This is my journal entry from November 14, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Divorce Day — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I walked down the street first thing this morning since I wasn’t taking the kids to school. My ex-wife was going to be there all day for a jog-a-thon. I stopped by, said hi, then headed back home with just enough time to get myself together before going to play tennis at the tennis club. Today I was also focused on finishing It’s Not You, It’s the Dating Apps, which had been sitting there ready to be wrapped up.
At the tennis club, I ended up playing doubles with a couple of guys in their seventies and one guy in his fifties. I don’t usually play doubles, but they needed a fourth, and one of the guys who regularly plays called me. I used to play with them a couple of years ago, and last year I joined in for a few weeks before dropping it to focus more on other tennis matches and yoga. I started off a bit frustrated, missing shots I felt like I should be making. After the first few games, though, I settled in. I stopped overthinking and just focused on hitting the ball back, playing aggressively, and working the net.
Once I got into that rhythm, it was clear I was in the best shape out there, and I leaned into that. I should be dominating these matches, and I did. My partner and I fell behind in the first game, but we came back strong. I started putting shots away in the middle of the net, consistently holding my serve, and when my partner served, I took over the middle and shut things down. Against the two guys in their seventies, I stood right in front of them at the net, cutting off angles and putting balls away as soon as they hit them. I won a match partnered with the first guy in his seventies, then rotated and won with the other one. Finally, the guy in his fifties and I absolutely destroyed the two older guys—they didn’t win a single game. I left feeling satisfied with my tennis and proud of how I played.
While we were there, I was also open with them about where I’m at in life right now. I told them I’m looking for a place to live, looking for a woman to date, and figuring out how I’m going to make money with these books. I gave a couple of them copies of my books, and that combination of movement, honesty, and connection put me in a really good mindset.
When I got home, I remembered some feedback I’d received the night before from a woman I gave Author in St. Petersburg to about three weeks ago. She told me she really appreciated the authenticity of the one-page, folded paper insert I put in the front of the book explaining where I’m at and what I’m doing now. That stuck with me. I realized it’s time to update that insert and that I want to start canvassing my neighborhood again—not just to look for a place to live, but to get to know my neighbors better too.
After tennis, I had lunch, which was whole-food, plant-based as usual. Today I made a taco salad. I finally ran out of hummus from Whole Foods, so I cooked a bag of beans in the Instant Pot while I was at tennis. I took about a cup of beans, added iceberg lettuce, crushed up some tortilla shells, dumped in an entire packet from one of those pre-packaged Old El Paso taco shell kits, poured in a full packet of hot sauce or salsa, and ate a massive taco salad. It hit the spot.
Then I sat down at the computer and finished It’s Not You, It’s the Dating Apps. I got the manuscript finalized, completed the cover, and ordered the proof copies. In a few days, I’ll be able to submit it to Amazon and get everything fully uploaded. Wrapping that up felt good. It was one of those days where physical effort, practical progress, and creative work all lined up cleanly.
After finishing that, I felt grateful that I still had several hours before my AA meeting. I asked myself what would be most valuable right now—what would actually move my life forward and help me connect with people. The answer that came up was writing a letter to my neighbors. I decided to create something I could hand out door to door along with my books, knocking when people were home and leaving the letter if they weren’t. I also realized I needed a second version of the letter for people outside my immediate neighborhood.
I wrote two versions. The neighbor letter focused on connection. I explained that I live nearby, that I want to get to know the people around me better, and that I’m intentionally reaching out instead of staying anonymous. I included my phone number and shared what I could use help with. In the second paragraph, I wrote plainly that I’m getting divorced and would love to find a place to live in the neighborhood so I can stay close to my kids and my mom. I then explained that I write books and am figuring out ways to monetize that work. Toward the end, I included a paragraph about dating—what I have to offer and what I’m looking for. It felt honest, clear, and integrated, not like three separate parts of my life awkwardly smashed together.
I wrapped it up by acknowledging that, yes, I could just keep swiping on dating apps, scrolling Zillow, and applying for jobs. But I asked what kind of life story that would make. I wrote that I’m not interested in living that way. I want to connect with people directly, and I believe that when we simply ask each other for the help we need, we often discover that what we’re looking for is already right in front of us. This letter felt like the best version of this idea I’ve written so far. I was genuinely proud of it.
