Home.
Home means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Some people hate home. They vow to get as far away from it as possible, as soon as they can. Then they find a new home and try to forget their old home. I feel for those people. I hope their new home is as safe and welcoming as they imagined it would be. I never wanted to get away from home. I mean, I was happy to have my own home, but always knowing I had the home to go to made those other homes as good as they were. 
Of course there are some annoying things that come with home. Things like yard work or tag sales or more yard work, but you bear it and learn to enjoy it. Which is a result, in part, of age and maturity, but a lot of it simply has to do with realizing that the homemade blueberry pie is a little warmer and a little sweeter when you’ve earned it. 
For me, home is an anchor. A place where no judgment is passed unless I’m overdue for a haircut or I’ve gotten a little bit out if shape. But those are welcomed judgments; because they serve as a little reminder that someone will always have my best interest at heart. Which can go a long way when you live in a city that enables you to have a lot of friends, but at the same time, very few real ones. 

I am truly thankful to have a constant in my life that is as pure and as true as home. Because no matter how old I get or where I live, my home will forever be what you see here: warm, loving and most importantly, it will always be exactly where I can find it.

Home.

Home means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. Some people hate home. They vow to get as far away from it as possible, as soon as they can. Then they find a new home and try to forget their old home. I feel for those people. I hope their new home is as safe and welcoming as they imagined it would be. I never wanted to get away from home. I mean, I was happy to have my own home, but always knowing I had the home to go to made those other homes as good as they were. 

Of course there are some annoying things that come with home. Things like yard work or tag sales or more yard work, but you bear it and learn to enjoy it. Which is a result, in part, of age and maturity, but a lot of it simply has to do with realizing that the homemade blueberry pie is a little warmer and a little sweeter when you’ve earned it. 

For me, home is an anchor. A place where no judgment is passed unless I’m overdue for a haircut or I’ve gotten a little bit out if shape. But those are welcomed judgments; because they serve as a little reminder that someone will always have my best interest at heart. Which can go a long way when you live in a city that enables you to have a lot of friends, but at the same time, very few real ones. 

I am truly thankful to have a constant in my life that is as pure and as true as home. Because no matter how old I get or where I live, my home will forever be what you see here: warm, loving and most importantly, it will always be exactly where I can find it.

Young love is gone.

I’m realizing that I must now say goodbye to the idea of young love. Now it’s medium-old love. Adult love. Made from recycled materials love. I guess I’ll give this one a shot love. God I’m alone love. We should finish the basement love. Why the fuck haven’t you mowed the lawn yet? love. I’m too tired love. Maybe after my program love. The dog’s dead love. I’m leaving you love. Three divorces myself love. We should get motorcycles love. You forgot my birthday again love. No, I told you I hate almonds love. 

Anyone wanna grab a bottle of chianti, listen to some Elton John and get this over with already?

Living Lies.

It’s hard to be honest with yourself. To get down to the core of who you are. I’ve always been so afraid of people thinking I’m not cool and that has driven me to live lies. I’m sick of living lies. It’s suffocating me from being me. 

For instance, I tell people I played college basketball. Yeah, I did, for four months. Then I quit because I got in trouble for getting my fellow freshmen drunk at Disneyland.  You want to know how I got on the team? My mom asked the coach if I could play. God only knows how I can now stand on a stage and tell strangers jokes after living for so long as such an egregious pussy.

Once I quit the team, I joined a fraternity - another part of my life that I’ve been ashamed to admit for the last decade. I was a raging cokehead, drunk frat boy who got fucked up to run away from my feelings. I didn’t date girls because my friends thought they were sluts. They were not sluts. They were sexually adventurous, beautiful women who cared about me. I miss them to this day. 

 I’ve always taken the easy road, wasting time and my talents, but no more. No more lies. No more not being who I am.  But who exactly am I? I’m a guy that loves to party. I m a guy that loves old Chevy Chase and wishes he could be him, but better, one day.  I like medium-weird sex. I love to laugh. I love friends. I love being loved but am realizing that it’s ok not to be loved. 

Some people will never love me. Some people will never even like me. Some people will never book me. Some people will never look me in the eye. Some people will eventually give up on being fake nice to me. But it’s not “fuck those people.” It’s good for those people. Those people know who they are. Those people know that we aren’t peoples. My only regret is not stopping sooner, in trying to convince these people to be my people. 

 And for the record, I’m still mad nice at hoops and a real shithead bro at heart.  But that’s fine because…just because. 

Being an adult is different.

Being an adult is different. It means being alone a lot. Wishing you were younger a lot. Spilling coffee on yourself in public a lot. Creeping out babes a lot. Not paying bills on purpose a lot. Aching a lot. Watching friends start families a lot. Watching friends still live with their parents a lot. Crying a lot. Mostly at happy things a lot. Loving more a lot. Hating less a lot. Hating for the right reasons a lot. Being yourself a lot. Not giving a fuck a lot. Being the best you’ve ever been a lot. Being a lot. 

With that said, I’m 32, I wear a gold chain and tell jokes about not pulling out. I like being an adult. A lot.

NYC cab drivers give less fucks than a teen mom with a TV deal. 🚖👧👶

NYC cab drivers give less fucks than a teen mom with a TV deal. 🚖👧👶