Well, well, well. Look who we have here. The Bitch Is Back. I’m trying to figure out some more empty platitudes to fill this intro with but that feels like enough. Thanks for sticking around. Maybe I’ll plop another one of these out before the end of the year but who knows. Anyway, I love you and I’m going to the UK soon so let me know if there’s anything I need to check out while I’m there. Especially vintage stores and vegan restaurants.

-Mike

As soon as I open my phone, I am assaulted with videos on how to become The Optimized Man. Some tanned and vascular stranger screams at me directly through the screen with the devilish glow of a ring light in his eyes. He always has all of the answers. How many hours of sleep I should be getting. How many grams of protein I should be eating. How much natural sunlight I should be receiving. How cold my shower should be. How important journaling is. How life changing doing ketamine and ayahuasca is as long as I have the correct guide. How the only thing more important than your physical health is your mental health (they say this one through gritted teeth because they don’t believe it.) It never ends.

Every second of your day must be accounted for. Take a break from your work spreadsheets to check in on your personal spreadsheets. Your life: compartmentalized into tiny rectangles. Are you productive? Are you reaching your goals? Everything has the stink of corporate tech startup life on it now. You no longer have to figure out what to do with the vegetables about to become overripe in your refrigerator because there’s a company that will send you a single serving of precut zucchini in the mail. All you have to do is slowly murder the earth with unrecyclable dry ice packets, cardboard, plastic and exhaust from the planes and trucks moving these items around. But there’s no food waste happening, so you’re being efficient. God forbid some spinach wilts.

Everyone’s obsessed with the stories about that wet looking freak who drinks his son’s blood. But I think a lot of people are missing the point. Yes, it’s funny to dunk on him because he doesn’t look much younger than his actual age of 45. But vanity is not entirely why he’s doing this. He wants to run at 100% capacity. Tech people think the human body can be treated like a machine. He’ll take 30+ supplements a day, wake up at 4:30am, do the exact same fitness routine and monitor everything he ingests down to the exact calorie just so his knees don’t hurt in his 50s. I’m sure he also wants the poreless sex doll skin he has achieved but, more importantly, he wants to be shoved into a tube and have his whole body scanned so a computer can tell him that his CPU is running at optimal capacity.

Wonder and joy has ceased to exist in the world of The Efficient Life. How could you have a nice meal at a restaurant you’ve never been to before unless you accost the staff about the negative health benefits of seed oils? How could you spend time laying on a couch next to an open window reading something enjoyable when you could be participating in the horrendous 75 Hard challenge? Why have a rich and fulfilling life full of friends and interesting experiences and sex and spontaneity when you can spend two and a half months with no cheat meals, two separate 45 minute workouts, reading only self help books and chugging a gallon of water? You have one precious life and you’re supposed to spend it like you’re training for Mr. Olympia?

There’s only so much mental bandwidth a person can dedicate to these types of things before they lose who they are as a person. Someone with a personality and interests can quickly become the type of person who has to carry a shaker bottle and duffle bag everywhere with them and will say things like “You know David Goggins said...” I’m spoonfed this content because I’ve spent the last year getting working out and losing weight. I’ve lost about 75 pounds, which is no simple feat. But I didn’t have to become an apostle of any one ideal. The people making money off of these lifestyles don’t want you to know how simple it can be. For me, I made sure I did a lot of cardio, a decent amount of weight training and was mindful of what I’m eating.

There’s no money in that line of thinking though. You need their programs, their supplements, their books, their Patreon which has access to the real information. It’s not just fitness content. The same model is used across all of the Optimized Man Universe. Here’s how to make $1000 a week while sitting in your living room. Here’s which stocks to buy for the best return on investment. Here’s how to turn yourself into a brand. All you have to do is get behind the paywall and your dreams will come true.

No longer can you solely be someone who likes books, now you must become a book influencer and monetize that part of you. Any second of your day that isn’t growing your bank account or lowering your BMI is pointless. Hobbies are for the inefficient. Oh, you “love” “riding your bike” because it “feels nice”? Why don’t you grow the fuck up and strap a GoPro to your chest and do UberEats deliveries while you’re riding?

I’m not immune to any of this. Why do I know that bodybuilders prefer 97/3 ground beef for their meals even though I’ve been vegan for 16 years? Why do I know how many apps are needed to do retail arbitrage? I’m not above going Huberman Mode. Waking up early (in context to my lifestyle), getting sunlight into my eyes as soon as I can and eating the same things all the time make me feel better. But I don’t need to disrobe and self-flagellate in the middle of a monastery if I mess up and don’t do one of them.

Is life to be lived in the most efficient way possible or are we supposed to have a decent time while we’re here? Is there no room for Efficiency Sometimes? Maybe this is all a coping mechanism because I’m not as disciplined as I’d like to be. I thought I’d have rock hard abs by now but I can soothe the pain by saying life is all about having fun and letting it rip. I thought I’d have enough money to afford a bedroom with a real window but I can just say that I’m keeping my overhead low for the freedom of life as an artist.

I think the reality is that everything is a coping mechanism. Life is long and difficult and expensive. Live long enough and you’ll probably have your heart broken and go broke and get fat and then get thin (you can also reverse the order [and repeat the process as many times as you’d like]) and work a job you hate and tie yourself to a partner and a house you regret. So whatever you can do to feel a little bit better while you’re doing that is probably ok. Just don’t shout it into your phone camera and make it my problem.

Some things I’ve been into lately

Jeans in the summer

Nothing in this world can be said to be certain, except death and taxes and me not enjoying wearing shorts. Every June I get the bright idea that I’m going to change who I am as a person and all of a sudden be comfortable in shorts so I’ll buy a new pair. By July I’m back to shoving my sweaty legs into some Levi’s yet again. I’d rather sweat through my jeans than walk around feeling like a little boy every day in shorts and sneakers. Some people will wear a leather loafer or derby with socks that look can lean Republican On A Boat or Guy Who Says His Favorite Band Is Boygenius So He Can Get Laid very quickly so it’s best to steer clear unless you’re really fucking good looking.  

