Don't get me wrong. I explicitly asked for this. I don't pray, but I do communicate my intentions to the universe.

Yeah, I'm a dirty hippie. Last thing my ex-wife would have expected. And she's pissed. She's a nudist hippie, and I was a good corporate shill while we were together.

"Why the fuck couldn't you have gotten here while we were together? We'd have been set for life!"

Well, now I'm further pissing her off by having been invited to join a commune that's starting up. I don't quite understand the animosity, but had she chosen to go raver, I'd have been a bit miffed.

Thing is: Hippie + Raver == Burner.

We all talk about PLUR.

She was just pissed about the music I listened to and uninterested in understanding why I sometimes don't like lyrics to tear me out of my zone. "Childish music," she said of trance.

What she's really pissed about is that I found my way here by way of supportive people and a fair amount of serendipity. Could she have broken me of the corporate ideology? It's possible, but she was at the time draining my limited funds, and I was still caring about paying bills.

So she was not the correct vessel. This was going to take a village that didn't include her.

And, indeed, after attempting to make things work for seven years, we fucking hated each other for some eight years. It was only last fall that we started talking like adults, a decade after the divorce.

She's fucking pissed that she had who I'd become but played it wrong. Expecting me to pay for your prior decisions to have kids is not going to nudge me to hippie.

It was rather inevitable. Working in journalism for decades exposes you to the bullshit. I just had to get there for myself by being broken down by the system. When "work hard and you'll get ahead" is demonstrably false, well, now you need a new worldview.

There's part of me that really wishes I could have learned life's lessons thus far in a linear manner. Thing is, I'll be up there in the next couple of weeks. She'll do my laundry, buy me food and cuddle against me in bed.

I'm not an asshole, but for a staunch feminist, she's oddly interested in playing tradwife. And in no world is she straight.

From a young age, I was allowed to leave the house by bike and be home by dinner. I still have scars from that, but, you know, it's not really terrorizing.

Let us contrast this with whatever the fuck passes for parenting these days.

We're buying the concept that parents can't raise their own kid, and thus the government needs to step in.

Well, some are. But seriously, the past 40 years of destroying critical thinking worked.

There are few reasons to be thankful for being 46. We don't exist in the media, and we're somehow never mentioned. Boomers ... Millennials. Um, you missed a step.

Was I any good at it? Was this a perceived trajectory?

No.

Had I gone to Cornell or Berkeley, both of which I'd been accepted to, my life would not involve journalism. After all, I was there for computer science.

Oops.

The issue with CSE142 was it was stupid. Yay! Writing Hello World in C! I had a specific disinterest in wheel reinvention, and holy shit did the CS department want that.

I took precisely one course and realised these were not the people I wanted to be around.

But who were? Because you can't just want "not x" but rather elucidate "y".

Well, this was an entire accident, and there's some sex involved. It's a college paper! But I quickly learned I wasn't here for fun.; rather, I wanted to learn and excel.

When one lives with his editor, shit starts looking a bit dicey. I mean, we didn't move in together immediately, but eight days in, well, I told my parents that my editor gave me a raise.

This of course refers to tumescence, but I was trying to be less than obvious.

The only reason that I moderate U.S. News is Rachel. I figured it would be fun to try journalism as part of my time in college. And it was, but ... there's simply no way I would land here without everyone at UW in 1998.

Now, you may look at eight days and think "wow, how did it take that long?" It didn't. The issue was we were both 19 ... she was six-and-a-half days older than me. She doesn't get the full week because I was born in the morning, and she was born in the evening.

No, we were already exuding clues. Everything kept piling up in those eight days. I was rubbing her shoulders, and she was fixing my layouts. It would later become apparent that literally everyone in the newsroom realised we were an item.

My god, we hated each other. But, you know, that's usually where you're fucked. If you care enough to hate, there's an underlying emotion that's not been expressed, and eight days isn't really enough time to deal with your first true love while also attempting to think this isn't happening in the first place alongside "oh, fuck, I have no idea what's going on here."

We got a place a few months later, and we wallpapered the bedroom with layouts. This immediately meant the escalation of page design; now we were in competition, and what generally takes years happened in weeks. I wasn't going to lose to her, and, as a result, suddenly, we were winning national design awards.

