American Roulette

I roll into weekends without an agenda. The bike decides where I go. People ask during the week, “Hey, what are you doing Saturday?”
I have no idea.
And I won’t.
Have.
An idea.
Until Saturday.

That’s how I fucking roll.

You’ve heard me say it before: I hate fucking plans. Read into that however you want. Maybe it’s fear of commitment. Who the fuck knows. I don’t think that’s it, but I can see how others would think so. Still, every once in a while, there are a few people I’ll carve time out for.

That’s how I found myself hitting the road at six this morning, pushing Lilith and myself through thirty-six-degree air and gusts strong enough to peel a flag off its pole, just to have coffee somewhere in Albuquerque. I was meeting a colleague I’d hired a few years back, someone I respect immensely.

We talk work first, the usual updates — my new team, her current one. Then the conversation drifts into personal life, which is where things always get a little weird for me.

Because, honestly? I don’t really have one.

What you see is what you get. I’m a loner, an introvert. I thrive in quiet spaces. In my head. I get up, go to work, lead people, pretend to be extroverted long enough to earn their trust, and by the end of the day, I’m wiped the fuck out. I can’t wait for the silence of the ride home.

Most nights I grab a snack, drink some water, and then just… ride. Until I’m hungry. Until I’m tired. Until I’ve thought enough thoughts to fill a book I’ll never write.

But every once in a great while, maybe every couple of years, the loneliness creeps in. That little whisper that says maybe I should find someone. My mythical “person.” That knight in shining armor Hollywood insists we all need.

So I make a dating profile. I go on a few dates. I reaffirm my belief that solitude is, in fact, the saner choice.

Because let’s be honest: single people my age are fucking nuts.

I’m 53. If you’re single in your fifties, it’s probably because nobody wanted you, or the one who did is dead. Statistically speaking, you’re 92% more likely to be batshit crazy than anyone in their twenties. Don’t bother fact-checking that; I just made it up. But it feels right.

Anyway, my friend was telling me about one of her ex-girlfriends, a certified nutcase, which got me talking about my own. I told her my pattern: get lonely, date, remember why I hate dating, retreat to peace and quiet. Rinse, repeat. Dating as affirmation for singlehood.

I mentioned that after coffee, I was grabbing breakfast with someone new — the first in what would likely be another short series of “proof of insanity” dates.

We wrapped up, and I killed time riding around Albuquerque, letting the minutes fall off the clock. Around ten — technically “brunch,” but let’s not start that argument — I sent the text:
“Hey, we still on for breakfast this morning?”

She replied, “Still want to meet but I totally forgot that we’re fighting fascism today.”

Fighting fascism.

By marching.

You know… like fascists.

She invited me to join her protest. I politely declined. Then I took the long way home up Highway 14, wind in my face, freedom in my throttle, peace restored.

Holy batfuck nutty peanut butter, Batman — this is what I run into every time.

I’m queer, yes. But I’m not a leftist ideologue. I’m not itching to grab a Sharpie, slap together a cardboard sign, and pretend I’m “fighting the man.” I don’t believe in more laws, more regulation, or more government oversight. And I sure as hell don’t believe protests change a damn thing. They’re not action. They’re noise — an inconvenience to your neighbors, a traffic jam for everyone else, and political theater for people who confuse volume with virtue.

That’s the brick wall I keep hitting: I’m politically centrist — even right-leaning on some things — and that makes me a villain in queer circles. The same people who preach inclusivity lose their shit when you don’t parrot their politics. “With us or against us.” The most un-American mindset there is.

So yeah, maybe I dodged a bullet this morning.
Or maybe I just walked away from another round of American Roulette, where the odds are rigged and my heart keeps volunteering to be the target.