Enhanced Water

You can either die a hero or live long enough to become the suburban mom you’ve always mocked. On my journey through low-and-no calorie beverages, I have ascended into the world of Enhanced Water. Growing up, we always had a pitcher of Crystal Light in the fridge. Usually raspberry. My mom’s diabetic and vaguely tried to manage our sugar intake so I grew accustomed to the aspartame taste quickly. Recently I tried to Hit The Crys again with those little packets of powder you pour into a water bottle but 1) I don’t really buy small plastic water bottles and 2) if you don’t shake them up enough you just have some fruit punch flavored scum in a bottle. This is where those bastards at Mio got their claws in me. They make a little bottle of goop you spray into a glass of water and 1) the flavor is literally just blue and 2) it has caffeine in it. I try to pretend I’m a man of taste but if something’s blue, there’s no way my ass ain’t drinking it and unfortunately I’m enhancing the shit out of my water lately. 

Buying whatever I want

For the first time in my life I have a little bit of disposable income and apparently I have shifted immediately into the You Can’t Take It With You mentality. Someone mentions a book on a podcast? It’s already on the way to my house. I’m at one of my favorite vintage stores in the country (Scorpio Rising in Tacoma) and I find 4 shirts that I love? Hope there’s room in my bag for all of them. My friends and I are illegally streaming the UFC fights and I think about a delicious pizza? Order’s up, bitch. My friend is moving and selling a cool chair in their Instagram stories? That thing is gonna have my assprint welded to it within the week.

Laughing at people dressing up for Barbie

This also could’ve been called “being a hater” but that’s more of an overarching theme in my life so why not get specific? Adults wearing costumes is barely tolerable on Halloween but to get dressed up to sit in a pitch black theater is another level. I know everything is now solely done for photos but I can’t imagine the shame of having to hold your Amazon one day shipped pink cowboy hat for 2.5 hours of a movie. A guy I went to high school with posted photos of him and his girlfriend in their little outfits and afterwards posted “we hated the movie” and I’ve been using the joy I felt from seeing that to propel me through the world for weeks. 

A regulation size bag of Skittles

They really knocked it out of the park with that one. Original, tropical, wild berry.  Pop that son of a bitch open and enjoy. 

Cutting my shirts so they fit correctly 

I’m not doing this in a Tik Tok Fashion Guy Who Talks Into The Camera way but more in a Guy Standing On Stage During The Bad Brains At CBGB 1982 kind of way. Shirts are made for truly almost no body types and they’re only getting worse. Brands targeted towards men who need good fitting shirts make some of the worst dogshit you’ve ever seen in your life. Untuckit? Cuts? Buck Mason? Hit me over the head with a shovel before you see me wearing them. Don’t like a raw hem on your shirt? Oh, all of a sudden the king of England reads my newsletter. Grow a pair or buy a sewing machine.

SNAKE: Why doesn't anybody have good furniture?

Self Defense Family- Law of Karma Live: Fake Shit Wins But Not Tonight

Andy Roddick’s Open Era

Out There: John Fitzgerald

The Life and Errors of Molly Young

BEST CROISSANT IN PARIS

Muscle: Confessions of an Unlikely Bodybuilder by Samuel W. Fussell

THE APARTMENT (1960)

Wow, look at us. Together after another year. How beautiful is that? Here’s a list of some of my favorite things of 2022. I’ve definitely touched on a few in newsletters this year but guess what? Ya ain’t paying for this so I’m allowed to recycle a little bit. This was probably the best and also the worst year of my entire life so that’s pretty fun. I allowed myself to be mentally ill for the months of July, August and November but through sheer willpower I pulled it up at the end. I had to wait until New Years Day to put this out because what if I heard the best song of my entire life on New Years Eve and then it would float listless for eternity? I didn’t, but still. Anyway, I love you romantically. Thank you for reading this whenever I put it out.

-Mike

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Nice socks

You deserve to feel good. I can’t believe I went this long without some good quality socks. I didn’t fully upgrade my entire sock drawer and I haven’t delved deep into the world of cashmere or other prohibitively expensive socks but lordy lordy does it feel different to pop on some quality socks. Quality, warm, handknit socks in the winter? Comfortable and well-made sport socks in the summer? You’ll feel better almost immediately. More confident. More comfortable. More you. Get yourself some nice socks this year and realize your grandparents were right when they gave you socks as a present. 

Working out/losing 50 pounds

Sorry to do this but I cannot overstate how much this has changed my life. I’m a better and more confident version of myself now. My clothes fit better. My face isn’t the size and shape of a gallon of milk anymore. I’m not in pain every single day. I can ride my bike up a steep hill without having to stop halfway up and walking the rest of the way. I don’t spiral into a depression every time I see a candid photo of myself. I don’t talk about killing myself every day. Unfortunately, lifting weights and eating better makes you feel really good. It’s awesome to sit on your ass and eat 3-5 huge meals a day. I’d much rather be doing that but it really puts a strain on your belt after awhile. I’m no evangelist and I still have a lot of work to do but I implore everyone who is feeling negatively about themselves to try exercising in whatever way they can. Go for a long walk. Stroll on the treadmill. Lift some 5 pound weights once a week. Do push-ups in your office at work. It’ll make you feel better, I swear. Physical activity + sunlight on your face early in the morning + caffeine = I am no longer mentally ill and my plantar fasciitis has disappeared. 

Quitting my job

Doing this ran concurrently with working out in the Top Reasons I Stopped Being Insane This Year. Working in a windowless room with an hour commute each way for 3.5 years will turn anyone's brain into mush. I highly suggest quitting your job to follow your dream if you can. Even if you dream is to be a person who lays around and does nothing. That is a noble dream. 

Fragrantheart.com

Got more into trying to care of every part of myself this year. Mentally as well as physically. Guided meditations have really helped me calm myself and become more controlled. This is a website of meditations in a myriad of categories recorded and narrated by a woman from New Zealand with a very pleasant voice. Try meditation if you haven’t. What’s the worst that could happen? You feel nothing? How is that any different than now?

Telling people you love them

Doesn’t matter who it is as long as you mean it. It feels good.

Raymond Carver

I’m fairly self-conscious about my lack of formal education. I don’t think you need it to be intelligent or successful but there are a bunch of great things that I’ve missed because I never had someone pointing me in the right direction. I was an avid reader as a child but fell off in my early 20s. I’ve been tearing through books the past few years and trying to play catch up. An insurmountable task. You’ll see on my list of books I enjoyed this year that there are a few classics I never got to. I was too busy presenting as an anti-intellectual because I was ashamed at how little I had learned. 2022 is the year I finally discovered Raymond Carver’s writing and it knocked me on my ass. Sparse and intentional and bleak and beautiful. Stories about working class folks that felt familiar. Stories that start in the middle and stop before the ending. A peek into the most private moments of people’s lives. I could read them all 200 times and find something new to love every single time. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love was the first collection I read and probably still my favorite but every book has something that will blow you away. Start wherever you wish if you haven’t. I wish I had picked this up a decade ago. 

