Sex and Crunchberries.

Over the last six hours, I have discovered that sex and Crunchberries are pretty the answer to almost all of my problems today.

Yup. It's true.

Love to all. Even you, Forrest Mars (RIP).

Dear you,

By you, I mean NFH, Britt, and Slyght.

By you, I mean GinaMonster, TC, and Obliquity. Jeremiah. Aesthetic & Callisto.

By you, I mean Tracy Lynn, Shqipo, TheMom, Eric, Lisa, Po, Dawn, 2Vamp, Vinny, AbbaGirl, Jen (aka EvilynMo), ITS, Steven, Funky, Christelle, Zube, Suburban Turmoil, Amy, Kelli, and the various anonymous folks out there. And anyone I forgot.

This is a love letter. I repeat. This is a love letter.

My blog has been both honest and dishonest. I've never lied on this blog, but I've omitted things because I didn't trust that it would be private. And I've been raised to believe that if I expose, and therefore admit to, the "bad," no one will believe that I am any good.

The truth: my psychology is both supremely confident and selectively fragile.

Change is afoot. Lots of change. Psychological, spiritual, emotional. But change isn't instant, and certain parts of my personality can't keep up with the others.

Like: I've changed certain behaviors for the better. But if that change isn't responded to in the way I think is appropriate, I lose my shit completely.

My fear is that I'm too late. Too late to save my company with more hard work. Too late to be a better person because I'm out of balance. I fear that these psychic changes are coming too late, and in the wrong order, for me to handle it.

But this is a love letter.

You see, I don't trust people. I don't know how I COULD, with how I was raised. But after 3.6 years sober and 4 years of separation from my parents, there are glimmers. Little by slow. And that scares the shit out of me. It's the realization that I am *beginning* to trust people that makes me realize what fragile ground I'm really on.

But here's the thing: collectively, I trust you.

And I love you for it.

That's all for now. Rock on.

Love to all. Even you.

I lost my shit.

I mean, LOST it. I said "fuck you" to Maggie like, 6 different times, all within crystal clear earshot of the kids. I feel terribly guilty and utterly fucked up.

Why did I lose it? Because I'm right. Maggie and I had another argument about money, finances, and business. And that classic thing happened: Maggie said something I thought was really insulting and incorrect, I got mad (but not yelling, "fuck you!" mad), asked her to give me an example of what she's talking about, she refuses to do so on the grounds that I'm mad, and THEN I LOSE MY SHIT, thus validating her whole point about me too mad to talk to. And that leaves me feeling manipulated, guilty, and isolated.

I wish I had my family to talk to. Time to go kill people on the XBOX, I think.

Love to all. Even you, blue.

Flux.

In a town where you practically have to knock down $200k just to break even, I'm starting to look hard at rationalizing my life. My oldest starts college in well under a decade, with two more shortly to follow. We need to change our approach.

Over the last two weeks, I've had severe problems at work, thought my marriage was going under, and underwent the greatest Perfect Storm of Suck I've ever experienced.

But at least I got to make a really good pee joke.

I was asked to speak at an AA meeting in NYC on Monday night. It's a crazy-ass old-school place called The Mustard Seed... in the basement of a Manhattan brownstone. At the end of the meeting, someone was sharing about how the feeling from drinking during a relapse is never the same as before one got sober. She was saying that she never felt that moment of pure static that she, like me was always chasing.

When she was finished, I said: "That maybe true about drinking, but I can tell you that the peeing in your pants part feels exactly the same!"

Only in a room full of recovering alcoholics would that have gotten the laugh it did.

Anyway.

The problem I'm having is finding balance: pushing the agenda when it's right to push the agenda, and backing the fuck off when it's not my business. They are both important, and I'm good at neither.

Struggle, baby. Struggle. Maggie just pulled in. Gotta run.

Love to all. Even you, the mom's who bought their kid's cookie costumes in order to sell girl scout cookies.

Revelations, part 1 of 2.

Never before have I wished for the promise of Communion to be more true than this morning. Watching my daughter receive this Sacrament for the first time, I realized that my faith in God on behalf of others is much stronger than my faith in God in reference to myself.

These things should not be different. Faith shouldn't be categorized. I would like to understand the meaning of this disparity. But I don't.

I've discussed my blogging life with Maggie, and that's for part 2. For now, it's time for the party.

Love to all. Even you, the lady with the fancy coat who didn't realize that it might be in the way of the folks who were going to kneel in church.

Now this, my friends, is a dilemma.

This blog is no longer private, and it doesn't look I can post stuff here... the REAL stuff, that's actually on my mind, without people I don't want reading it...um... reading it.

God, I loved this domain name.

Fuck.

Love to all.

I guess I'm back, after all.

This is an excerpt from an IM session between me (in the interview room with a super-jittery candidate) and my Senior Salesperson, who was in the other room. We begin when the interviewee says "fuck." I'm on the right. (Click to enlarge.)


It's nice to know my employees think I'm cycling back up. Holy crap.

Love to all. Even you, the dude who made me rephrase, and rephrase, and rephrase.