I printed hundreds of copies. Then I took every book in my trunk—about seventy of them—and stuffed one of these letters into the front of each one. That way, anytime I give a book away, the context is there. Reflecting back on the my yoga studio situation, it was obvious that if I had included a full letter like this from the start—clearly explaining who I am, why I’m giving the book, and why my phone number is inside—it likely would have prevented that whole misunderstanding. Context matters.
I also prepared a stack of loose letters for going door to door. When my ex-wife stopped by with the kids, I asked her if she’d be okay with me taking them along when I do it. I thought it could turn into a fun adventure for them, something participatory instead of boring. It would also disarm people a bit—when they open the door, they wouldn’t just see me, they’d see a dad out with his kids giving books away. That feels like the right energy. My ex-wife said that was fine. My son was home that day, and I told him about it, and I planned to tell my daughter later. I also decided I’d pay them for helping, since this is part of my work.
After my meeting, I felt grateful that I had the chance to hang out with my son. My ex-wife was going out to a show, so it was just the two of us. I got home before 5:30 p.m., and we spent time together playing. We played Uno No Mercy, then I took him over to my mom’s house to hang out for a bit.
The night before, my mom and I had talked about maybe watching Battlestar Galactica together, or at least being open to watching something now and then. It’s a delicate balance—where you draw the line between having a little fun and completely numbing yourself with screens. There’s a difference between healthy stimulation and draining overstimulation that makes regular life feel dull. I’m still feeling that out, but I’m open to it. Maybe watching Battlestar Galactica with my mom is a way to share time and connection without losing myself in it. At the very least, I’m staying curious and keeping an open mind.
After my son and I got home, my daughter arrived around 8:00 p.m. from a friend’s house. Her friend’s mom dropped her off. The kids took their showers, and the whole evening unfolded easily. No irritation, no friction, no drawn-out bedtime battles. Everyone was in bed by about 8:45, calm and settled. That kind of smooth ending to the night still feels like a quiet victory.
After saying goodnight, I opened up 9 Hours Later myself and realized I’d numbered things wrong again. Sober Through Separation is actually the third book, which makes The Unpolished Truth: Living Alone Again the fourth, 9 Hours Later is the fifth and this one I’m writing now the sixth. Whatever. The numbering will sort itself out. I sat there in the room while the kids were falling asleep and my ex-wife was out, and I edited roughly twenty-five thousand words. Most of what I was reading was from around October 20, a little before and a little after—less than a month ago.
What stood out immediately was how different my mindset was then. I was talking about how I wasn’t going to have sex with anyone else, how I was going to stay single, and how certain I felt about that path—followed, of course, by what actually happened shortly afterward. It was also full of reminders about how important it is for me to write books. Reading it back made the message feel even clearer: this is the time to grind out books. Right now, while I’m not employed by anyone else and not tied to some external schedule, this is exactly what I’m meant to be doing.
I know what I need to do for the collective. The main gift I have to offer humanity is writing these books. That’s not an exaggeration, and it’s not ego. It’s clarity. Humanity does not need me working at a café, applying for jobs, or chasing a book deal. I need to write the books. I need to distribute them locally. That’s the most important part—locally—because that’s where real connections form. That’s where opportunities actually show up.
I’m tired of people texting me from old videos, scattered all over the world, people I’ll never meet. I want local readers. People who can meet me, talk with me, and build something real. As I edited, it became obvious how simple the path actually is: write the books, distribute the books, include the letter inside them. From that alone, opportunities for housing, money, and dating naturally emerge. Nothing else is required.
Earlier today, after my meeting, a guy pulled me aside and asked if he could offer some advice. I said sure. He told me, “Get a fucking job.” I told him no. I’m not getting a fucking job. I already have a job—for humanity. It’s to write these books. I don’t say that lightly. I feel like I’ve been given very clear instructions from the Collective about what I’m here to do, and I’m certain of it. These books are powerful.
I framed it this way for him: if I only had a few months left to live, would I want to get a job I don’t care about, doing something anyone else could do, just to make money? Or would I want to make sure I write the books I’m here to write and fully live what’s left of my life? The answer is obvious to me. I told him that if my time isn’t worth at least $100 an hour, it’s not worth doing. I would rather go play tennis, borrow money on credit cards, or even be homeless than work for $20 an hour. I did that fifteen-plus years ago. I’m not doing it again.
