This is my journal entry from December 3, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I woke up around 6:30 a.m. today with the immediate urge to take the kids to school. On the surface, that sounds like a good thing, even an asset, but it’s also exactly why living in Tampa would help me create better boundaries. I can’t be impulsive just because I want to see the kids more. My ex-wife and I had already planned that she would handle school drop-off and pickup today. I called her anyway, and she said it was fine if I took them this morning, so I went over, picked them up, and dropped them off at school.
From there, I drove straight to play tennis with a friend. He had plenty of stories to share, and I caught him up on everything that’s been going on in my life lately. Even though I hadn’t played in over a week, I really enjoyed the match. The weather was perfect. A friend won the first set 6–2 and the second set 6–4. He went up 2–0, then I won four games in a row, and then he won four straight to close it out. It was competitive and fun, and I left feeling energized. Afterward, I headed back to my place for a quick shower and then went to my massage appointment with my massage therapist.
During the massage, she was curious about my South Tampa plan, and we talked about that for a while. The conversation drifted to dating timelines, and it left me feeling oddly freeing. I don’t need to rush to find a partner. I don’t need pressure. I don’t need to force anything. I can actually relax and take my time, which feels like a huge relief.
After the massage, I drove straight to the house in South Tampa and arrived twenty minutes early. I actually laughed to myself, thinking, who is this person that shows up twenty minutes early? The owner lives next door in another house she owns, and she walked over to greet me and show me around. The very first thing she said was that she had a cold and didn’t want to shake hands. I told her not to worry—I don’t believe in germ theory anyway.
Then we walked through the 1,600-square-foot house and out into the backyard, which is fully fenced—perfect for pets. The layout is genuinely interesting. The house was built in 1948, and you can tell immediately because the bedrooms are tiny. Apparently, people weren’t stuffing fat-ass king mattresses into their bedrooms back then. I’m not even sure I could squeeze a king bed into either of them. There are two bedrooms and one bathroom, yet somehow the house still feels big. It’s a strange but compelling use of space, and I can see why it might confuse people looking for something more conventional. She said people call every day acting like they want to rent it, then try to buy it instead, which annoys her. That makes sense, unfortunately.
Beyond the two bedrooms, there’s essentially a third room that isn’t technically a bedroom—a kind of bonus room in the middle of the house with three doorways and no actual doors. Another fascinating detail is that the house is poured concrete. Unlike cinder block, which is hollow, these walls are solid concrete. That’s absolutely ideal for blocking outside noise and recording audiobooks. Short of recording in the street or a homeless shelter or some shit, the worst possible environment for audiobook recording would be an apartment with thin walls and noisy neighbors. Trailers aren’t much better. This place, though—solid concrete walls—is basically a dream. I’d just need to soften the echo a bit, and it would be a near-perfect sound environment. I genuinely loved that part of it.
I walked the house carefully, asked a lot of questions, checked out the air return, and talked with her for about thirty minutes. At this point, part of my intention was clearly to sell myself as a good tenant. I asked her directly why the house had been empty for so long. It’s a great location, it’s been on Zillow for months, and that didn’t add up. She told me she’s very picky about who she rents to since she lives next door. That immediately made sense to me, and I told her so. I explained that I’m in the exact same situation now—the owner of the house I’m currently in lives right next door—and I actually love that arrangement. I told her I’m sober, I don’t throw parties, I don’t do anything wild. I have my kids over, I write and record books, and that’s basically my entire life.
I showed her pictures of the kids, told her about my life, and gave her a copy of I Was Famous on the Internet. About a month ago, I’d stuffed some loose pages into those books explaining that I was looking for a place to live close to my ex-wife, trying to figure out how to monetize my skills, and—on the back—some dating-related stuff. After I left, it hit me that I probably should’ve taken that piece of paper out. Giving her the book is one thing, but the random insert doesn’t exactly align cleanly with a landlord’s sense of stability and responsibility.
