately dating a girl I’d met on Plenty of Fish. Her personality was exhausting for me, though. She was a massive people pleaser, constantly trying to do whatever she thought I wanted. There was no real chemistry either. She wasn’t intellectually stimulating, and it didn’t feel like she could be herself around me. The truth is, we were both just desperate and not compatible.
We dated for a few months. We went to Busch Gardens, Disney, did all the normal couple shit. Eventually, I got tired of her, and I handled the breakup in the best way possible. I drove her to her parents’ house for Thanksgiving under the pretense that she was going to meet my parents. Then, I told her the morning we were supposed to leave that I was going by myself and then I broke up with her Thanksgiving day while I was at my parents’ house. The funniest part is that I still gave her a ride back to Tampa on the way back. She tried to convince me to get back together but I told her I’d rather stay home playing Call of Duty: Black Ops than have her over.
Academically, that first semester went pretty well. I was drinking reasonably, going to class, and taking school seriously. The girlfriend kept me grounded for a bit. But I remember even while moving into my apartment, barely knowing her, thinking, I can’t wait to be done with this relationship so I can drink properly. And eventually, I did. After a few months single, I met the woman who would become my ex-wife.
She was absolutely gorgeous, and from the moment we started dating, my life lit up. It felt electric. I remember thinking, holy shit, this is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life. I told myself everything was going to take off now. I’d drink reasonably. I’d grow up. I’d finally have fun without destroying myself.
We went on six dates before we slept together, and when it finally happened, it blew everything else away. The chemistry was unreal. I loved being around her constantly. I wanted to do everything together. At the same time, we didn’t suffocate each other. We didn’t text or call nonstop. She was buried in her own studies and career that summer, and she had her own life. When we weren’t together, we left each other alone. When we were together, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. My sister noticed it immediately. She told us, you two never stop touching each other. And she was right. It was intoxicating. I remember thinking, this is my life now. I’ve finally got it made. Everything is going to be okay.
In August 2011, I moved in with her. The night before, alone in my apartment, I drank while trying not to get too drunk. I sat there thinking about how this was the end of my bachelor lifestyle. I knew I wouldn’t be able to live the same way anymore. I told myself I was going to have to get sober, stop playing video games all the time, and grow the fuck up. I believed it would just happen automatically. I’d move in with her, flip the switch, and everything would fall into place without much effort. That’s not how it happened at all. It was a lot harder than that.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.