Just to one up each other.

She ended up as managing ed the next year. I'd decided to go raver and fuck up our life (there was a party in B.C. that she came with on), but I'd decided if I'm going to have the full college experience, I needed crazy.

The second Rachel was a raver in Canada. Yeah, I ended up with the horrific "Canadian girlfriend" in the '90s. To the extent that on Thanksgiving 1999, I drove from Portland to Victoria (there's obviously a ferry involved here) and brought her down to the gathering at my roommate's.

They were surprised in two ways. First, I actually had a Canadian girlfriend, which at the time was a protomeme, and one of his friends "had a girlfriend in Canada," leading to my holiday sojourn. Like, fuck you, I will spend the better part of a day proving that.

She was also 6'2" and, well, sturdy. She was still doing the hair-down-to-her-ass thing, which thankfully got solved a month later. Of course, the problem there was not recognizing her at the restaurant we'd agreed to meet at.

She didn't just cut off four feet of hair; she bleached what was left. This is not a complaint. It was just a point of confusion.

Rachel Nr 1 was displeased with my shenanigans, but I relieved her as managing editor, and she ended up marrying my best friend (long story that starts in Vic).

But without her, you would not have a U.S. News mod. I would have dabbled in journalism and moved along.

Over the past month, I've interviewed Mike four times. The first two were useless, but I finally broke ground on the third go-round.

I was only there because of a friend of his, and our conversation last night led me to the conclusion that he just wants everyone else to swoop in and fix his life.

I feel for the guy. I like the guy.

But do not tell me I now need to write three thank-you notes just because I kicked off the campaign. That's what I was hired for. This is not.

Additionally, I find it unethical to provide form responses to strangers giving you money. Put some fucking effort into it. They literally sent you money they didn't have to.

When talking with Ra last night, she expressed similar concerns and was blunt about getting me involved so it was less work for her. So, Mike thinks he can just shift the burden.

There's an episode of TNG, Man of the People, that takes this to its logical extreme.

I'm happy to help; I'm happy to join Ra and her husband's planned commune.

What I'm not happy to do is be expected to do unethical things for no pay.

Nichol's apartment complex just fucked up royally, and the water is to be shut off. She doesn't want to be involved in the coverage, so I said, "Let me handle this. This is exactly the hour to provide a news tip."

So, I call the Killeen Daily Herald, and the first person I speak with is a designer (I don't miss that entry-level function ... it's often idiots trying to settle bar bets). I get transferred to what I expect to be a reporter, but turns out ... well, he's on the desk.

So much the better. Now I can be blunt.

I fucking miss talking with other journalists. We aren't here to shoot the shit, and I was clear about what I'd personally experienced in the complex and what was hearsay.

It's funny ... I once wrote a column entitled "Don't piss off the news editor," and this is the sort of thing where, well, you don't know who you've just pissed off, and you also don't know whether their ex-husband happens to be able to get through newsroom structures to provide a tip.

I closed the conversation by wishing him a pleasant evening -- but hoping it won't be too boring. "Easy nights are not why I enjoy being on the desk." And he responds in kind: "Completely agree." I provide my number and mention the reporter should text first, as I don't answer calls from people not in my phone. His response? "Neither do I. Too much bullshit."

Afterward? Calling KXXN. You want redundancy in this situation. I had good conversations with both, but I'm a source in Austin covering a problem in Killeen, which I can't effectively do and therefore need local journalists to finish the job.

Nichol has switched her approach from "I'd never be caught talking to a journalist" to (after much explanation of what all of this is going to entail) to ... "well, I didn't ask for your help, but you knew I was asking for your help."

Yeah, babe, I do. You didn't bring this to my attention because you wanted pity. You wanted me to step in and do what, well, I do.

And I have now gotten the ball rolling. Which, as manipulative as it may have been, was what needed to happen.

If a reporter shows up, she's now happy to entertain them. She wasn't going to be able to sell the story to anyone, so, well ... I just had to step in. Of course she didn't ask, as that would be weakness.

This said, she remains the only person who can, with a single touch, make me twitch violently.

And I remain the only person in her life that can blast through newsroom walls and get shit done. Will they cover her situation? I put 60% odds between the pair of outlets.

