This is my journal entry from August 15, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Author in St. Petersburg — my real, unedited days, published in order.
Yesterday I left off talking about how I planned to move the window unit myself. I did manage to get it relocated, but when I went to seal it with the same spray foam I’d used a couple of months ago, I hit a snag. The nozzle on the six-inch extension tube was clogged solid, thanks to me not cleaning it after the last job. At first, I tried spraying straight from the can after ripping the clogged tube off, but that made it impossible to reach the tight spots. I resorted to pushing the foam into place with my right hand, which worked well enough — until the can ran out.
Only then did I realize I’d essentially created a spray-foam glove over my entire right hand, with several fingers on my left hand also coated. It took more than an hour to get it off, and even that came at the cost of peeling off the top layer of skin in several spots. I tried soap and water, even a bit of oil, none of which worked quickly. By the end, I was almost late for my tour of the the Sarasota school. The whole ordeal left me with a painful reminder: never get spray foam on my hands again.
The drive to Sarasota went smoothly despite leaving later than I planned. I arrived a minute or two after noon, still thinking about the unexpected hour I’d spent scrubbing my hands. As soon as I stepped into the school, the energy felt good. I wondered if that was simply my bias from talking to a massage therapist friend, who had raved about her time there, or if the atmosphere truly carried its own weight.
I’d been asking for signs to guide me toward the right choice, and there it was in the lobby: a large star with “Graduating Class 333” printed on it. My dad’s favorite number is 333. I even lived in apartment 333 during my junior year of college — a rough, lonely stretch of heavy drinking, poker tournaments, and video games. That number has always felt significant to me, and seeing it here made me pause. If that wasn’t a sign, I don’t know what would be.
The school itself felt lighter, warmer, and more focused than the nearer school. On Wednesday, I’d been rooting for the nearer school simply because of its location — 13 minutes from home instead of 50. I liked the idea of dropping the kids off, heading straight to class, and being home by the time they returned from school. No traffic buffers, no long waits in the car. The Sarasota school, by contrast, would require me to leave before 7 a.m., five days a week, and then kill 30 to 40 minutes in the afternoon waiting for pickup. Over the course of the program, that’s hundreds of drives — 8,000 to 10,000 extra miles on my car.
Honestly, on the way down, I’d been hoping the Sarasota school would disappoint me so I could easily choose the closer option. Yet the moment I walked in, I saw it in the details — the pride in the graduating class display, the warmth of the instructors, the focus of the students. Something about the place just felt right.
I spoke with the admissions coordinator there, who has been there for nearly 15 years since graduating herself. Her enthusiasm for working at the very place where she trained was infectious. She gave me a tour of several classrooms, and as we walked, I felt an undeniable sense of belonging. The nearer school had given me the impression of a place I could attend — a practical, workable option — but the Sarasota school felt like home. These were my people, my environment. My logical mind kept trying to steer me toward the nearer school for its convenience, yet in my gut I knew this was where I belonged.
One of the things I immediately appreciated about the Sarasota school was its focus. The school is entirely dedicated to massage therapy. At the nearer school, there are several different programs with students coming from a variety of disciplines, which brings a certain level of distraction. The Sarasota school’s singular mission appealed to me: one program, one purpose. Initially, I had planned to delay applying, but when she asked if I’d like to fill out my application right then, I said yes without hesitation. I knew it yesterday while touring the nearer school; I just hadn’t admitted it to myself yet.
Part of the application process required transcripts from the University of South Florida, where I attended graduate school for criminology in 2011 and 2012. Looking over my old grades was a pleasant moment. I’d earned straight A’s with one A-minus, which dropped my GPA to 3.97. It’s a small detail, but I admit the perfectionist in me would have preferred the perfect 4.0. Still, that master’s degree is now 13 years behind me, and here I am applying to return to school for something completely different.
After completing my application, I drove home in silence — no music, no audiobooks, no phone calls — just my own thoughts. I kept turning over the questions: Is this really the right place? Can I handle this? Earlier, I’d been standing in a classroom watching students practice a Swedish massage technique, one I’ve felt from therapists hundreds of times, and panic had gripped me. My mind suddenly insisted I couldn’t do it, that I couldn’t go back to school after 13 years, that learning bodywork would be too much. The fear was real, but it didn’t last. I reminded myself that I’ve done harder things. I learned how to be a police officer, earned a master’s degree in criminology, studied engineering for two years, built my own online business from scratch, and got sober. Each of those felt daunting at first. This would just be another skill to learn — something fun, even.