Spending money

You can’t take it with you. Get yourself something nice. 

Energy Drinks

I know this is not a new thing for me to love but this year all of us here at Please Enjoy Inc. LLC dove headfirst into the low/no calorie energy drink world because we are no longer drinking our calories. Sorry Yellow Red Bull. We loved you but it’s time for a little break. It’s not you, it’s us. Some would say “If you’re not drinking your calories, why don’t you just drink water?” and to that we say “SHUT THE FUCK UP.” Anyway, 2022 was mostly about Celsius coming from out of nowhere to being my first choice of energy drink. Great flavors that don’t feel like poison when you drink them. Mango Passionfruit is my #1 but harder to find so I’ll have to grab a Kiwi Guava or even a Tropical Vibe (rough name) if I see it. I’m not happy with how much I enjoy the Mtn Dew Energy line because it’s slightly embarrassing to be seen drinking a 16oz can of bright blue liquid in public but the Baja Blast, Code Red and Pomegranate Blue Burst flavors are all 5/5 and get purchased as soon as I see them. Also, Monster Ultra Fiesta Mango has gotten me through some really hard times this year and I will choose that over a Celsius if I want to feel a bit more insane than usual.  

A good rug

You want a room to feel welcoming. You want a room to feel put together. You want a room to feel a little sexy. You want a room to feel intentional. I’ve become (some people that I’ve been around would say too) obsessed with making sure every room I’m in hits at least some of these markers. Fiddling with lights, rearranging and tidying up and trying to redecorate. My budget is minimal so I want to get the best bang for my buck. For forever I had cheap and kind of crappy area rugs from Ikea or Amazon. I got put on to this Etsy store that sells really affordable, well loved Turkish rugs and I immediately fell in love. I got a new rug for my bedroom and it completely changed the feeling of the room. It felt warmer and more mature immediately. You can find a good quality, decently sized rug for under $200 that people will want to talk to you about. 

The Civil Dead

My favorite movie of the year. I really enjoy Whitmer Thomas and Clay Tatum’s collaborations but this went far and beyond whatever expectations I had. A haunting and stunning meditation on friendship. I’m really excited for its wider release and to go see it in a theater. Plus it had a great cameo from my friend Steve Hernandez so that’s more than enough of a reason to check it out. 

Wolfgang Tillmans- To Look Without Fear

This MoMA retrospective of Wolfgang Tillmans’s work was one of my favorite experiences of the year. I went up to the MoMA by myself on a Monday to take it all in. At first, I had my headphones in playing Brian Eno’s Music For Airports but quickly took them out. I wanted to block out all of the noise around me to experience the photos solely on my own. After 2 or 3 minutes, I realized this was a fool’s errand. I wanted to experience like everyone else around me was and in the way the exhibition was set up. Seeing some of these photos that I was familiar with, and many I wasn’t, in such a large number and on a huge scale amazed me. I was particularly enamored with this photo. A touching and intimate show that showed me an artist does not need to stick to one thing to show you how they express themselves. 

eBay

The Achilles heel on my bank account this year. I dove headfirst into being a nasty eBay freak long after its heyday. THE spot to buy used books. You don’t need them tomorrow from Amazon. Plus they’re cheaper on eBay and you can choose your preferred cover if the book has multiple editions. The best spot to find reasonably priced vintage clothing. Some outstanding pickups from this year have been: a 70s Oakland A’s season ticket holder jacket (purchase inspired by Moneyball), a Walls Blizzard-Pruf winter jacket, a few beat to shit 70s/80s hoodies, what feels like 9000 books and a 5 foot tall French poster for the movie Mikey and Nicky.

The Sarah Book by Scott McClanahan

Unlike anything else I’ve ever read. Completely raw and vulnerable and sick and sad. I read this at the worst possible time for myself and it crushed me like a ton of bricks. The story of a man losing it all as a result of his own bad decisions. McClanahan narrates the audiobook, which I highly suggest. I do not suggest listening to the audiobook directly after finishing the physical book unless you’d like to compound all of the negative feelings inside of your body into a neat little diamond. “Sarah told me she’d think about it as long as I promised not to kill myself and I told her I wouldn’t kill myself. Then we both smiled. This meant something. Sarah might have sex with me again if I promised not to kill myself.” 

Traveling with friends

Spent 8 or 9 months traveling the country doing stand up with my friends and there’s literally nothing better. You truly don’t need the stand up part either. Hop in a car. Get on a plane. Take the Amtrak. Pop on some music. Get some snacks. Talk about your feelings. Get into an argument. Share a hotel room. Buy a hat from a gas station. Randomly meet a beautiful stranger. Find a restaurant you love. Eat dinner from a 7-11 because nothing else is open. Flirt with a flight attendant. Swim in the ocean. Get some baseball mitts to keep in the trunk and play catch on long drives. It doesn’t have to cost a lot of money but just go somewhere. 

SHEER DRIFT: The Snake America Newsletters (1-100)

Speaking of buying vintage items on eBay, I have espoused my love for Sami Reiss’s SNAKE/Snake America newsletter multiple times. It has been the source for pointers on purchasing tasteful items online for a good price for a long time. Shining Life Press down in DC has compiled and released the first 100 issues of the newsletter in a beautiful book. I’m a huge fan of Shining Life Press and this was a match made in heaven for me. I grabbed the spiral bound version at the NYABF. I highly recommend grabbing this. SNAKE 100 is one of my favorite pieces of writing of all time and worth the price of the book alone just to have a physical copy of. 

Having people over

Moving into a larger and nicer apartment in December of 2021 has given me the opportunity to have a space where I can host people if I wish. More and more people are coming over to spend some time and I love having people in my home. I hosted Thanksgiving for some friends and I this year and I’m now trying hard to not become a Dinner Party Guy because that requires so many dishes and vessels. 

The Andre 3000 sandwich from Two Beards Deli in Grand Rapids, Michigan

As a proponent of the Big Sandwich Lifestyle, this is the best one I had all year. I stumbled upon this deli while in Grand Rapids this summer and loved it so much that we went back the next day and I ordered the exact same thing. I also discovered what could possibly be my favorite chip to eat with a sandwich there: the Cherry BBQ chips from Great Lakes Potato Chip Co. With all of that and Diet Mtn Dew on the soda fountain, I give Two Beards a 10/10. If you’re curious, the ingredients are: Blackened Tofu, Caramelized Onions, Avocado Spread, Banana Peppers, Vegan Bacon, Tomato, Chipotle Veganaise, Romaine Lettuce on Nine-Grain Wheat. (I get mine without tomato)

Forgiveness

A quality present in all of the people I admire. I have gone through the process of forgiving people for whatever perceieved slights I held against them. Life is much easier without the weight of anger holding you down. Let’s see if this sticks. 