I’m not scrolling job boards. I’m not applying. I’m not interviewing. Fuck that. I know exactly what value I bring. When I read my own books, I think, holy shit—you don’t read stuff like this. Especially not written by someone you can actually meet. I have readers who left Amazon reviews and still text me from time to time. These books genuinely impact people’s lives. That matters. Because of that, it’s important that I protect my time. That’s why I don’t spend it working for $20 an hour at a café. My work is these books. And tonight, reading my own words back to myself, that truth felt even more solid.
If an opportunity comes along that’s truly aligned—something that’s actually meant for me—it will show up naturally. Someone will offer it, and it will feel right. I’m not going hunting for things I don’t want. It would make as much sense as going out looking for something I don’t actually want. What I want is a woman who wants to have sex with me because she genuinely enjoys me and chooses me, someone I build a life with. You don’t invest time and energy chasing outcomes you don’t even want to have.
I don’t want a job. I don’t want a boss. I don’t want to earn some mediocre hourly rate doing something I don’t care about. I love writing these books, and I’m going to write these books. I’m going to write them as if it’s going to work out—because that’s how things work out. I have an amazing book about money I’m going to write next, and reading these older diary entries lit a fire under me to start writing some of my fiction again too. This is what I do. I write books.
I’m going to get these books into the hands of people locally—people who have met me in person—and I’m going to trust that interesting, unexpected things will grow out of that. Some of those things might take time. Some might surprise me completely. But I’m not going to live the way so many people do, telling themselves they can’t do what they actually want to do. Fuck that. I’m going to do what I want to do. And if life doesn’t support me doing that, then I’ll deal with it if and when that happens.
I finished listening to Choose Your Universe, which felt like a perfect example of this exact mindset. After that, I started listening to Calling in “The One,” Revised and Expanded by Catherine Woodward Thomas—the same author who wrote Conscious Uncoupling, which I started once but never finished. This book is about consciously bringing the partner you want into your life. One of the early exercises focuses on expanding your capacity to love, and that’s what I’ve been working on today.
There are endless opportunities to contract—to close down, to harden, to fight, to resent. It really does feel like a kind of war sometimes. A war of attention. A war of thought. Choosing love instead of fear, again and again. Today my mind kept trying to drag me into fear: Where are you going to live? How are you going to make money? When are you going to run out? When are you going to find someone? Are you going to end up alone? And I kept answering back: fuck that.
I have plenty of money. I have enough for the next several months. My ex-wife is helping me out with more as well. I have savings, crypto, money in the bank, and plenty of available credit. My credit is excellent right now, and I have real borrowing power if I ever needed it. I have a place to live for the next while. If I had to, I could move in with my mom. If I really had to, I could live in my car. I have options. I have resources. I have support. I have so much. What I’m focusing on today is this simple truth: when I focus on how much I have, I keep having it.
It felt like a war all day today. Every time my mind started sliding into negativity—into hating people, judging people, generalizing—I had to consciously interrupt it and choose something else. No, I’m going to love people. And immediately my mind would push back, bitching and complaining. Well, most girls are… and I’d cut it off. You don’t know most girls. You don’t need to know most girls. You only need to care about one woman—the one who wants to fuck your brains out, who you’re attracted to, who wants kids, and who lives a sober lifestyle. That’s it. That’s the entire list. Along with being there for my ex, my mom, my daughter, my son. That’s the whole job. It’s actually very simple.
Right before bed, I got a text from the woman from massage school that I had sex with a couple of weeks ago. I had messaged her the night before, and she replied saying she struggled after reading my message, that she felt shocked and hurt by how insensitive it was, and that she could offer feedback about my interactions. I told her I appreciated her following up and that I agreed I was wrong to send the message the way I did. I reminded her that on November 5 I had sent a message saying I enjoyed our time but didn’t feel we were a great fit beyond a physical connection.
I told her that if I were to send that message again, I would be more direct and honest. I explained that there is a lot I like about her, and that the single critical issue for me is her marijuana use. That was the primary reason I sent the message and decided I didn’t want to continue what we started. I told her that as someone who is sober and doesn’t use marijuana, plant medicine, or any mind-altering substances at all, even the smell of marijuana is a major turnoff for me. I explained that it didn’t bother me as much at first, but by Sunday morning—after we’d had sex a couple times—my mind was clear again and it bothered me a lot.