The nearer school felt like a good option, a place I could attend and get my license. The Sarasota school felt different — like I had to be there. Still, I planned to ask around and get more perspectives from other therapists before making my final commitment.
That afternoon, I picked up the kids from school after reading for about 30 minutes in the car. I’d brought the student handbook with me and was eager to go through it. I read the entire thing except for the sections on financial aid and veterans’ benefits, which didn’t apply to me. One section caught my eye — “consensual relationships.” I asked about it because the wording was vague. Without specifying “sexual,” it sounded like they were discouraging all relationships among classmates and teachers, even friendships. I suspected it was their polite way of addressing sexual relationships without saying so directly. It’s not an issue for me — I’m married and monogamous — but the phrasing still made me smile, and she clarified that yes, by consensual relationships they meant those including dating and sex.
I also spoke to the kids about how my going to massage school would affect our mornings. In their room, we have a green light that turns on at 7:00 and turns off at 7:30 as their signal to get up. I’ve slept in there for years because they like having a parent in the room, and my ex-wife prefers her own bed and schedule. I asked to adjust the green light to turn on at 6:20 instead, partly to prepare them for when my program starts in three weeks and partly to give them a gentler start to the day. Everyone agreed we could start today on the new wake-up schedule.
This morning, the green light came on at 6:20, and I nearly forgot I had tennis at 7:00 until my ex-wife reminded me at 6:40. I jumped out of bed, and the kids followed within five or 10 minutes. It turned out to be a pleasant change — the slower, softer wake-up set a better tone for the morning.
Part of me sometimes wonders if I’m sharing too much in this diary — if it should stay neatly within one subject. Then I remember this is my life, not a textbook. The tangents might be the most interesting parts. This is the first book I’ve fully written and published myself since Video Gaming Addiction Stories 12 years ago, and I’d almost forgotten I had even done that. It was a short, small book, but still — something I created from start to finish. Amazing how memory can tuck away something like that. I’m writing this because it’s good for me, and because someone out there might find it worth reading. One of the best parts of being a local author is that I’m not dependent on pleasing distant reviewers or courting big YouTubers to talk about my work. If I can’t speak freely here — within the wide terms and conditions — then what’s the point?
This morning started with my 7:00 a.m. tennis lesson. I hit some great shots mixed with a few frustrating misses, and by the end I was feeling worn out. I told my coach I was annoyed with how tired I was at the end of the lesson, and he reminded me I’d hit hundreds of tennis balls. It’s an intense workout — more demanding than a match because the ball feeds keep you constantly moving. That’s the point of a lesson: more reps, faster pace. Of course I’d be tired.
It reminded me of Army ROTC in college at 18 and 19, dragging myself out of bed at 5:30 a.m. for physical training. That was grueling — pushing so hard on some runs I’d feel nauseous, lightheaded, ready to collapse. The Army’s PT standards actually peak around the late 20s, then gradually ease up, so there’s no need to compare my current self to my younger self. Am I satisfied with my physical condition today? Yes. Am I building muscle, staying active, and healthier mentally than I was in my 20s? Absolutely. I gave myself a little internal pat on the back in the shower — this might not be Army PT, but tennis lessons at dawn are still a solid effort.
Afterwards, I had a hash brown and a peanut butter chocolate chip Larabar, then went straight to a power yoga flow. Between the tennis and yoga, I felt good about my fitness. I saw a few friends there, which added to the energy. From yoga, I headed directly to my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
There was a girl I’d been hoping to see again after months of missing her at meetings; she’d been there last week but left early. She showed up today, along with a new girl that was there for the first time last week. I ended up sitting right between them. Years ago, I might have deliberately avoided that spot, pretending I didn’t want to sit there. Today I just took the seat without hesitation.
