2025: Chapter Four

May 10th:

I decided tonight that I am going to start putting the date every time I write something on here. It means nothing. It adds no value to this blog. I just think it’s more fair to put the specific date, because generally speaking every time I post an article it’s really, like, ten different sessions of writing. I’m usually only inspired for a few paragraphs at a time before getting sidetracked by a phone call, or watching on YouTube highlights of whatever sport is in season.

There are obviously nights when distractions aren’t in play and I am able to bang out a couple thousand words, but those nights are, as they say, few and far between. It usually takes a confluence of three or four different events occurring simultaneously. Such as Sarah being on her weekend and not calling on her way home from work, and my preferred sports team (or teams) losing that particular day, and there being nothing interesting that happened in sports, period, during said particular day. And all that goes without mentioning the most obvious: That some nights I just don’t have it. Writing-wise, I mean.

I recently changed the layout on my blog, and I must admit that originally I made a terrible mistake. I actually searched my name on ChatGPT — an AI app that I literally used only a handful of times — because I thought what it said sort of captured my essence. But then right after I posted it, a paragraph that acted as an introduction to Future Bets, I realized that I don’t even fuck with AI. It isn’t ever something I use. Further, upon a quick search of AI, in general, I saw that it’s actually horrible for the environment. The energy it consumes, or requires, is an incredible burden on planet earth. Anyway, I corrected my mistake and not only deleted what ChatGPT said about me but deleted the app off of my phone. Fuck AI.

Speaking of water, I spent like an hour tonight on my treadmill and had a hankering to drink some. Water, that is. And I have several water bottles sitting around my condo at room temperature that I could have picked up and pounded the remainder of the water out of any of them, but I didn’t. I went straight for a brand new bottle resting ice cold in my refrigerator. I was not aware until a couple years ago: Cold water is not good for your body. It sucks because cold water tastes better than tepid water. I knew better, and yet I still drank the cold water.

That really is such a tiny, meaningless and inconsequential example, I know, but it really does illustrate who I am as a person and how I live my life. Knowing better and oftentimes intentionally making the wrong (or worse, if and when there are multiple options) decision. In my mind I am constantly negotiating and dealmaking with myself. I tell myself that I am a good enough writer to sometimes exercise poetic (or literary) license, bargaining internally that if one knows the rules then they are allowed to break them. I have an especially disgusting cigarette-smoking habit, yet I tell myself (because it’s organic) that the tobacco in American Spirits is better, or least not as bad, for me as the Newports I once enjoyed. I drink three or four beers every night, and I tell myself that I’m not an alcoholic because I know what real alcoholics look like and I am not one of those. And so on.

And I have been given so much affirmation throughout my life that it’s really, like, hard for me to convince myself I am doing anything truly wrong. I still remember how proud I was when my first girlfriend/love told me that the word about me around high school was that I was arrogant and/or cocky, but that she didn’t see it that way. She said: ‘It’s not arrogance if it’s true.’ That was all I needed as an 18 year-old to hear. That statement was all by itself validation for everything I was at the time, and had been, long before.

Then one of my bosses, a guy I actually respect quite a bit — his name is Shannon (and as an aside was the one who helped me move to the desert in April, 2024) — told me something quite similar when I was still a young man. Maybe 26 or 27. I was on the craps table some random afternoon and he said I was quote full of myself, but that, quote, most of the time you are right. Again, it offered me justification. It was all I needed to hear.

What I really think is that all of this is some longwinded extension of what I have written about many times before. The question of whether one would rather be ignorant and happy or knowledgable and unhappy. Everybody must at some point make this choice for themself. I imagine my own arrived when I was, like, 15 years old and stopped playing baseball competitively. I got knocked down a peg, in a manner of speaking, understanding that I would not eventually become a Major League Baseball player. All of my friends were baseball players. I had been playing baseball my whole life. But none of my friends were intellectuals in any sort of way. And I wanted to be an intellectual — since I couldn’t be a baseball player. I chose to learn as much as I could, and that led me to a lot of the time knowing too much. It grew difficult for me to have conversations with, and ultimately even associate, with just about everyone whom I knew up until that point.

As we fast-forward some twenty years since that necessarily revelatory fork in the road, the whole knowing-too-much shit does impact my life on a daily basis. I do not shop at Wal-Mart because they treat their workers like shit. I will never cross a picket line. I more often than not drink room temperature water instead of cold water (tonight notwithstanding). I keep my mouth shut when dumb people give their absurd and typically conspiratorial sports opinions. I allow my fellow Californians to shit on California politics without mentioning that generally we have it better than most others, in most states. I don’t judge anyone for thinking differently than I do, about sports or politics or religion, because it takes two to tango and I know most others don’t feel the way I do about these topics.