But she had a 0% shot without me navigating this, so that's an improvement. Sometimes I wish I didn't still love her, but I had no choice in this case. She was pleading without pleading, and I knew exactly how to get through the gates.

"You're going to write about it, aren't you?" Ra asked as I got back into the car. It was a resigned tone rather than excited.

We ended up in the parking lot for some 20 minutes, as the first problem on her end was that she was ordering too many calories via the app.

She was going to cover my lunch, but as she had one of the boys in the car, that caloric limit needed to apply to them. I reluctantly download the app, and after navigating the labyrinthine process to order a fucking burger, when it comes time to check out, my only active card is not accepted by the app.

We're already there, so I go in. I try ordering exactly what I just had at the counter. Fuck the kiosk; if your app doesn't work, that about all I need to know about your tech stack. The cashier seemed surprised that McDonald's sells McDoubles and repeated my order back to me as a Quarter Pounder. An Abbot and Costello routine ensues, but at least the order was correct.

Meanwhile, back in the car, Ra has placed a second order to obviate the caloric limit, which, let's be reasonable, is absurd coming from the establishment it does. What if, just hypothetically, you're buying hamburders for an entire football team?

Needless to say, I deleted the app.

That's roughly four hours ago as I type this sentence (I have no idea how long this is going to turn out, but I have a week to cover, and it took this long to explain 20 minutes).

We're in Temple, Texas, where I've just spent two nights after five with my ex-wife in Killeen, but the destination is Austin this time ... thankfully, I park surprisingly close to the Atheist Community of Austin, which is her destination, so dropping me off was far less of a delay than it could have been (the McDonald's fiasco made her late to the lecture).

I will say, indoor plumbing and real meals for a full week was rather nice.

So as not to be redundant, the basic setup is this: We had a wild temperature swing forecast for last Saturday that I was trying to figure out how to mitigate when I got a text from my ex, to whom I'm now been doing monthly sojourns since December, saying she's unexpectedly free for the weekend.

The unusual thing on this trip was ... there wasn't really an end date. We eventually settled on Tuesday, but then Amazon double-charged her for an order that left her unable to cover my ride home until her check clears Thursday.

This opens up an unusual opportunity. Temple and Killeen are far closer together than Austin is to either, and Ra wanted me to come back and do another round of interviews with Mike, a former journalist in desperate need of donations for medical bills.

Ra saved half the cost, and my ex paid nothing, so, really, win-win.

So I settle in at her place and hang out in the garage with her husband so I can vape while he smokes. There may have been weed involved; I definitely cracked a beer.

Ra's husband, whom I'd met once before, is genuinely one of the more interesting people I've crossed paths with in years. Another one was who I was waiting on a ride to go see.

My first round with Mike was fascinating on the conversation front, but left me with no clear narrative on how to convince strangers to donate money to the cause. He got some heavy-hitters in journalism to donate for his last campaign and that well is dry.

I thought we had an angle with "longtime queer activist" (this is how he was sold to me at the start of the project), but he wants to leave that out. I fully respect that, but as I told Ra, who is high up in Temple Pride, that would have been an angle I can work with far easier than "grizzled veteran journalist suffers two brain hemorrhages and a stroke, ends up severely immunodeficient."

This time, I switch tacks. I bring a six-pack and just try to shoot the shit. It works.

We talk about his childhood (it wasn't pleasant) and his career (it was) more fully, and about my life -- to establish rapport. I've finally broken down the wall, and we're talking as equals.

But two hours in, he's due his pain meds and muscle relaxer, and I feel I've sort of expended his energy (he'd had physical therapy just before we arrived). And he's been meandering and incoherent frequently without those.

I text Ra for a pickup, and we all agree that I'll come back Friday so we can continue.

Putting me back in the garage with Ra's husband, with occasional cameos from Ra. The conversation flows for hours, as though we've been doing this for years. As the atheist seminar was his idea to attend, in addition to being a leftist anarchist, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised.

The funny thing is, he isn't a burner. I'm sitting in that garage solely because Ra and I are. He always has reasons behind surprises, and in this case, it's that the animist in him wants to commune with nature when camping, not be subjected to amped electronica and flashing lights.

I can't argue that point.