The meeting’s topic was gratitude for where we are now and what we’ve overcome. One man shared his experience of receiving a heart transplant. Another talked about surviving cancer sober. I spoke about how, especially in early sobriety, it’s critical to be prepared for the storms life inevitably brings. I talked about how, in early sobriety, fear alone kept me from drinking. I was terrified of the consequences of picking up again, and that was enough — at first. Once that fear began to fade, the desire to drink returned. Around 90 days sober, I found myself in a mental storm, weeks of battling my mind and the pull of my old illness. What saved me was honesty — brutal, unflinching honesty. I stopped pretending I was fine or enjoying sobriety. I told the group, “I hate being sober. I hate that I’m an alcoholic. I want to drink, and I just want to let you all know.” Speaking those words, even though they made me look bad, let people see exactly where I was and gave them a chance to show up for me.
In my 11 years in Alcoholics Anonymous, one of the best choices I’ve made is to attend five meetings a week, no matter what, and always be honest like that. During those first 90 days, I only managed two meetings a week. That was enough to stay sober, but not enough to enjoy sobriety or truly work the program. Since then, nothing — work, children being born, any other life event — has kept me from my five meetings a week average. If I miss a week of meetings, I go to a meeting every day until I’m caught up. For me, showing up is the foundation of helping people. Yes, there are opportunities outside of meetings — phone calls, sponsoring, private conversations — but many people relapse after they stop attending AA. I refuse to make that my story.
I shared with the group that this particular meeting would likely be off my schedule until after massage school because I’ll no longer be free in the mornings or at noon. Even so, I’m committed to finding other meetings in the evenings and on weekends to keep my weekly total at five. Staying connected to AA isn’t optional for me; it’s survival.
I also spoke directly to the new woman sitting beside me about vulnerability. My mind has never wanted me to “tell on it” — to admit the crazy thoughts and struggles that have come along over the years, from wanting to drink in my early days to resentments, marital frustrations, and work stress. I’ve shared all of it openly in meetings, not just privately with my sponsor or close friend. Years ago, when I was a couple of years sober, I even admitted during a meeting that I was in a very dark, difficult headspace that day. I wanted people to know where I was mentally, and that honesty helped.
After today’s meeting, the new girl thanked me for sharing so openly. She said she has a hard time being vulnerable and hearing me helped. I told her I’d suspected she needed to hear something like that, which is why I said it. We talked for a while afterward, as did my other friend, and then my massage therapist friend’s mom. I had several good conversations before leaving, and the new woman even gave me a hug. For someone I’ve only met twice, it felt meaningful for her to be that comfortable with me.
Moments like that affirm my sense that I already have one of the most important qualities of a good massage therapist: the ability to make people feel safe and at ease. The techniques, the muscle work, the specifics — those I’ll learn in school. The foundation, the energy I bring into a room, is already there.
After my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, I stopped at Ace Hardware to pick up more spray foam, determined not to repeat the mistake of getting it all over my hands. Outside the entrance, a man was running a promotional booth, offering the chance to win $10,000 in new windows if I filled out a card. I told him I suspected most contests like that were rigged — my mind picturing how easy it would be for a company owner to “randomly” award the prize to a friend or family member.
I was wearing my Jerry Banfield Books shirt, which prompted him to ask if I was an author. That opened the door for me to talk about my books, and he surprised me by saying he was an author too. He had just published his first comic book online. I don’t normally read comic books, but the timing felt right to try something new, so I bought it on the spot. I was impressed when he pulled out his phone and bought my Officer Banfield book on Amazon too. Moments like that make me grateful I don’t just brush past people at booths — I stop, connect, and see where the conversation goes.
The man at the table next to him was collecting donations for homeless veterans and was ready to ask me if I could donate as soon as I stepped away from the comic-book author’s booth a few feet away. Without hesitation, I pulled a $20 bill from my wallet and slipped it into his jar. I told him I imagined he must hear “no” all day from people walking by, though his donation jar was looking fairly full. I also shared my philosophy about money: if I don’t have enough to give to someone in need, then I’m poor. True wealth has nothing to do with a bank balance — anyone who always has something to give is rich, no matter what their life looks like on paper.
While I was talking with the veterans’ representative, the comic-book author walked over and handed me a gift card for Ace Hardware. That small gesture reminded me, yet again, how consistently life gives back when I give freely, especially when I’m open to however it might come. I went inside, used the gift card, and headed home for lunch.
When I pulled into my driveway, I realized I was craving guacamole from Whole Foods. I got back in the car and drove there, only to find their homemade, in-house guacamole was sold out. It was, surprisingly, the biggest mental hurdle I’d faced all day. I stood there for a couple of minutes, weighing my options and feeling lost, before settling on a different brand of guacamole, a container of their fresh pico de gallo, and some bananas. Back home, I polished off the guacamole and pico, and then sat down to start dictating my book.