May 12th:

Not for nothing, but this most recent three-day stretch (May 9th, May 10th, May 11th) up to and including where I sit right this second, at 1:39 A.M. Pacific Standard Time on the early morning of May 12th, is the best I have felt in a really, really long time. That’s it.

I do not think it is any coincidence that over the course of those three days I’ve gone for a run on my treadmill. That has kind of always been the secret to my mood being improved. Running, that is. I find it aids with my general outlook on life, the overall level of energy I carry with me throughout my workdays (or nights), my appetite, my sleep, etc. It’s like a drug in many ways. It quite literally makes everything better.

And I have always known this, because each time I stop running for extended stretches of time both my body and my mind can feel it. I become significantly more sluggish and I have neither the heart nor the energy to, like, do things. Life feels more like a chore instead of something in which I genuinely look forward to. Which I normally do. I really appreciate the world, and reality, and the ability I have to participate in it.

I must give myself some grace on this issue, however, since it is an objective fact that towards the end of 2024 I was in the absolute tip-top running shape I had ever been in. Almost as if it were a requirement to get through my day I was running on the treadmill for an hour (or more) per session and anywhere between 5-6 miles a pop. It basically got to the point where both my body and my brain were capable, I believed, of going on forever. That the only thing that was stopping me from running was going to work and fulfilling other necessary obligations, or whatever.

Then what happened, unpredictably in terms of my life but entirely predictable insofar as giving myself grace is concerned, was that Niña went off and fucking died. And I don’t think I got on the treadmill for like two goddamn months after that, perhaps longer, since, at the time, I was doing a running series on iFit where Knox Robinson (arguably my favorite iFit trainer) was in Africa and it was the last running series I was involved with while Niña was still alive. So I never wanted to complete it, because Niña was still alive when it started and it was another one of those stupid ways that made me feel as if I had not finished it that a part of Niña would still be there, or here. With me.

Alas, I did finish the (ten- or twelve-part) Africa: Foundations Of Running Series back in February or March. But it was one of those things where I’d do a day here, and a day there. I still was not in a position mentally or physically to make the treadmill a pillar of my daily routine. Which is why these last few days have felt so important to me, because since Niña passed away I have not ran this many days consecutively.

Never forget that the entire reason I purchased that fucking machine was that after Niña and I broke up (in July, 2021) I needed to expend my time and energy on something, and running was what I chose. Then when her and I became friends again in the subsequent weeks and months I was always very proud to send her screenshots of workouts I completed, from the early days when I was only running a mile at a time, or what have you, all the way until I was doing five-plus miles at a time. And she would tell me ‘Wow PB’ or ‘Good job, PB,’ or however she phrased it. So there was (and is) always a part of her in my journey as a runner. But that’s really to say that I can’t do, even still, much of anything without her having a hand in it.

As it goes, I stopped running immediately starting on December 12th, 2024, because as has been chronicled on this very website I fell into a deep depression and if truth be told I am still mired within it in ways that I don’t comprehend and probably won’t for many months (or years — I don’t fucking know). That’s not to say I don’t feel happiness or joy, or that I don’t smile or laugh, or that ostensibly I am all that different than what most people expect me to be. It’s really only during the quiet times, in my moments of privacy, where Niña most comes back to life.

And she lives through me, Niña does, even when I talk about running. As of today — coincidentally — it has been five months since her passing. It has been five months since I have gone on the treadmill for three consecutive days. It has been five months since I remembered how good it feels to keep going, on there, even when my body and my mind don’t want to. It has been five months since I have been able to write, honestly, that I feel a general, all-encompassing sort of happiness. And I am here to tell you about it.

I do wonder, if there does exist something to wonder about, which side of this chicken-and-the-egg theory I am on vis-a-vis this newfound running experiment of mine goes. In other words: Do I feel happier now because I have been running again, or did I suddenly become happy enough to begin running again in the first place? I’m fairly certain the answer is somewhere in the middle, but who am I to fight what the end result currently feels like?

As is customary with me, I have over these last few days thought for a hot second about sending Niña a screenshot of the run I completed — since that was once something I habitually did — but, you know, I did say it was only for a hot second. Such a hot second lasted only as long as it took me to remember that Niña is no longer here. And that creates an entirely new sense of disappointment, the kind that almost puts a little smile on my face, knowing that I have no one to share these minor accomplishments with anymore. But I did. I used to.