Speaking of communes, that quickly becomes a topic of discussion, as he's looking for acreage to start one -- right then, on his phone. I mention that I've had vegetable gardens and raised rabbits, and I sure as fuck know how to set up and maintain offgrid solar (though Ra's electrician goddaughter is still insisting she'd be much happier if she could fully go through my system).

I'm immediately invited to join.

The timeline is murky, as they have to sell their house in addition to finding the right patch of land. And he's doing due diligence, much preferring an unimproved site that already has a well and septic tank (these are oddly surprisingly frequent ... I guess people get that done and then run out of money?) and a decent forest canopy.

"Chickens," he says. "Rabbits are great, but that's going to get old for every meal."

Thus begins the tale of how I got my rabbit from a farm where they cohabitated with chickens, so this is clearly not going to be an issue.

The remainder of the evening is sociology, geopolitics, political theory, linguistics, the adventures of being homeless ... every time the topic veers somewhere new, both of us are ready to engage.

It was fantastic! I was able to go into my preferred register for vocabulary and still be understood without a single question as to what I was talking about. As much as I love my ex, she cannot provide such mental stimulation.

Things wind down, and the next morning, I'm up way too early, as I'm sleeping in the living room and they have two boys.

Turns out, Ra has to work today, so now I'm going to be in the garage until at least 5 p.m. The conversation proceeds apace, and we just chat when he's available (he's a stay-at-home dad to two special-needs kids).

Finally, it's time to head to Mike's. Thankfully, his prognostication is correct, and he's of sounder mind than yesterday. With yesterday's chat, I was just trying to establish rapport.

This time, it's an interview.

Much of what we talked about is in confidence, so I can't really spill the tea ahead of whatever we settle on for fundraising copy. Thankfully, Ra is handling the back end; I just need to write.

Suffice to say, I think I have enough to craft something decent. And, oh, this is actually a paid gig: $100 on delivery for maybe three or four grafs. That's the immediate one. There will be another that's much larger so he can go to one of the clinics that specializes in brain stuff (think Mayo).

Two prominent (I'm taking his word for it) local neurologists have said he still has a chance of full recovery with the right treatment, and he's been working on a book documenting the hell he's been through in the U.S. medical system. Oh, he also could use an editor.

At this point, I point him to Beehaw on his phone and pull up a random recent post, putting it to him: This is my writing style; does this work for you? Anything past "yes" would sound like narcissism, but he assented.

So I promised him, then Ra, that I'd have something ready by Monday at the latest. Her goddaughter is going to try to come by tomorrow.

Of course, I'd set myself a Monday deadline in that moment. When we talked last night about heading down to Austin, she said she wanted to be out of the house by 1 p.m. Then one of the boys started acting up, so her husband didn't end up coming along.

"Just for the record," I said at 1:03, "I had everything packed and ready to go at 12:59."

"By 1!" Ra said.

"And you said it to someone who works off deadline."

I don't want to get my hopes up too much, but there are significant opportunities here with people who, you know, actually follow through on plans, so my hopes aren't exactly at baseline.

Early tomorrow afternoon, my ex was to pay for my ride home. I've already been here longer than planned for financial reasons.

But I do not head to Austin (fuck you, AP, it's the 11th-largest MSA in the country) tomorrow; rather I'm headed to Temple, Texas (not a major city).

The burner activist who brought me up there a month ago wants me to crash in Mike's room for a couple of nights. I'm assured there's a second bed and a private washroom.

The idea here is to get to know him enough to finally get closure on the story I couldn't write from our first interaction.

Luckily, Killeen (I think we've established I'm in Texas, despite having to say that) is far closer to Temple than Austin. My friend pays half the price, and my ex pays nothing.

Speaking of which, last night, while we were talking about other things, I was bitching about her getting all the stuff and me getting all the debt. In the manner that one can only do in middle age, she pushed back.

"What the fuck do you mean? I ended up 11 grand in debt because you hadn't been paying things for months."

Now, I'd been paying things as billed, but our landlord was a bit shady, so I'd not be surprised something like this happened.

The thing is, I never knew. I moved out in February 2016. She expressed anger, rage, jealousy, but she is fucking terrible at communicating the real problem.

As am I.

It will be nice to focus on something in the vicinity of journalism for a couple of days, but there's a full can of worms waiting in Temple.