I told her that $2,300 a month—$4,600 total to move in with the security deposit—was affordable for me, which is true, assuming I continue doing what I’ve always done: printing money out of thin air by figuring shit out and making things work through books, coaching, and whatever else emerges. Still, there’s an obvious tension there. If you receive a note from someone saying they’re not entirely sure how they’re monetizing what they do, does that inspire confidence that they can reliably pay a couple thousand dollars a month on their own? Probably not. Fortunately, I do have real numbers to back myself up, which I’ll get into next.
After seeing the house, I decided to go by the Trader Joe’s nearby to get a feel for the neighborhood and the people. It’s only two blocks away, and somehow I snagged a parking spot immediately—probably because it was around 2:30 p.m. and not peak chaos yet. Inside, I noticed a mix of people, including some attractive younger women who didn’t have wedding rings on, which felt like a small but meaningful detail to my brain in that moment. It just felt… nice. Normal. Alive. I asked the cashier what he thought about the neighborhood, and he told me he’d moved there a couple of years ago and absolutely loved it. That landed as real validation, not salesy, not forced.
From there, I walked a couple of blocks farther down to a yoga studio. I went inside and got a quick tour. It made me miss my yoga studio a little, but this studio is genuinely within walking distance—about ten to fifteen minutes from the house—which is amazing. And if I didn’t feel like walking, it’s a two-minute drive. That kind of convenience matters more to me than I usually admit. After Trader Joe’s and the yoga studio, I drove back toward St. Petersburg, intentionally slowing down and really taking in the neighborhood and everything around me.
As I drove, I noticed something else coming up: fear. Fear that I wouldn’t get the house, mixed with excitement because I really want it. That familiar edge of desire plus uncertainty. So I started doing affirmations out loud in the car. Stuff like, “I’m really grateful that I have a house I’m going home to right this fucking second.” Seriously—here I am worrying about not having a house in the future when I literally have one right now. Gratitude. I have a place to live. I’ve always had a place to live. I have never been homeless a single night in forty-one years. I’m certain I will have a place to live, and I’m grateful for where I am right now. That makes the most probable outcome pretty obvious: I’ll be grateful for wherever I’m living next too.
I kept going. If this is the right house, it will be mine. If it isn’t fully aligned, then someone else will get it and it will be their house. Based on everything I’ve seen so far, it does feel like this place is coming to me. It feels right. And at the same time, I started saying thank you for the uncertainty. The uncertainty is what makes it interesting. If I knew for sure right now that I was getting the house, that would actually be kind of boring. One of the real upsides of this post-divorce life is that it’s more fun. It’s more of an adventure. There’s more uncertainty. I’ve craved that for years, and now I’m getting a big dose of it. I’m enjoying it while it’s here. Someday, when there’s more certainty—about where I’m living, how I’m making money, or who I’m fucking—I’ll be grateful for that too. And I’ll remember that I was also grateful during this phase, when things were unknown. Both states deserve appreciation.
Those affirmations grounded me on the drive home. I also listened to a lot more of Metabolic Freedom today and started taking notes in Microsoft Word so I wouldn’t forget the key points. I want to read through some of those notes now. I started with what he framed as critical: absolutely no ultra-processed foods. That stuff is junk—basically like pouring sand into your gas tank. Your body just tolerates it longer than a car would. I guess it depends how much sand you dump in that bitch, but the analogy still holds. Critical point: no processed foods.
Another big one was no cooked seed oils—only cold-pressed oils. Things like vegetable oil, grapeseed oil, cottonseed oil, and all those other seed oils that get cooked and end up in damn near everything, from potato chips to popcorn. You want to cook with olive oil, coconut oil, butter, avocado oil—oils that are cold-pressed. And not “et cetera” in a vague way, but very specifically oils that aren’t chemically abused in the extraction process. Apparently, when these seed oils are heated to extract them, they break down and turn into something your body wouldn’t naturally encounter in the wild. In other words, more junk your system has to deal with for no good reason.
