No, You Don't Get a Comment Section
You are completely free to disagree with me. You're free to complain about me, tell your friends I'm an asshole, or buy a domain and write an entire fucking dissertation explaining why I'm wrong. I'll defend your freedom to do it. What you're not entitled to is space on my website to do it. I paid for my little corner of the internet. I built it. I fill it with my words. And I'll decide what fucking goes there.
Holding Pattern
You can be excited about where you're going and still grieve what you're leaving. Both things can be true. Right now, we're somewhere between what was and what comes next, surrounded by hotel coffee, storage units, trucks, and shitty Wi-Fi. The emergency has passed. The rebuilding is beginning. And we're doing it together.
Apparently, Talking Isn't Always Helping
I fucking love this woman, and when she's frustrated, every instinct inside me wants to fix things. Turns out, sometimes helping isn't solving. Sometimes helping isn't talking. Sometimes helping is finding some shade, drinking some fucking water, and shutting the hell up. Apparently, loving someone means learning that too.
Fucking Waiting
I know exactly what I need to do. Pack my bag on Nyx, point north, and go get the woman I love. There's no complicated decision to make and no problem left to analyze. There's just one problem: somewhere in Santa Fe, a perfectly decent stranger is sleeping peacefully while my driver's license sits on his kitchen counter. And so I wait.
Competence Isn't Amazon Prime
Watching the morning crowd shuffle through a hotel breakfast got me thinking about something bigger than powdered eggs and mediocre sausage. Somewhere along the way, we've stopped learning how to do things for ourselves. We've outsourced competence, and I think we've lost something important in the process.
Done Waiting
Eight months is long enough. Long enough to wait. Long enough to trust the process. Long enough to hope someone else would ask the hard questions. Tonight, I decided I'm done waiting. If nobody else is willing to fight for motorcycle safety and accountability, then I'll do it myself.
Two Truths
Love isn't finding someone who always agrees with you. It's finding someone whose perspective is different enough to challenge your own, and caring enough to listen when you get it wrong. Our first disagreement wasn't a crack in the foundation. It was another brick laid with honesty, humility, and a willingness to grow together.
Independence
Some weekends change your life in quiet ways. This one is filled with firsts: our first real road trip together, my first morning writing while she sleeps peacefully nearby, and most importantly, the day she claims her own freedom by buying her first motorcycle. There couldn't be a more fitting day than Independence Day.
Choosing Each Other
The day began with a broken water line and the sinking feeling that comes from being hundreds of miles away when someone you love needs you. But by the end of the weekend, none of that would matter. Because some people don't just choose to spend time with you. They choose to build a life beside you.
We Are the Same
Some people think becoming a rider starts the day you buy your first motorcycle. I don't. I think the motorcycle is just paperwork. The rider was already there. This weekend, the woman I love gets her first bike, and I already know exactly what's about to happen.
We Are Not the Same
Apparently someone got jealous after seeing my girlfriend on the back of my Harley. But they missed the point entirely. Motorcycles aren't about impressing people or collecting passengers. They're about freedom. And the best part isn't that she's riding behind me today... it's that she'll soon be riding beside me on her own bike.
The Price of Going Home
The ride home was brutal. Triple-digit heat. Relentless crosswinds. Bugs. A lost wallet somewhere in southern Colorado. And yet, not once during those long miles did I wish I hadn't gone. Some journeys are worth every inconvenience because of who's waiting at the other end.
Fifty-Four
A freezing ride through rain, hail, and wind should have been the story of my birthday weekend. Instead, somewhere between New Mexico and Colorado, I realized something far more important: after a lifetime of surviving, I've finally given myself permission to be happy.
Aggressive Isn't Reckless
People hear that I ride aggressively and assume I'm reckless. Those aren't the same thing. Since my accident, I ride with one overriding goal: I refuse to let myself get trapped in a pack of cars. My life literally depends on creating space.
We Speak the Same Language
There are some things in life that can't be explained. They can only be understood by someone who's walked the same road. After years of believing recovery was a path I had to walk alone, I finally met someone who already spoke the language my soul had been trying to translate.
Are You Still Watching?
My sleep schedule has become absolute chaos. Couch naps turn into fake responsibility, fake responsibility turns into sleeping with the bedroom light on, and somewhere in the middle of all that nighttime nonsense I somehow manage to write a few pages before dawn drags me back into the world.
Guarded
A perfect breakfast, a violently loud motorcycle, and one tiny moment that changed the emotional temperature of an otherwise beautiful morning. A reflection on routine, assumptions, queerness, and the strange distance created when someone suddenly sees you differently than you thought they did.
Leadership Has Left The Building
After nearly twenty-five years inside a massive institution, I finally climbed high enough up the organizational ladder to see what was really happening. What I found wasn’t leadership. It was ego, self-preservation, and a startling absence of humility. A brutally honest reflection on management, modern corporate culture, and the difference between authority and actual leadership.
Show the Fuck Up
People reveal themselves in tiny moments. A smile. A thank you. Eye contact. Or the complete absence of all three. A breakfast encounter at a local diner turns into a reflection on presence, energy, and the growing number of people sleepwalking through life expecting the world to carry them.
Necroptic Vision
Ever since the accident, people seem smaller to me. The ones I used to fear. The ones I thought were powerful. Maybe death changed my vision. Maybe I developed some kind of necroptic sight that lets me see through bravado and ego straight into the fragile little souls underneath.