It’s been an hour and a half since I finished eating, and I’m still uncomfortably full, which tells me I overate again. I’m grateful for the food, but I’ll probably stop a little sooner next time. While I was eating, I kept thinking about a recent conversation I had with a friend. She was debating whether to get elective surgery and asked for guidance. Naturally, I wanted to know more. She was weighing an elective procedure and looking for signs about whether to move forward.
I shared that a relative of mine once had a difficult recovery after an elective surgery, which shaped my own caution. For myself, I tend to lean toward less-invasive approaches—movement and diet—where they make sense. I offered that only as my personal leaning, not as advice for her.
I’m not a doctor, and I don’t give medical advice. In my own life, I’ve simply found that less-invasive, natural choices have often worked well for me, and I’m always glad when someone feels free to weigh their options.
That said, I’ve had elective surgery myself. As a teenager, my adult teeth didn’t come in where they should have. The two bottom teeth just beside the middle ones erupted in the middle of my mouth under my tongue, instead of pushing the baby teeth out. On the top, one of my canines — the kind that can look like a vampire tooth — also erupted in the middle of my mouth. I went through several surgeries: removing the baby teeth, then moving the misplaced canine into its proper position.
I’m grateful for how nice my teeth look today, but it took a lot of effort to get here. I still remember being 12 years old and having a dentist suggest I keep the baby teeth and pull the adult ones instead. I told her absolutely not. It seemed obvious to me, even then, that baby teeth weren’t meant to last and that removing the adult teeth for short-term ease would be a bad long-term decision. I wanted the right solution, even if it was harder in the moment.
That same mindset serves me now. In the short term, it would be much easier not to go to massage school. In the long term, having that license will be worth the challenge. Just like with my teeth, I’m willing to go through discomfort now to create the future I want.
I had another conversation with the same friend, and this time we talked about her abortion decades ago. She told me how badly she felt at the time and how the guilt has lingered ever since. She’s often thought of it as having committed murder, believing she ended the life of the child she might have had. I told her that this experience is common among women I’ve spoken with. Some women have told me they feel nothing but relief, but many have described deep remorse, shame, and grief.
I shared my perspective — that I see a pregnant mother like a hotel room I might reserve. The space is there if I want it, but if my plans change, or the hotel’s plans change, the reservation can be canceled. I love babies, and in an ideal world I’d like to see every pregnancy brought to term and every baby cared for with love. My natural leaning is toward creating more life. Still, when an abortion has happened — especially when, as in my friend’s case, she went on to have other children — I don’t see guilt as a necessity. Sometimes the timing isn’t right for the mother. Sometimes it isn’t right for the child.
I’ve also seen situations where I believe the same soul returns to the same mother later. I shared a story from Memories of Heaven by Wayne W. Dyer and Dee Garnes. In it, a woman lost her young daughter in early childhood. Years later, she gave birth to another girl. When the new daughter was 3 or 4 years old, the mother heard her singing a song she had only ever sung to her first child — a song she’d deliberately never shared with anyone else. When she asked where the girl had learned it, the daughter replied, “Mommy, you used to sing that to me when I was little.” The mother realized she was raising the same soul she had lost.
I told my friend I’ve found reincarnation connections in my own life. I believe my ex-wife is the reincarnation of a relative of hers who died young and shared her birthday; the connection feels unmistakable to me.
My intention was to help this woman, still grieving decades later, see that life is infinite. While I believe it’s preferable to carry pregnancies to term, there is no need to carry guilt, shame, or remorse for something long past. Everything worked out in its own way. I told her that somewhere, there is a version of reality in which she did not have the abortion. That reality is just as valid and alive as this one. I asked if she’d ever imagined that reality in detail; she said no. I encouraged her to picture it. For me, imagining those alternate paths helps dissolve regret. I love where I am today, and I know that changing anything in my past might mean losing what I have now.
I told her that if she ever truly wanted to experience that alternate reality, she could go to sleep and set the intention: I want to wake up in the version of life where I kept the baby. I believe it’s possible to step into that reality if you choose.
These are my favorite conversations — the ones that open minds. So often, pain comes from a narrow perspective. When we’re willing to be honest, listen, and consider another view, the pain often fades away.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.