In Metabolic Freedom, the author says doctors told him that cooked seed oils are actually worse for long-term health outcomes than smoking if you’re eating them every day. That got my attention. He talks about how these oils can have a half-life of nearly two years in the body, which means once they’re in there, they stick around for a long time. That alone is enough to make me commit to cutting them out as completely as I can. I’m clearly heading down the road of making sure those cooked seed oils aren’t part of my daily intake anymore.
Another thing I wrote down as critical is sleep disruption. He frames it as one of the worst things you can do to your health, and that tracks perfectly with my lived experience. There’s basically no way I spiral, get agitated, or go a little nuts unless my sleep is disrupted two nights in a row. I saw that clearly a week and a half ago. That’s also why I decided I’m not going to the a local spiritual community song ceremony on Friday. I don’t care how meaningful or interesting something sounds—if it’s going to mess with my sleep, I’m out. I’m done sacrificing sleep for experiences. I don’t give a shit what’s going on. If it disrupts my sleep, it’s not that important. I’m tired of being tired.
Another hard rule: no large meals at least three hours before bedtime. I’m also seriously looking at doing intermittent fasting again. Ideally, I’d like my eating window to be something like 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. I did intermittent fasting for at least a year back in 2016, and it was incredibly helpful for me. I stopped mostly because everyone around me was eating all the time, and little compromises add up until the whole thing disappears. What excites me now is that, post-divorce, I have total control. My ex-wife was supportive in a lot of ways, but not to the extent of changing her own habits. She wanted candy and processed junk food around, cooked seed oils in the house, and dinner right before bed. She supported me emotionally, but I couldn’t go as far as I wanted to go with her.
One memory that really sticks out is when we went to see Kevin Hart film his special at the Straz in Tampa about a year ago. Right before that, I threw out some ultra-processed food—chips, candy, that kind of stuff—and my ex-wife absolutely fucking lost it. She went off about it being her food, launched into a whole tirade, and completely blew up the day. Of course, she never apologized. She felt totally justified. And that was that. The entire day got shit on because I threw away some junk food, even though she knew I was actively trying to eat better at the time. I’m honestly relieved I don’t have to navigate that dynamic anymore.
I’ve already told the kids that there’s no more bullshit with food. No fast food at all. Ever. McDonald’s fries are the perfect example of garbage food—loaded with cooked seed oils, preservatives, and all kinds of chemical nonsense. You keep putting that stuff into your body and then act surprised when it doesn’t function properly. Imagine dumping water into your gas tank and expecting your car to run fine. And honestly, cars are way less impressive machines than human bodies. It’s kind of amazing our bodies work as well as they do considering how much garbage we feed them.
Some more notes I took: start the morning with vinegar. Have caffeine around 10:00 a.m.—late enough to get the benefit, early enough not to screw up sleep. Go to bed by 9:30 p.m., though realistically I might push that closer to 10:00. He says some of the most important sleep hours are between 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m., which feels accurate to me. Drink from glass containers and store food in glass to minimize microplastics. Eat green, low-starch vegetables. Eat avocados for healthy fat. Walk after meals. I actually bought avocados at Trader Joe’s today, which felt like a small but satisfying alignment between intention and action.
I took a nice walk over to the tennis club, canceled my membership, then came home and submitted the rental application. Sending that application in felt really good, especially when I saw my credit score pop up: 812. Let’s fucking go. A couple of years ago, that number was in the low 600s. Seeing 812—basically near-perfect—hit me hard in the best way. Zero evictions. Zero criminal history. I’m genuinely grateful for that. I listed my income based on what my ex-wife and I agreed reflects my earning capacity, and I don’t disagree with it. I’m confident I can hit that number. I’ve had months with strong crypto sales and months with solid sponsorship income. My ex-wife recently sent me some money, with more coming as we settle things. I can easily move into this house.