Documental (& Pie Hell)

A discovery from my roommates that I immediately became obsessed with. A Japanese game show where 10 comedians have to stay in the same room for 6 hours and are not allowed to laugh. Some of the funniest and worst things I’ve ever seen have happened in that room. The first few seasons are streaming on Prime and then you’ve got to dig for them (live with someone who knows how to torrent). The creator of the show Hitoshi Matsumoto is also the subject of one of the most insane tv segments I’ve ever seen called Pie Hell. The youtube clip is only 5 minutes long but do yourself a favor and find the 20 minute version if you can. The amount of pies that can be thrown at one man is unbelievable. 

Daniel Arnold- Pickpocket

My favorite photobook of the year. It’s no secret that I'm a bit of a Daniel Arnold fanboy but the way this was printed and presented is beautiful. I love his writing about the photos almost as much as I love the photos themselves. The little supplemental zines in the middle are great too. I almost never received this because it was shipped to my old address but luckily it was left on the doorstep and my friend Jess rescued it for me because my old landlord turned it into cat litter or something. This is super expensive online now but if you’re my friend and want to see it, just come over and I’ll let you put your greasy little fingers all over it. 

Buying people gifts

If you see something that makes you think of someone, get it for them. Who cares why or when? It doesn’t have to be all the time and you should not expect reciprocity. 

Coke Zero

Nectar of the gods. Will make the list every single year. What’s better than a nice frosty can of CZ? I can’t think of one thing. 

Movies That I Watched This Year That I Really Enjoyed:

RRR

The French

Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

20th Century Women

Jackass Forever

The Celebration

Husbands

The Worst Person In The World

Music From This Year That I Really Liked: 

The Flex- Chewing Gum For The Ears

Living World- World

Electric Chair- Act of Aggression

Long Knife- Curb Stomp Earth

Chainsaw- When Will We Die?

High-Vis- Blending

Puffer- Live and Die In The City

Savageheads- Service To Your Country

Drug Church- Hygiene

Militarie Gun- Let Me Be Normal

Warthog- s/t 7”

Hotline TNT- When You Find Out

ICD10- Faith In Institutions

Compassion- Pacing Animal

Phantom- Demo

Shaved Ape- Demo

B.R.A.T.- Promo?

Peter Davison- Rest and Be Thankful

Fugitive- Maniac

Rose Glass- Demo

Persona- Free Your Mind!

Music Not From This Year That I Discovered and Really Liked:

Walter Bishop, Jr.- Cubicle

Pharoah Sanders- Love Will Find A Way

This live version of Work Hard/Play Hard by Place Music

Bill Evans Trio- Sunday At The Village Vanguard

Private Sector- The Darkness Burning Bright

John Lee Hooker- It Serves You Right To Suffer

Prison Affair- Demo

No Tolerance- No Remorse, No Tolerance

Grateful Dead- Cornell 5/8/77 (live)

RXKNephew

Sublist of music I already knew but couldn’t stop listening to:

Project Pat- Mista Don’t Play

Integrity- Psychological Warfare

Eric Clapton- Layla

Rixe live in Paris

Favorite Books I Read This Year In Chronological Order:

Among The Thugs by Bill Buford

I Used To Be Charming by Eve Babitz

Meditations by Marcus Aurelius

A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemmingway

The Stranger by Albert Camus

Serotonin by Michel Houellebecq

Cassandra At The Wedding by Dorothy Baker (a must read)

I Fear My Pain Interests You by Stephanie LaCava

Hey what’s up? Welcome back or thanks for reading my newsletter for the first time. If you do any artistic endeavor for long enough, you are no longer “repeating yourself” and are now “digging further into a subject”. There’s a lot of the greatest hits in here. Food, body image, sex, uncertainty, bragging masked as humility. Some of the Tenets Of Please Enjoy. I had a good time writing it so I hope you have a good time reading it. Either way, it’s free so it doesn’t really matter.

-Mike

Every once in awhile I will be sitting in the park, trying unbelievably hard to seem both intelligent and sexually desirable. After I unfold the blanket that I shoved into an undersized tote bag for the job, I will see an attractive woman having fun with a child in the middle of an open field and the thought “I would like to have a child with her” will shoot through my brain like an asteroid. I understand, on a biological level, the desire to procreate. We’re wired to keep our species alive, unlike the suicidal nature of the panda. I do not actually desire to be a father but you can only do so much to fight nature. 

I’ll probably get a vasectomy before the year is over so the conversation is becoming increasingly moot. Either a vasectomy or a silver tooth to fill the gap where my missing tooth is. Or maybe I’ll buy a few more rugs and pairs of jeans. Or I can get my neck tattooed. Either way, I will yet again not be opening a savings account.

There’s got to be some secret to happiness that I don’t know yet. I know people with and without children who are satisfied with their lives. I also know people with or without children that are unsatisfied and angry. The answer can’t be that satisfaction only comes from within and outside forces don’t really help that. It has to be something else. I’m begging you. 

If we dare listen to Freud, we all know that a parent's actions are responsible for their children's personalities and neuroses and I am not one to answer for my own mistakes or shortcomings. I don’t want to pin the blame on my parents as the sole reason I’m both twitchy and mean with no ability to control the tone of their voice so I always sound condescending. But I need to blame someone who isn’t me. 

I can only imagine the psychic damage I would unknowingly instill upon my child. My problem with children is the same one that I have with most animals. They’re unable to vocalize what their needs are and it drives me insane. I’m too much of a prick to communicate with them in a way that suits us both because I feel personally attacked when I have to do anything other than exactly the way I want to do it. 

Sure, I want the couple thousand Instagram likes you get from having a baby but I could also become successful or adopt a dog or get hit by a city bus and I can get them that way.I do not look down on people who have children. It just seems like a foreign lifestyle to me. The same way I look at dog food and go “ok that’s food for someone. Not me, but someone.”

I used to look down on anyone who didn’t live exactly like I do but then one day I realized I was deeply unhappy with my life, so why would I force that on someone else? I have worked hard to rid myself of envy and pity. Now, if someone I don’t like becomes successful or if someone I love does something I would never dream of with their life, I clear my mind and think “I hope they are happy.” because anything beyond that is poison for your brain. 

