What happens when a guy raised around men who mocked tenderness becomes a father and has to feel something he has no language for?
I wrote about it in Audience of One.
Fair warning: it gets pretty gay.
https://t.co/q184sQfQap
I don’t think a lot of us are lonely because we lack connection.
Maybe we just forgot relationships come with inconvenience.
And who doesn’t hate being loved at the wrong time.
Every morning, I wake up at 4:44 AM, barefoot jog backwards around my house to confuse time, and whisper my writing goals into a bowl of oats. Not to eat—just to listen. Then I stare directly into the sun until I see my protagonist’s arc.
Writing isn’t a hobby. It’s a sacrifice. A blood oath. A slow roast of the soul served cold to people who’ll skim it and say “cool vibes.”
If you’re not sweating from your third eye and your ass by noon, you’re not writing. You’re typing.
All my sports friends call me gay.
All my art friends call me brute.
Does no one want to get drunk and wrestle and recite their favorite Dickinson poems?
If you’ve ever wondered how far you can get on an empty tank of gas, I am here to tell you:
Further than you think.
But maybe not quite far enough to get where you wanted.
I am on I-79. Please send help.
I write because I’m an introvert with a bone-deep disgust for the performative.
I have no following because I’m an introvert with a bone-deep disgust for the performative.