Out of the pan, into the fire. I suppose it's apt for a burner.

I asked for life to get interesting as a homeless guy in a van. Be careful what you wish for.

ever since Tucker Carlson has been independent he's somehow attracted the attention of liberals and even a few leftists. a lot of them will act like they're doing so begrudgingly, like they hate to say something good about him but hey when he's right he's right.

...except no, he isn't, and no, you don't have to praise him at all, because he is grifting. you know that thing he did his whole fucking career? yeah he's still doing it. only this time you are falling for it like a goddamn idiot and i need you all to wake the fuck up, please.

Tucker Carlson does not have principles. He has demonstrated this time and time again and has been a puppet for the far-right as soon as they started becoming his primary audience. Carlson realizes the MAGA cult is fracturing. he's laying low right now because it's the safest route to become a vocal polemicist in the public eye again. if he disavows Trump, he can pretend he was always "one of the good ones." literally nothing he is criticizing Trump for is anything he gave a fuck about with any other Republican president. Trump has done some unique shit but a lot of his horrible positions are from the Republican playbook spoon fed to him.

"Wow, Tucker Carlson's new merch is rather biting. He's really sticking it to AIPAC," you say stupidly, not realizing Carlson's direct support of right-wing agendas has given us AIPAC and continues to allow politicians to be bought and sold. lol

please, he doesn't give a fuck that AIPAC is funding our congress. he's just mad it isn't the group he supports. he's upset that he isn't benefiting. and you are legitimizing his attempt at manipulating people when you praise him for creating merch that exploits how real people with a soul feel (unlike Carlson).

he hasn't changed, he hasn't become more moderate, he isn't more levelheaded now that he's a free agent.. stop. stop it, fucking stop. i am seeing this way too frequently and it is disgusting and scaring me. i hope some of these positive comments are from bots tbh.

As previously referred to, I refer to my ex as "babe" in standard conversation.

My time here has been unexpectedly extended, which is fine by me ... don't threaten me with nutrition, HVAC and indoor plumbing!

Somehow, saying "hey" feels sharper than "hey, babe."

I finally asked tonight if she was OK with that, as she has noticeably excised her use of the term. Pulling an "I love you" without part of me in her is just this side of impossible. She said she was fine with it, but for me, it's just muscle memory.

This is the trip where I finally realized I don't give a shit about a good sex life. Just being around her regulates me fine, and I can't complain about the free food.

We banter, we cross over into giving each other shit, and life proceeds apace.

I know very well why we got divorced a decade ago, but as we head into Day 5 of this visit, the practical reasons we've had the luxury of ignoring when I travel up here seem ... distant.

What concerns me most here is that I've experienced reality turning into fiction decades ago, and right now, sitting in her living room feels like reality, and my van feels like fiction.

Something is going to have to give, and soon.

It is now day three at my ex's. She ordered food again today, which was good (there's a local chicken place).

Because I'm socially maladjusted, I asked to talk about what we were doing during a commercial break.

The answer was not ideal.

She confirmed we have no future, implored me to accept the present for what it is, and it sort of feels like I'm Custer.

It has been about a year since I was last here on beehaw or the fediverse in general. Last time I was here the fediverse was a chaotic place where you didn't know if your home instance would last another week without randomly getting shut down. I am curious what has changed in my long absence.

It's SXSW right now, so things for locals are kinda fucked.

My ex texted me that she turned out not to have her grandson for the weekend, and would I like to come up? Lyfts were vacillating by the minute ... my first check, it was $100 (baseline is $50-60), then I got a notification that it had dropped to $70 after not booking. She checks what it would be in the other direction: $45 -- and then implores me to check again. Now it's $120.

At this point, I've given up on the idea, but I do check one more time, and it's $60.

As I'd resigned myself to the fact that this wasn't feasible, I'd not really done any packing ahead of ordering the ride. So I get down to that after booking, and when my phone dings for what should be the "here's who your driver is" notification, it was instead the "your driver is already here."

So, I'm frantically just throwing anything I can find for laundry into my suitcase. I made it out with a minute to spare before she took off.

On the plus side, I remembered my dentures this time.