The last year or so of my life has been dedicated to changing it almost completely. I’ve lost jobs and women and weight and money and old hangups and sanity. I’ve gained freedom and friends and strength (both physical and emotional) and responsibility and perspective. 

I am, for all intents and purposes, a professional comedian. I pay my rent with money from talking. I’ve traveled more in the last year and a half than I have all of the years of my life before that combined. Seeing the green rooms of Improvs and Funny Bones again and again and they never change. The soda is kind of flat and the fries are kind of soggy and the staff looks at you sideways if you don’t want wings or a beer. 

At the beginning of 2021, I didn’t even know if I would do comedy again and now I’m here. I was on a date at Doris last March and it was going well. While I was walking her home, we passed by an apartment and she pointed at it and said “My friend used to live there and host a comedy show in the basement.” I said “Oh yeah, that’s (name redacted)’s old apartment. I’ve been there before.” I had not mentioned comedy once up until this point because just breaching the subject would have caused me to spiral in a very unattractive manner. I had to finally admit that I was (at least at one point) a comedian and had performed in that basement. She said it was “sociopath behavior” to not mention that over the previous 2 or 3 hours we spent together. The jury’s still out on if she was right or not.

In February I had just quit my job so I could tour full-time and I celebrated with a run, a thing I never really did before then and have barely done since. On that run, I passed right by Doris and paused. I gave myself a few seconds while I caught my breath to acknowledge the massive shift I had made since the last time I was there and then kept moving forward. That’s all there ever is to do. Put your head down and trudge towards change until you get there and then keep trudging. 

Fitness has, unfortunately, become a big part of my life lately. I never envisioned myself as someone who stretched every day or worried if they were doing too much cardio for their weightlifting results to really manifest or ate oatmeal with goji berries and flax seeds for breakfast every morning. Considering caloric intake, protein levels and portion control instead of eating an entire family bag of Lay’s chips for dinner. I must maintain control because if I am mentally strong then I can become physically strong. 

It takes a lot of work to have a body that is this unremarkable. I’m eating rice cakes and not drinking calories. I’m utilizing the gym in every hotel I stay in. I’m feeling so energized after lifting weights that I’ll try to drag Diego out of his bed in our hotel room and wrestle him. I’m seeing real results from the work I’m putting in. I am actually fitting into the bag of shirts that never fit me labeled “ONE DAY CLOTHING”. My arms and shoulders and traps are bigger than they’ve ever been. My stomach is flattening. My jawline is coming back. My eyes look tired and my hair is greying. My body is sore in places I didn’t know had muscles every single day. I think I need to buy all new pants. I accidentally dug a knife into my palm while putting a new hole in my belt. You can’t win them all, I guess. 

People keep congratulating me like I completed a marathon. There’s still a part of my brain that won’t let me accept compliments or anything nice anyone says in general. When anyone says anything nice about my weight loss, I take it as them patronizing me. I assume everyone has some kind of ulterior motive and the goal is to make me feel bad. Instead of knowing that everyone isn’t out to get me and could even possibly be happy for me, it registers as some worldwide conspiracy.

I owe the bulk of my physical transformation to biking. I picked up a side gig doing bike deliveries while not on the road to supplement my Nighttime eBay habit. Nighttime eBay is when you don’t know what to do with yourself after the sun goes down and you’re alone so you spend all of your money on books that keep piling up but you never read or sweatshirts that remind you of ones that your mom wore when you were young or pants that fit you so poorly you’re not sure you even know what your body could look like or a dozen boxes of the same incense because it’s the one scent your roommate doesn’t hate and you’re finally a big enough person to compromise or pieces of art that will sit in a pile in the corner until you one day live in a home with enough space for all of the ephemera attached to your long line of personalities.

Biking around New York City is a beautiful way to tell your friends and family that you don’t care if you live or die without having to use too many words. Half of the people on the street think you’re invisible while the other half see you as a target. The beautiful and dangerous yin-yang of existence. Riding around unlocks buried memories like a road being built in front of you while you walk on it in a video game. The mental map of my life in the city populates in real time. 

Make one left turn and we see the coffee shop where a famous writer read me her AA apology letter, which sitting through was worse than what she actually did to me. Cross the bridge and there’s the apartment of the woman who said I was the fattest guy she’s had sex with. Head a few blocks north and pass by the bar I spent 5 nights a week in for years that is now a fake fancy Mexican restaurant. Little do the people eating overpriced breakfast tacos know that this is where I was once covered in fake blood and my friend rubbed his penis on my head during a comedy show. Head uptown towards Penn station which is one of the only places I’ve ever been drunk. I laid in the middle of a walkway, screaming at my friends that the soldier holding a rifle was going to shoot me because I was drunk. We’re all glad that’s behind me now.  

Delivering to people’s homes gives me one of life’s greatest gifts: getting to see how people live. I’m obsessed with it. I want to see how every person I’ve ever met decorates their home. What’s on their walls? What kind of couch do they have? Do they own a goofy headboard? Do they have a clear rack to show off their sneakers like a 15 year-old hypebeast? What’s their candle or incense situation? What type of lightbulbs do they use? This is more important to me than who someone votes for. Plus you can usually deduce a person’s political stance from the way that they decorate their home.

Seeing how someone chooses to live feels way more intimate than having sex with them. I have an app on my phone where I could have sex with a woman while her husband watches tonight. I don’t have an app where they’ll show me how they arrange their living room. I know it’s possible to catch glimpses on Instagram or YouTube or Tik Tok but it’s not the same. I watch all of those celebrity house tour videos but there’s no feeling to them. That’s how everyone acts anyway. Regular people have propstyled and organized their entire lives into little corners that are always ready for a photoshoot just in case they get famous suddenly. 

I don’t want to see The Curated You. I want to see You You. It’s the same with photos. I’m not particularly interested in how you look while you’re posing for a photographer. I want to see how you look at a party while you’re talking to someone you may or may not sleep with later. Candid photos show the person you truly are.

I don’t know if I’m in a good place just yet, but it finally feels like the train has left the bad place it was stationed at for a long time. All I had to do was upend every single facet of my life with an insane amount of effort. The funny thing about your dreams coming true is that you still have to keep living once they do. I had no idea there could be more than my meager desires but I guess I’ll just keep trudging forward until I can’t anymore.