I told her I was afraid that if I continued seeing her, I’d reach a point where I couldn’t turn back, and I might end up compromising myself—either eventually using marijuana again or pressuring her to quit, which wouldn’t be fair. I was trying to explain my internal experience honestly, not to attack her. She responded with a short message telling me to stop messaging her with hurtful things, saying “boundaries,” and “ouch.”
That response immediately kicked something loose in me. It brought me right back to how hurt I’d felt at my yoga studio the other day. Here was another situation where someone was enthusiastic about me, offended by a generic, polite message, and then even more hurt when I told the truth. And suddenly I could see the pattern clearly, including my own role in it. It left me thinking that, collectively, we really need to stop being such whiny little bitches all the time. Oh, you hurt my feelings. Oh, boundaries. Ouch. And then I immediately saw myself in that too. Oh, look what happened to me on Monday. Poor me. She was rude. She was disrespectful. Keep your relationships platonic. I got so fucking hurt over it.
The thought crossed my mind that, yeah, maybe if the girl at the front desk had liked me, she would have used the phone number and contacted me. That’s not how it played out. And instead of spiraling in resentment about that, it felt like a call to action. Not to harden. Not to withdraw. Not to hate people. But to get clearer. More direct. More grounded. To stop trying to soften truth to protect feelings, and also to stop being surprised when truth doesn’t land the way I hope it will. To take responsibility for my part without collapsing into shame or self-pity. That’s the work right now.
Instead of being so goddamn butthurt all the time—so offended, so whiny, so obsessed with protecting our fragile little selves—what if we actually treated life’s feedback as an opportunity? What if we thanked people for being clear with us? I was clear with her. I told her directly that it’s her marijuana usage. If she didn’t smoke marijuana, I would be genuinely enthusiastic about continuing to see her. We’re compatible in a lot of other ways. But marijuana is a hard no for me. It’s disgusting to me. And of course, the response is that’s hurtful, don’t tell me that, I should be able to be exactly how I want to be and someone should accept me as I am. And maybe someone will. That someone just isn’t me.
That’s the call to action—for me. Stop being so goddamn butthurt. Stop acting like clarity is cruelty. I’m going back to my yoga studio tomorrow for yoga. Enough of this avoidance bullshit. Quit being a whiny little bitch, Jerry. Get your ass to yoga. It’s good for you. There are people there who are friends. So what if that girl at the front desk said what she said? It doesn’t matter.
If anything, I took the lesson from it. I realized I should have had a full letter in every book from the beginning—my phone number, my intentions, exactly what I’m asking for—so nothing is left open to interpretation. No ambiguity. No guessing. No room for people to project their own stories onto me. And who knows—maybe the woman I messaged will take the feedback to heart. Maybe she’ll reconsider her marijuana use. Or maybe she won’t. That part isn’t my concern. What is my concern is noticing how easy it is for people—including me—to default to I’m hurt, my boundaries, everyone’s violating me, while continuing to do the exact same things and expecting different results. At some point, it’s worth asking: maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the one who needs to change.
I changed. I give books away. Every book now has a letter inside it with my phone number, clearly stating what I’m looking for—help finding a place to live, help making money, and dating. It’s not personal. It’s not targeted. It’s not some covert attempt to pick up one specific person. It’s obviously there for everyone. It even explicitly asks for advice. That alone removes so much of the weirdness and suspicion. No one has to feel like I’m singling them out or being predatory. No one needs to “protect other girls.” It’s all out in the open. And that feels good. It feels clean.
I’m actually grateful this woman messaged me, because it forced me to check my own reactions. Yes, it’s okay to have your feelings hurt. That’s human. But it’s not okay to walk around acting like everyone else is fucked up when you’re the one with the power to change how you show up. A lot of the ways people respond to me are because of me. That’s not shame—that’s agency. I feel solid about my dating intentions. I know what I want. I’m clear about it. And I’m learning how to communicate that in a way that’s honest, impersonal, and grounded, without putting emotional pressure on anyone. It’s amazing how someone’s reaction can simultaneously confirm why you don’t want to date them and show you exactly what you need to adjust in yourself. I’m going to bed feeling hopeful. I learned something valuable tonight. I’m ready to move forward tomorrow.
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Life playlist.