I know a lotta people but not many that I trust
And outta those I trust not many I would touch
They say I talk in circles but I write it line by line
And if I don't really know you I'ma lie and say I'm fine
And I spit rhymes hoping that someone who thinks like me
Related to the emotions interlocked within the psyche
Spit rhymes to catch chicks to catch hope
To catch that ear of the kid who says 'damn that shit is dope' 
Not to mention I love the attention
Went from hidin' in the boxcars to drivin' the engine
And I sit in the same chair under the same light
Round the same time a night when I write
Probably will for life

May 13th:

In the waning months of 2024 I wrote on here of a girl who somehow managed to capture my imagination. It was such a meaningful tryst we shared in because the majority of my year was littered with so much fly-by-night nonsense where the opposite sex was concerned. Relationships with me became a brief sort of cycle where either side would add the other on places like Facebook or Instagram, and then I would earn a phone number, and then we’d go out, once or twice or a few times, and then they would show themselves for who they really were, or I would grow bored, or both, and then I would get out of it.

It became such a tired existence for me that eventually, in August, I think, I told my friend Sarah point blank that I was taking a sabbatical from women. And it was nice, you know? Not having to deal with them. But then as if the universe played a trick on me this really wonderful woman came into my life and I did not have the strength to ignore her. I think I once described her as my ‘reward’ for the sabbatical I had been on. The sabbatical lasted like a month and a half.

And it was great, you know? I found this girl to be quite lovely. We did our thing, and we had our time together, but then I found myself exceedingly stressed out knowing there was some expectation on the line. That I could not simply treat her without care in the way I had treated so many of the others. I felt real pressure in my life. I knew she really, like, loved me in a way that I could not love her back. Even though she was right there for the taking I had to make a decision, one where I actually wasn’t sure if it was right or not, one where I wanted to end it before it became something I could no longer control, one where I didn’t even sleep with her because I respected her too much. I was afraid of what would happen if we did go, in a manner of speaking, all the way.

Then Niña died. That has nothing to do with my relationship with this one favorite girl of mine from the year 2024, but it does act as a time stamp, or a marker, for the additional fly-by-night nonsense that came after. There was this one, and there was that one. And there were certainly others. The so-called cycle I mentioned a couple paragraphs ago only became more accelerated; it was like I couldn’t miss. Boom. Boom. Boom. And then nothingness once more, just how I wanted it.

But then recently, as in within the last two or three weeks, I realized that I still have legitimate feelings for this girl whom I turned down before we ever really got started. Women came, and women went, but then there she was. Still on my mind. This one favorite girl of mine. The one that I didn’t feel the need to impress or grandstand in front of. The one who accepted me for who I am. The one that liked me for who I was. It was a really complicated sort of realization that I discovered.

And so over the last few weeks I began to press her, and I told her these things. That I still cared for her; that I still had feelings for her; etcetera. I am so fucking honest I couldn’t help but to let her know where I currently stand. That I was not emotionally available when the two of us had our time together. That that was the reason why it didn’t make any sense. And she understood.

May 14th:

But I have on me this really incredible ego. And this ego of mine, it convinced me that once I was ready, or more ready, for my one favorite girl, that I could simply re-arrive on her doorstep and she would be there at my beck and call. I suppose this is one of the many things which are described as The Folly Of Man, of which I am unfortunately not immune. I have only excuses to offer insofar as why I was not ready for her back in, like, October, and why emotionally I was incapable following Niña’s death.

Within my own mind these excuses make perfect sense. After all, I felt I had very legitimate reasons for taking a sabbatical in the first place. I considered it poor timing that this woman entered into my life when she did. And while I saw my exit from our pseudo-relationship as the magnanimous thing to do — i.e. squashing it before I slept with her, thus saving her from a deeper emotional investment when I knew I wasn’t myself ready for it — it turns out that the damage had already been done.

She wrote me a letter the other day, this favorite woman of mine, and she basically said that I lost her trust and that she hoped we could still maintain a friendship. She did clarify that she still loves me, and that she would like to speak more — about her perspective — but I couldn’t help (because ego) to receive the letter only as Bad News. Not what I was obviously hoping for.

The silly part is that there were so many before her which, again, led me to taking time away from women, and that there were a handful after her, and what it taught me was something I have written about before regarding the staying power of certain people. I had a feeling that she did (have staying power) back when we were seeing one another. But it didn’t make sense. None of it did six months ago.