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Hey hi hello. This issue might be a little tough for some people to get through. I saw a quote from the philosopher Emil Cioaran recently that said, “Write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone.” I’ve gotten a few very nice messages after publishing various issues of this newsletter about the vulnerability of the writing within them and I appreciate that. This issue doesn’t stray far from that but do not admire my vulnerability. It is quite easy to type these words into a word document while I’m sitting alone in my room. If anyone happens to read them, that’s a nice by-product. True strength is being able to say things that scare you to people who are willing to listen. I’m not sure if I’m there yet. Thank you for reading.

-Mike

My cousin Patrick killed himself in 2014. Technically, he's my mother's cousin but we were close enough in age that that was negligible. He stopped taking his medication and wandered off silently. He stopped taking his medication and he jumped off of a bridge. Everyone hoped he was just missing until the police found his body in the river. 

Everyone in my family has their funeral services at the same funeral home. A location made heavy by tradition. I know it more intimately than most of my friends’ homes. The horseshoe driveway out front. The floral furniture in the seating area outside of the viewing rooms. The overhang everyone smokes underneath to hide from the rain. It’s always raining while we’re in there. The clinical backroom you can have a meal in between services. That room feels like you’re on your lunch break at the worst job you’ve ever had with all of your grieving family members as your coworkers.

My great-aunt had a priest come lead a service during his wake. It's hard for the Catholic Church to recruit priests nationally so a large number of new recruits come to America from south Asia or western Africa. Patrick had no ties to the church, so this priest didn't have much to go on. He was giving his normal A Young Person Has Died service. Reading from the same passages I'd heard at friend's funerals. Reading from the same passages he'd read at a number of funerals for young people he’d never met. After reading them, he took a pause and in his thick West African accent said "Patrick's death……. Sad death." which was true. It was a sad death. His comment took me by such a surprise I had to cover my face and pretend I was weeping so no one saw me laughing. 

I used to spend every Christmas day at my aunt Anne's house, where Patrick lived. After our Christmas morning at home, we'd drive over and end up in the same living room with the same furniture at the end of the same gravel driveway and the same people and the same food and the same basketball games and the same secondary fridge next to the piano that was filled with soda. Up the stairs next to the refrigerator were the stairs up to Patrick's room. He lived in what used to be the attic, just like I do in my apartment now. His room was filled with plastic milk crates. Dozens of milk crates holding thousands of records. Thousands of records that I wanted to listen to. KRS-One next to Bolt Thrower next to Annihilation Time next to Lil' Kim next to some of the worst bands you've ever heard in your life.

Patrick would let me have free reign over his room and his crates and his turntables and his headphones whenever I was there. I couldn't wait to get to his house and show him what new CDs I had gotten that morning and he'd pretend to be impressed every year. That feeling never really leaves you, even as you grow older. You want to show off what you have to someone that you deem cool and hope they see you the same way that you see them. A culture of people waiting to have their older cousin pat them on the head for a job well done. 

After he died, my aunt told me that I could go over and take whatever records of his that I wanted. I couldn't let myself walk up those stairs. I had a mental block. If I walked up those stairs it was all over. They ended up getting hauled away by the local record store. I do have a few of his t-shirts in storage that I got after performing on a memorial show booked in his honor. The lineup was: a man doing spoken word, me doing stand up, my uncle doing stand up and then a The Clash cover band. I bombed for 20 minutes straight in front of my entire family and had to remember that the night wasn't about me, even if it felt like it at the time. Sweating and babbling my “art” on the stage of a rock club where I’d previously been kicked in the head by a flying Doc Marten boot, waiting for some guys to play a cover of some other guys songs in memory of a guy who wasn’t around anymore.

The timeline for healing from grief is not linear. You never know when it will pop back up for you. After Patrick died, I shoved it all down. I didn’t allow myself to feel any of my feelings. Living with the boot of masculinity on your throat is an impediment to your progression as a person. I was sad at the funeral and that was that. I thought I had gotten all of my emotions out already but that's not how emotions work. They don't go away if you refuse to deal with them. They flow and seep into all of the crevices of your body like you're trying to seal the cracked head gasket in your heart. One day it'll catch up with you. It always does.

Two months after Patrick died, Robin Williams killed himself. When I found out, I sat on the front steps of my apartment and wept. I wept for Patrick. I wept for my family. I wept for myself. I wish Robin Williams meant more to me so the reaction felt warranted but that's not how emotions work. That day my emotions caught up with me. They always do.

I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of life and its consequences. That's where you can get hurt. That's where you can disappoint people. That's where people can disappoint you. I've spent my entire life pretending that I don't care about everyone in my life as deeply as I do so they can't hurt me and now they all believe that to be true. I’ve covered my body in a suit of armor that is actively hurting me.

When people found out my most recent relationship ended, they'd put their hand on my shoulder or forearm and softly tell me how sorry they were. They'd say how much they liked her or that it was all such a shame. Underneath it all, I could feel them thinking "please don't kill yourself, Mike." It's a valid concern. I talk and joke about it in the abstract often enough. But I never wanted to be alive more. To know that I had loved someone and they had loved me is proof enough that life is worth living. 

When I was 13 years old, I pretended to attempt suicide. I did it to impress a woman. Well, a girl. She was a girl then and is a woman now. That's how time works. I was in seventh grade and she was in eighth. I thought I was in love with her because I had seen that in movies and tv shows. The forlorn boy is infatuated with the seemingly indifferent girl until some inciting incident propels them into the greatest achievement possible to my young brain: a kiss.

Her name was Katie and she was goth in the most 2001 way possible. Thumbholes in the sleeve of her hoodie. Sharpie marker all over her Converse. A winter hat with some sort of ears on it. The whole kit. I figured the only way to impress an older goth girl was to show her exactly how dark and brooding I was. If she thought I was suicidal, she'd have to fall in love with me.

We talked on AOL instant messenger occasionally. During our conversation one afternoon, I concocted my plan. Sitting at the family computer in the corner of our wood paneled kitchen where my father used to make us Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes, I told her I had eaten an entire bottle of Advil a few hours earlier. I thought this made me more desirable for some reason.

Katie did what any sane person would do in that situation and immediately told some administrators at our school who, in turn, told my parents. I had no idea it would go this way. I thought I would tell her what I had pretended to do and, at worst, she'd say "weird." and we'd keep on living our lives. Somehow, my genius plan had backfired.

