Show the Fuck Up
Writing is as important to my soul as riding. But if I’m serious about making it as a writer, inspiration isn’t enough. Eventually, I have to quit fucking around, open the manuscript, and do the fucking work.
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.
The World Feels Right Again
I pointed Nyx north because the woman I love needed me. Through darkness, wet pavement, thunderstorms, and entirely too many fucking deer, the mission was simple: arrive. And when I finally pulled into that parking lot and saw Dawna running toward me with that huge smile on her face, everything changed. I was there. She was there. We were together. And the world felt right again.
Apparently, I'm a Victim Now
Apparently, writing about shitty things that happen to you means you've embraced a victimhood mentality. Except there's a pretty fucking important difference between acknowledging what happened and surrendering your agency because it happened. Sometimes you're a victim of circumstance. Sometimes somebody genuinely does something shitty to you. That's where the story begins. What you do next is the part that matters.
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.
My Ship, My Responsibility
Riding with Dawna makes me want to slow down and savor the ride. But I've learned there's a difference between slowing down and becoming hesitant. When the woman I love climbs onto the back of my motorcycle, she's trusting me with her life. Sometimes protecting her means taking it easy. Sometimes it means twisting the fucking throttle and getting us away from the idiots.
Balance (A Guest Blog by Dawna Russom)
What does safety actually feel like after a lifetime spent fighting for freedom, autonomy, and the right to make your own stupid decisions? Maybe it feels like sitting beside a powerful river without fearing the current. Maybe it feels like finally being seen and loved. And maybe, sometimes, it feels like having enough room in your life to get really fucking pissed off about a crappy mechanical pencil.
Bare to the Elements
I spent fifty-four years learning how to protect my heart. I built walls, learned to stand alone, and eventually convinced myself I preferred it that way. Then Dawna came along, and somehow the walls disappeared. Now she's gone back to Colorado, the house feels fucking empty, and I'm discovering the other side of letting someone completely into your heart.
TooTall
I have a biker name now. Not one I picked, because that's not how this shit works. Someone else looked at me and decided I was TooTall. And somewhere in that simple act was something much bigger than a nickname: acceptance. I walked into a gathering as an outsider and left with a name.
She Stayed
She was supposed to leave. Instead, she read what I'd written, saw that my heart was hurting, and stayed. Just a few more days, but sometimes love isn't about grand gestures. Sometimes it's simply looking at someone you care about and choosing them. And I'm still learning what the fuck it feels like to be chosen.
When Ours Becomes Mine Again
For the last several days, this house hasn't felt like mine. It's felt like ours. Her deodorant is on the counter. Her things are mixed with mine. She rearranged our bedroom. And today she's going back to Colorado. Nothing is wrong. Everything is actually incredibly fucking right. Maybe that's why watching her leave hurts so much.
Seven Oysters
I spent the hours before proposing trying to understand why I was so fucking nervous when I already knew her answer. Then I stood in front of Dawna, trembling, said every word I'd been carrying for her, and asked her to marry me. She said yes. The oysters nearly didn't survive the occasion, but apparently even the universe wasn't going to fuck this one up.
The Deodorant
Sometimes the biggest signs that your life has changed are the smallest ones. A garage door opening before I can reach for the remote. A little gift waiting at home. A second stick of deodorant on the bathroom counter. Ordinary things, maybe. But when you’ve spent most of your life surviving, ordinary can feel a lot like love.
The Two Most Important Women in My Life
Dawna came to town, Nyx finally came back to life, and somehow I ended up crawling through Indian Market traffic with a clutch designed by Satan himself. Somewhere between the sore hand, stupid drivers, approaching rain, and a change of plans, I realized something else: the two most important women in my life are finally back where they belong.
She Brought Me Home
I got pulled over on my way home from pool league for doing what I always do on a motorcycle: getting away from traffic. But somewhere in the middle of arguing about speed, safety, and freedom, I mentioned the crash that nearly killed me. Suddenly, the traffic stop wasn't really about the traffic stop anymore.
The Responsible Thing
A friend suggested a motorcycle that sounded perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, reasonable and I have a complicated relationship. After spending decades away from riding because someone else was afraid of motorcycles, I came back to them after nearly dying and discovered something important: I’m not giving up the things that make me feel alive again.
Borrowed Thoughts
Most people don’t actually think about politics anymore. They consume it, repeat it, and then congratulate themselves for being the only sane people left in the country. The problem isn’t just borrowed opinions. It’s what happens next: people stop questioning authority, confuse legality with morality, and trade away liberty one camera, one regulation, and one “common-sense” restriction at a time.
One More Stop
If you've been wondering where I've been the last few days, don't worry. I was just paying the bill for my own life choices. Riding across New Mexico in triple-digit heat on a motorcycle with no windshield taught me something I should have figured out a long time ago: toughness isn't always about pushing harder. Sometimes it's about knowing when to stop for another bottle of water.