Now, it may seem irresponsible to spend $60 to visit my ex, but the forecast wild temperature swings are hell in the van. It was in the low-90s today, which is barely survivable even with my fan. Tonight, we drop into the 30s, which would have required heat, and tomorrow's high is 51.

Spring in Texas is fun!

Unlike prior visits, this one was left a bit ... open-ended. Without her grandson needing to be here, there was no real deadline for when I'd leave. We addressed that this evening, and I said if I would stay until Tuesday, that would be ideal, given tomorrow's low as well. After that, it's back to May weather, so this is a fluke.

This has been a wildly different experience from my prior visits in some ways, while remarkably consistent in others. To address the elephant in the room, yes, we're still physically compatible, but there may start to be contours forming on what we're actually doing.

And I don't know what to define it as.

Once I'd loaded my laundry, we settled in, as usual. I took a shower, as usual. I ended up in her clothes, as usual. She then ordered food delivery, as usual. That $60 is starting to look like a bargain.

We watched a fair amount of Young Sheldon, which I'd not seen before starting to come up here. As usual. Given a bumper crop of cardboard, we start burning it in the fireplace, as usual.

We decamp to her bed and continue watching in there after what I've sufficiently described in the past.

My sleep schedule has been inconsistent for months, so while she nods off around 2 a.m., I'm up until 5.

Every now and again, while I'm watching TV on her laptop over her shoulder, she shifts as she's lying next to me, with the most popular surprises being a leg thrown over me and her grabbing my arm.

So it was with a fair amount of surprise that I awoke (well after her) to hear about how (we'd not yet covered my departure date) I was no longer welcome in her bed. Apparently, after I drifted off, I ended up putting my knees in the small of her back, and the snoring wasn't a plus.

Over the course of the afternoon, this softened into using the giant sock monkey she usually sleeps with as essentially a chaperone. She's already gone to bed, as she has a job, but I'm allowed to climb in after all.

Outside of intimate activity, we have barely touched. She's apparently gone the Pretty Woman route and wants sex without kissing, which is a bit dejecting with one's ex. She let me know that in the four years she was with her last fuck buddy, she only let him kiss her once -- and that was in public just to piss off his ex.

I have never claimed this was a healthy relationship.

Still, even though we both still had plenty of leftovers, she decided to make (way too much) salmon with a couple of sides for dinner.

Most of today was us not interacting. She's still a cigarette smoker, and thus frequently decamps to the porch. Add in the phones calls she had, which I have to be invisible for because of history, and it was pretty much me watching the show with occasional interruptions to talk.

We both have a couple of vices, so I'm sitting next to a bowl prepared before she retired. I'll just self entertain for the next two days while she works from home in her room.

I do like her ultrasonic denture cleaner, though.

While it's still unclear what we're doing, I think I may have had rose-tinted glasses on possible outcomes. We're not antagonistic or awkward in any way, and we do talk a fair amount, but it seems our goals come down to animalistic sex and just supporting the other warm body in the room.

Which is likely a good way to start framing the fact that I don't be able to see her at all once she moves to be closer to her grandson's mother.

She's at least covering my ride home, as usual.

Today's development is that I'm committing theft from content creators on YouTube.

OK. So, you think I, as an unemployed writer, am responsible for "content creators"? What the fuck does that mean, anyway? I've shot porn, written lots of columns and editorials, and taken photos.

This is back when we didn't call it "content." So what's your point? Up-and-comers need more money than corporate America and me?

I'm going to need a more compelling argument than "you're stealing if you use an adblocker." I simply don't have the energy to point out that if losing work as an editor makes me a thief, you should direct your ire to the media companies that no longer care to hire us.

If I were making six figures and owned my home, as I should at 46, sure ... fair play. I can afford YouTube Premium. Neither is true, so this feels mostly like a case of "shut up, nationally award-winning pleb who has literally run newspapers; you don't understand the media industry."

And in a manner of speaking, they're right. I understood it only while we had the audacity to commit journalism.

I've been under the weather for several days, lacking any appetite. I brought this up to my ex over the course of our usual conversations, and her reaction was "fuck this, I'm ordering you food."

So I now have clam chowder and crab mashed potatoes from Red Lobster.

I seriously don't get it. If we are weeks away from never being able to meet again, why is she taking care of me like this?