Since the school was notified, they'd have to do something about this. It was suggested that I start seeing the school counselor who I had no idea even existed until that very second. I was in a tough spot. I could acquiesce and begin counseling or I could come clean and tell them the truth. I could let them know I had faked a suicide attempt to gain the attraction of a girl. I could let my parents know their son was a weird, lying loser. I could let her know the details of my disgusting little plan. I could tell the truth and not start a long pattern of small lies snowballing into uncontrollable stories that I could barely keep up with. Or I could let everyone think that I had tried to end my own life and they could all worry about me for a very long time.

I started counseling the next week. In the room behind the wooden doors with the wooden walls and the wooden furniture. The only thing in the room that wasn't made of wood was the drab grey high traffic carpet. I would sit in there and talk about whatever problems I had while the counselor looked vaguely concerned the entire time. They let me know that I was at a tough age and a lot of kids had problems then. I was in a new school, my body was changing, my parents were getting divorced, and my sister was pregnant while still in high school. This was a lot of pressure for a young man and I was acting out, but it wasn't uncommon. I let them think this about me. That I was so consumed by what was going on at home that I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't tell them that I was a nasty pervert who had no idea how to talk to the opposite sex and needed to use stunts to get their attention.

The attention didn't last. Quickly everyone forgot or pretended it never happened. It never came up again. Not with my family. Not in school. Not with friends. Not in counseling, which quietly ended. Not with Katie, who was visibly uncomfortable speaking to me after this whole fiasco and eventually moved to another state. I'm pretty sure that wasn't my fault though. The only person left thinking about it was me.

A few months ago, I received a message from someone chastising me for how often I joke about suicide. This person I do not know. They counted off the ways suicide has affected them in their life. Never once asking if it had factored into mine. They said I was lazy and a hack for going to that same well so often. I never replied because 1) I am a coward who does not desire confrontation or to be reprimanded and 2) messages like this are more for the sender than the recipient. They had purged their demons and my response is an appendix to their tale. 

I don't think their appraisal was entirely incorrect though. I do joke about suicide a lot. I think about suicide a lot. I think about it in the abstract and in the practical. It's something that has affected me personally and something I ruminate on. It's also one of the most extreme things one can do with their own body. Extremes are easy to lean on in comedy. They illuminate your point quickly and with a big bang. I think about it mostly because my life feels out of control. I'm not sure who's piloting this ship but most of the time it doesn't feel like me. When I think about suicide, I'm thinking about control. I can't control much in my life but I can control this. But I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to love. I want to fuck and to eat and to talk and to walk and to swim and to kiss and to fight and to hurt and to cry. I want to live.  

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This tweet:

Hey, look at that. You’re back. Or here for the first time. The most important part is that you’re here. The dog days of summer have come once again, and this is my first summer in a new bedroom. A bedroom in which the only window is a skylight that I can’t seem to open. I can effectively feel my organs boiling inside of my body while I lay in bed. All of the available air conditioning solutions involve major structural changes to a place I am renting. I have decided the temperature is now a test of my fortitude and how dedicated I actually am to never feeling comfort in my life. If the way I am writing or speaking lately makes you concerned, blame it on the heat and not a quickly deteriorating mental state. Hope all is well with you and yours.

-Mike

Squatting with my heels planted firmly into the mats. Noticing every breath in and out. My heart is pounding in my ears. I have decided to once again punish my body for the sin of being overweight. The punishments, all self-inflicted, have varied over my life. There's the punishment of eating your daily allotment of calories in one meal as fast as humanly possible so that no one sees you. There's the punishment of only eating rice cakes because your idea of fitness is stuck in the 1980s. This punishment was with a kettlebell.

34 years old. I’m 34 years old now. The 27 Club is long in the rearview mirror. I'm now old enough to know better. Old enough to break these oft-repeated patterns. Old enough to know my brain is my enemy and it always has been. Old enough to not have to live like this. Old enough to know this is probably as good as it’ll ever be. Old enough to know the reality of that depresses me.

I'm embarking on yet another fitness journey. This cycle has played out countless times in my life. I would compare myself to Sisyphus but at least his eternal punishment included blasting his core and shoulders. My eternal hellscape is living in an apartment with thin walls and overhearing my roommates working out in perpetuity. Inevitably, I will work out for a few weeks, or even months at a time, and get to a place where I feel like I "did it" (lost enough weight that I'm a good and valuable person). After I've hit some arbitrary goal or milestone, I will completely let go of every single good habit I've learned since the last cycle. There's no parachute to ensure a safe landing. I get to where I feel I need to be and then jump out of the plane hoping I sustain the least amount of damage upon hitting the ground. After a bit, I'll see a photo or a video of myself (usually shot from the side) that makes me physically ill and then it's time to get back on the horse again.  

I've wanted to be fast my entire life. My place was always in the back of the pack. Running, riding a bike or pushing a skateboard, I was always bringing up the rear. The older I got, the more I gravitated towards things that had no need for physical acuity. I didn't need to be able to complete a 40-yard dash in under five seconds or bench 225 because I was above that. I knew a lot about music you've never heard of and movies you've never seen so I thought of myself as a higher being. Why sully my beautiful mind with such base interests? Pretending you're better than something because it intimidates you is the oldest, and most transparent, trick in the book. 

Running has always been my white whale. I've tried, and failed, countless times to become a runner. One afternoon while in high school, I put on my best running outfit because that day was going to be the day that I changed my life. If only I knew how many times I would think that. In my little grey zip-up hoodie and worn out Reebok classics I was dressed as a chubby teenaged Rocky Balboa. I set out to run. There was one insurmountable hurdle. I had no idea how to do it. 

I knew what it looked like when other people did it but I was at a complete loss. I didn't know what to do with my body in the slightest. The only speeds I knew were sprinting and walking. Gym class and two years of pretending to use the leg press before sneaking out to play table tennis during middle school wrestling team conditioning sessions had not prepared me for anything in the real world. My teacher letting me walk a mile around the school track every year instead of running had led me to a life of sloth and inability. 

I'm not sure if I've ever felt a runner's high but I know for a fact that I've felt a jogger's low. I've never gotten to the point of feeling natural while huffing and puffing through my neighborhood in the little purple Nike running shorts that the saleslady at Paragon Sports said "don't hug" my "ample backside too much". Why she had to announce this so loudly in front of my friends is a mystery that haunts me to this day.

I don't want anyone to see me this way. Working out, as someone who does not have a positive history with fitness or their body in general, is one of the most intimate acts of my life. Reserved for the eyes of only my closest friends and anyone who paid $15 a month to work out at the Blink Fitness in Bushwick until I cancelled my membership on account of "c'mon look at me". I think at this point, gyms would pay me to not wear clothing with their branding on it.  

