This is my journal entry from August 25, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Author in St. Petersburg — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I am sitting in a 2025 Toyota Camry Hybrid, parked outside the Sarasota massage school, minutes away from enrolling. This feels like one of those key moments in life where a decision shapes the future in ways I can’t fully see yet. I’ve been searching for reasons not to do it, trying to talk myself out of massage school to make sure I’m all in. Do I really want to spend my life touching people’s bodies? Am I ready to deal with smelly skin, with the constant intimacy of physical contact? Will anyone actually want a massage from me after reading my books?
My ex-wife and I talked about it, and she’s fully behind me. She loves the idea of having time to herself while I’m at school, and she’s especially enthusiastic about the prospect of me exchanging massages with other therapists instead of paying for them. Honestly, the sheer number of massages I’ll receive during school might make the entire program worth it, even if I chose never to practice professionally for money beyond exchanging. Yet I suspect I will enjoy the work itself. I’ve been craving more physical touch in my life. My closest friends in recent years have often been massage therapists, which feels like more than coincidence. Even one of the yoga instructors I’ve grown closest to over the past five years revealed he used to be a full-time massage therapist before letting his license lapse. It’s as if every sign points me toward this path.
If ever there were a time to pause and reconsider whether something else might suit me better, this would be it. Yet when I strip away the doubts, nothing else shines as brightly as massage therapy. I like the thought of being challenged, stretched out of my comfort zone, forced to grow through discomfort. That is life itself.
This morning I dropped our Toyota RAV4 off at the Toyota dealership because of a loud noise in the front right wheel well. They gave me this Camry, and I have to admit, if my cars were ever destroyed by flood or wreck, this is the one I’d buy. It’s quick, responsive, and smooth—exactly the kind of car I love. I’m grateful I don’t have to stress about repairs or money right now. I can just hand the keys over, pay someone to fix it, and move on with my day.
Last night, though, sadness sat heavy on me. So many of my relationships feel strained, unfulfilling, or outright broken: my brother, my ex-wife’s family, even one of my longtime massage therapist friends. None of them seem willing or able to connect with me on the terms I value. My terms are simple: no draining late-night calls, no lopsided friendships where I’m expected to show up while the other person stays disconnected, no trips with people who have no interest in who I am or what I care about.
My mom told me not to expect anything from others. It’s easier to live that way when I also stop expecting myself to do things for them. If I don’t feel pressured to attend my brother’s wedding, then it doesn’t sting that he doesn’t call me. Expectations, after all, are a two-way trap. My ex-wife added her perspective: giving people a break doesn’t mean tolerating unhealthy dynamics—it means letting them be who they are, then deciding from there whether to engage. That was a revelation.
For years I’ve mistaken “giving people a break” with bending myself into their world, even when it hurt me. Like scheduling massage after massage with a friend who kept canceling on me. Or staying on the phone with a family member through draining, difficult conversations. Or showing up at my ex-wife’s family gatherings where I feel invisible. I thought that was generosity, but it was really just self-betrayal. My ex-wife’s definition feels more freeing: let them be, then choose whether that reality is worth my time.
After those conversations, I realized I don’t want to spend my life forcing relationships that don’t nourish me. The more time I spend with someone, the more deeply I want to connect. If that connection isn’t possible—whether because of alcoholism, apathy, or indifference—then it’s healthier to step away. My energy belongs with people like a massage therapist friend, who radiates enthusiasm and lifts me up. I love how alive I feel when I’m with her.
Sadness, I see now, is not wasted. It clears space for letting go. It reminds me that I don’t need to call my brother on his birthday; he’ll survive without it. Birthdays mean nothing to me anyway. Every day is just another slice of infinity—no more or less special than the last.
Driving down to Sarasota today, I kept the audiobooks off and sat with my thoughts. I wanted silence to confirm whether massage school really is the next step. Even in the quiet, no other ideas came. This is it. This is where I belong.
Yesterday I worked for hours on I Was Famous on the Internet. I even considered rewriting the beginning in present tense so the whole book shares the same raw immediacy, from childhood through college and beyond. That work, combined with this step into massage, feels like the foundation of my long-term plan. Writing books gives me intellectual stimulation and a place to express the flood of ideas that once only had room in my videos. Massage adds a physical practice that keeps me grounded in my body. Together they feel like the fullest expression of how I can live.
The only requirement standing between me and that vision is a massage license. Once I have it, the rest can unfold. My body is in excellent shape, and I intend to keep it that way. I want to be capable of bodywork not just now but decades from now, sustaining strength and presence through practice.
It’s ten minutes before my appointment. I’m walking into that school to sign up. This feels like the beginning of something that will shape the rest of my life.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.