May 17th:

Sarah thinks this is good for me. Or at least that it will be good for me, eventually. She is literally the only person in the world who I share these intimate details with; I offer the commercial-length anecdotes with my mom, but her and I only get to talk every week or two and I don’t want to bog the conversation down with my bullshit; I also talk to Spencer, but he is sort of in the same boat as my mom. I might only see him two or three times a week for like ten or fifteen minutes at a time. And the way guys converse about such things, as you can imagine, is very different than with Sarah, or my mother, who offer the female perspective.

Long story short: As much as I would have preferred the instant gratification from this woman — this favorite woman of mine — I have always been pretty aware that sugar rushes don’t work, and don’t end, well for me. Almost every healthy and sustainable relationship (even in the general, nonromantic sense) I’ve ever had has not been of the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later variety. It’s been slow-burning process. Or a buildup. Whatever you want to call it.

This is obviously one of the many ironies that make me who I am as a human being, because in my experience I have been prone to getting intoxicated by the very same sugar rushes that began, predictably enough, by me shooting first and worrying later about the consequences. I’ve had a sick tendency to fall quickly for women whom I know immediately aren’t any good for me. Perhaps the unhealthiest aspect of all is that I still seek to go against the norms, and against the conventional, of what is expected of me, in an attempt to turn the proverbial whore into a housewife. Don’t ask me how I became like this. It’s just my nature, I guess.

Today is Friday. It’s turned into my favorite day of the week, but only as of recent given that Thursday-Friday became my weekend days as of October, 2024. The reason it’s my favorite day is because it is the one day of the week that allows me to like lock in and clean up my condo and do laundry and have everything completely set up for my upcoming work week. All my clothes are folded. All my underwear and undershirts and work pants are right where they need to be. All my dishes (of which there are only like five that I use regularly) are clean. Etc.

I so look forward to this day of the week that I will leave my condo looking like shit for most of the week because it gives me something to do for a couple hours at a time on Friday. Rather than doing the normal-person thing and washing the dishes after I use them, I’ll just leave them in the sink. Rather than doing small loads of laundry every two or three days I’ll just save them all for this one day and do three separate loads over a three-hour stretch in time.

I did run on the treadmill for six consecutive days last week. I actually started last Friday. I ran Friday, and then I ran from Saturday-through-Wednesday before work. Tonight I went on the treadmill, but it was only to walk. I walked for an hour. I mean it was more like a hike because I had the incline on fucking maximum for forty out of sixty minutes, and it came out to 1,260 vertical feet, which I haven’t done since I lived in Riverside CA.

And I can’t deny it, it was an emotional week for me. Due to the whole Niña connection regarding my journey as a runner, I broke down in front of Sarah while I was telling her about it. Then last night Spencer and I were at a bar and I didn’t exactly, like, cry in front of him, but I think my voice cracked a little bit and my lower lip was quivering, or whatever. He understood.

But I think what it’s all about is that for the first time in a long time I’m actually proud of myself. Again. I really missed getting on the treadmill every day rather than staying in bed or sleeping until the last possible second before I was obligated to get up, or wake up, in advance of another day of work where all I’d be doing is putting on a mask for my coworkers and the general public. If truth be told, the only real pride I have felt over these last five months is understanding and/or realizing how goddamn impressive my mask really is. Because I’ve just been holding on… for longer than I care to say.

Running is a part of me much in the same vein as is writing. It is not what I do; it is who I am. But whereas writing was inarguably, and without any close competitor, my salvation following Niña’s death, the one thing that helped me cope, the one exercise that offered a release for my mind, that which was able to take me away for minor wrinkles in time, running I left at the wayside because my body frankly would not allow it of me to carry on. I tried many times and I failed. I always knew it would be there for me… eventually. But my body and my mind, they too have to meet me where I meet them.

At present time I feel an incredible amount of optimism for the future. It very well could be short-lived, this feeling. There is a healthy chance that I do not own the patience to play the long game with this favorite woman of mine and I relapse into getting back in the game and doing the things that are expected of me. There is some chance I recede back into the doldrums and stop running so consistently. All of the things I feel good about in this exact moment in time can turn around and bite me. I don’t think they will, anytime soon, but no one ever went broke betting against my immediate happiness.

For now, the condo is clean. The clothes are folded and right where they need to be. I am in good spirits. The kitchen smells like lemons. That’s the best scent, I’ve discovered.