Yanking, pulling, stretching, sewing. A piece of clothing has never felt right on my body without some sort of alteration, however slight. While doing an impression of me, multiple people have included the motion of yanking forward the part of your shirt that covers your stomach. One of my many ticks. I believe it will stretch out the fabric of my shirt the perfect amount, as to hide all of the imperfections of my torso. I've done this motion thousands of times and never once received the desired effect. 

It’s exhausting to have to think about how I present myself all day long. I can’t slouch in my seat too much or I look like a slug. I can’t arch my back forward while I stand or I look like I’m in my third trimester. I can’t let my neck and head relax or the skin underneath my chin folds into the shape of a ruffled potato chip. I must keep my eye on everyone I'm at the beach with in case they take a photo I'm not expecting while I'm shirtless. I can’t eat too fast or too much in public or smell bad or have stained clothing or let my pants sag too much because that’s what sloppy fat guys do. That’s why I stand almost exactly the same way in every picture I'm in. I know what the results will be. Every single movement of my life becomes calculated or else I will be embarrassed with the documentation. 

Moderation is not a familiar concept to me. My brain seems to be able to obsess about almost everything except the act of working out. I don't own a few t-shirts; I had to buy two industrial racks from Home Depot to place them on. I don't hold on to the few VHS tapes that mean a lot to me; I have enough to start a small library. I don't eat a sensible meal until I'm full; I eat the most calorie dense food until all of it is gone.

One day I’d like to kill the part of my brain that thinks it can outsmart my body. The logistics of losing weight have never changed. Calories in versus calories out. Eating less and moving more. Pushing weight and getting your heart rate up. That’s how it’s been since the dawn of time and I’ll still sit in my room thinking things like “ok if I eat some potato chips really quickly and then sit perfectly still, maybe my body won’t realize what I’ve done to it.”

Every meal needs to be fun. Without the release of drinking or doing drugs, I let it all rip on my dinner plate. That's where I blackout. I can't escape my own mind via chemicals but I can dull the roar with fat and carbs. The discipline I have in one part of my life does not bleed into the other parts so easily.

Food & sex. The two pillars of pleasure and pain that I base my entire life around. A feedback loop of feeling good & feeling bad & feeling shame for feeling bad & being angry that I let shame run my life once again. The only two things I truly care about in the world. Obsessing over what my next meal will be and when the next time I'll have sex is. Most of the time neither of them measure up to the grandiosity I've built in my head so the journey for a good time continues. 

The shame felt after a particularly unhealthy meal is the same that I feel after spending the night (or afternoon or an hour in the bedroom of their shared apartment) with a person whom you don't care for as much as you'd like to. You must sit with the decision you've made but you can't help but rub your face and wonder what got you here in the first place. It's always the same thing: a lack of discipline and a desire to self-destruct. Another indulgence that helps no one in the long run. 

Sexual attraction is one of the main reasons I've been obsessed with my own body for the majority of my life. As a younger man, I used to blame my weight on why I couldn't seem to date in the same fun and carefree way my peers did. I was convinced women didn't like me because I was fat. I would blame it on the fact that I've always hung out with guys who are skinnier than me. I took their ease in popping their shirts off at the beach as a personal attack. I would be offended when they'd go out with girls I harbored feelings for. I never told my friends that I did because sharing your feelings didn't happen and I never told the object of my affection because I was terrified of my worst thoughts about myself being true. If women only hate my body inside of my mind, it might not be real. Once I brought it into the real world, I could be rejected for what I looked like or, even worse, who I am as a person. 

Never once did I consider that women could see the bright red aura of anger and rage that frames my being at all times. Or that maybe not everyone was charmed by my I'm Too Punk To Wear Deodorant phase. During that time, I had a girlfriend who informed me that my armpits smelled so rank that she could smell on her body where I had touched her during the night. After rubbing shampoo, soap and baking soda into the offending region to no avail, my only choice was to completely shave my armpits. This is a much more repellent characteristic than having a bit of a potbelly. 

Young me had no idea he'd hear things that people think are compliments like "No, I actually like your body." and "Yeah, I don't subscribe to the notion of conventional beauty standards." That is the perfect sentence to make my brain huck itself into a negative thought loop because you're saying that there IS a conventional beauty standard and I am below it. If only I knew what was in store for me. In my personal experience, there is a large swath of the population who is attracted to men of a fuller figure. Especially after they spend years dating the emaciated slackers of north Brooklyn or if I vaguely resemble their father in some way or another. 

It seems that, subconsciously or not, men do not actually work out for women but for other men. We want to be accepted, respected, admired and feared by every man we pass by on the street. Generally speaking, women seem to be less concerned with exactly how in shape you are and more so that you are exhibiting any kind of effort at all (going to therapy, showering regularly, keeping your money in a bank account instead of a shoebox in your closet). I've skated by for decades solely on assumed potential and small flashes of effort. The men in my life are the first to notice even the smallest changes in my body composition. Never once has a sexual partner complimented the work I've been doing on my delts but multiple roomates have pointed out the most miniscule progress I've made physically. 

There’s this notion that no one is looking at or thinking about you as much as you think about it yourself. That’s true, to an extent. It doesn’t mean no one is looking at you. More than likely, I am. I’ve been so obsessed with myself and my body that I’ve outsourced it to other peoples bodies too. I project all of my feelings and neuroses onto anyone that falls within my line of sight. Animus directed towards any man who I have decided has a better body than mine. Feeling pity for the poor saps who were cursed with one worse. Lusting after anyone who has enough of the qualities and features I’ve decided are attractive. My self-loathing transformed into leering. 

34. Single. Overweight. Alone. Face getting rounder. Spine turning into a question mark. A small and scared man inside of a hulking, decrepit shell. I want to fill out a suit in the right ways. No buttons struggling to hold on for dear life. A good profile. A man that men envy. A man that women dream about. Not a boy masquerading as what he thinks a man is. I want to be strong, but in every sense of the word. Strong in body and mind and spirit. Strong in my convictions and my word.

While writing this, I stumbled upon a discarded exercise bike on the street near my apartment. I dragged it home at 1 in the morning and plugged it in to make sure it works. Bingo, it does. Now I have to use it or else I've clogged a decent amount of our square footage with even more garbage. Just another thing to add to the long list of items I think will change my life. Let's see if it does.

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