I even asked ChatGPT the best way to use my credit if I needed extra money. It laid it out clearly: start with a 0% interest credit card, then a personal loan if needed, then balance transfers. Simple. Clean. I’m good. I have so much. I really do. And the insane thing is how easy it is to have so much and still not see it—to walk around scared you’re not going to have enough. I’m grateful I’m not in that headspace today. I’m glad I’m reading this book too. Most of what’s in it isn’t brand new to me—I’ve heard versions of it in other books—but sometimes you need to hear the same truth over and over, especially when you’re finally in an environment where you can act on it without someone else quietly sabotaging you because they don’t want to change.
I get it. People are busy. You don’t want it. You don’t have time to take care of your body today. You’re stuck in survival mode. Who has time to learn and grow when you’re just trying to get through the day? What’s interesting is that a lot of people would assume I should be in survival mode right now. I don’t know where I’m going to live. I don’t know exactly how I’m going to make money. I don’t know who I’m going to date. Those are all big things. And yet I’m not in survival mode. I’m thriving. I’m enjoying my life. I had so much fun looking at that house today.
Canceling the tennis club membership turned out to be a really good experience too. I had a great conversation with a member at my tennis club there. She talked about grieving and moving on after her husband died, and how she eventually met a guy at the tennis club who took a full year to pursue her before she finally said yes. He actually walked in while we were talking. Perfect timing. The membership requires thirty days’ notice to cancel, and I’m really glad I went in today. By January, I expect I’ll be gone, and that will drop about $260 a month from my expenses, plus hundreds more I’d otherwise spend on tennis lessons.
At this point, I’ve accepted that I’m probably a 3.5 tennis player unless I put a ton of effort into lessons. And honestly, 3.5 is fine. That’s good enough to have fun and get exercise. I don’t need to be a try-hard bitch chasing a 4.0 ranking. I’ve got a solid foundation. Now it’s about maintaining it. And I’m looking forward to playing some ultimate tennis in Tampa.
Tampa traffic is a little different. Even around 3:00 or 3:30 p.m., I turned left onto Westshore Boulevard—a two-lane road with a curve—and ended up waiting there for a solid two or three minutes. The traffic just kept coming. Thankfully, the person behind me was patient and didn’t start honking while I missed a couple of openings. When I finally saw a decent gap, I zoomed in and kept going. Sitting there waiting actually felt instructive. This would be a healthier kind of distance. A place where I’d need to plan overnights intentionally instead of casually popping over to my ex-wife’s house or my mom’s house whenever I felt like it.
After the tennis club, I went over to my ex-wife’s place to say goodnight to the kids. I told them about the house and we made a plan for my son to stay overnight with me on Friday. My daughter is going to be away with family, and it feels perfect to have just my son for the night, sleeping in the king bed with me. It feels good to plan things calmly and practically instead of scrambling or reacting.
After saying goodnight to my ex-wife and the kids, I went to the 7:00 p.m. AA meeting. We were outside, and I didn’t bring a jacket. Michigan definitely toughened me up a bit, but sitting there in sixty-two-degree weather, I was shivering by the end. Still, I was fine. I shared much of what I’ve been processing lately, listened to other people’s experiences, and felt grounded by the whole thing.
After the meeting, I headed over to my mom’s place. I gave her a call, then we watched an episode of Battlestar Galactica 1980 together—the third one, part three, where they’re back on Earth and time-traveling. It was simple and comforting. When I finally came back home, I felt deeply grateful for my life. I have a house I genuinely love. It’s exactly where I wanted to live. I almost effortlessly found it, moved in, and felt happy there. I know I want that kind of living situation again.
The other house I looked at earlier—managed by a property manager, near my ex-wife and my mom—never felt right. That setup didn’t sit well in my body. This house in South Tampa, though, feels right. I’m not rushing it. I’m glad I have a few days to think it through. I might take the kids down to South Tampa one day to show them around, though my daughter will be away with family, so we’ll see how that works out.
Mostly, I’m just grateful that I get to write books every day like I did today. That matters to me more than almost anything else right now. I’ll see you tomorrow.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.