I try not to overshare, but as I no longer have a career to focus on, my mind zeroes in on interpersonal relationships.

Getting a Lyft up to my ex-wife's was a last-minute thing, and this time it was only going to be for one night, which is not particularly cost-effective.

Usual delights ensue. We smoke and drink, and then, eventually, it's time for bed. I've been sleeping with her since 2009, and this is the first time she was aggressive about initiating.

Like, seriously aggressive. I'm used to the growls and ear nibbles; those are par for the course. I'm not going to regale you with what happened, but it ended up with both of us exhausted and ready for a good night's sleep.

I didn't wake up until 11. She'd been supposed to start work at 8 but called out. So I come to, her naked body next to mine, and I have to do what I frequently have to these days: assess where the fuck I woke up.

We watched a few episodes of Young Sheldon (Wallace Shawn is an ancillary character, and he's not missed a beat on line delivery since The Princess Bride) in the afternoon, hugged, had a brief peck for a kiss ... I was so rushed to get out of my van (An 8-minute estimate turned into 2.) that I forgot my teeth, leaving deep kisses off the table.

Thankfully, she also has full dentures, so this is not a point of contention.

The driver taking me up there apparently had a side gig of proselytizing, which was not welcome and resulted in a $0 tip. I rarely do that, despite deploring tipping culture in general. You are getting me from point A to point B, and that is the extent of our interaction.

I don't know what to do here. She's moving soon to be closer to one of her kids, and at that point, I can't be involved, as she successfully pawned off everything that went wrong in our marriage on me, and her boys believe I'm the devil incarnate as a result.

It is hell to be able to get along with someone both emotionally and physically and know that it has an expiration date.

There's a nonzero chance I will be heading up to Killeen tonight to visit my ex-wife.

This is not inherently wonderful.

It is hard, as we talk through how I'd get there, to forget that we already failed. I wish I didn't love her, but we don't get to choose these things.

so i was reading the linked article on MSN because i hate myself and it was discussing the recent drone attack that killed six US service members but focusing on one young man in particular, Declan Coady, who was only 20 years old when he died. it has the standard fluff you'd find in something written about a recently deceased person, but then it quotes US officials' response to Coady's death and i just.. honestly.. so many Americans are deeply brainwashed they have no clue what they are actually supporting implicitly.

first off, Coady was not a soldier. he was never going to see combat as his role was not "enemy" facing. he supported his unit by coordinating logistics and making sure rations were being provided, equipment was stocked and ready, etc. he had reason to believe he'd be in less danger than the soldiers directly facing combat.

here are parts of the federal press release i'd like to highlight:

• We honor our fallen Heroes, who served fearlessly and selflessly in defense of our nation...

to frame this event as a defensive response to an active aggressor is something a psychopath would do. i mean that in the clinical sense as well a general insult. for Lt. Gen. Robert Harter to say that it means he believed in it, and that disturbs and scares me. so many Americans think the military will not turn on its citizens. i don't know why. here we are, the US, a foreign invader, an aggressor of an internationally illegal hostility, all organized by our fascist president, and Lt. Generals are not willing to stick by their oath to defend against domestic "enemies."

• Our nation is kept safe by folks like these...

we were not unsafe before we attacked Iran and starting a war with Iran will not lead us anywhere positive. we are objectively less safe as evidenced by six military members being killed. standard nationalism though but i always hate when our invasions are portrayed this way.

• We will remember their names, their service, and their sacrifice...

but we won't. objectively so, we won't. the government is infamous for its mistreatment of veterans. it has proven time and time again they are seen as nothing more than used up resources to be discarded and ignored.

• They were the ultimate ambassadors for freedom. They represent the best of what our country stands for...

honestly, fuck you. again, these are all coming from the mouths of high ranking officials willingly. this one from Brig. Gen. Clint A. Barnes, Deputy Commanding General, 1st Theater Sustainment Command, Operational Command Post. mind you, it isn't the language i'm bothered by, this is all typical bullshit said by every administration when military deaths happen, however it is coming from literal fascists this time. it should be painfully clear to these leaders that Trump and his administration are using propaganda to usher in fascist control of the country. this should be a moment where everything clicks and falls into place for them. instead, they believe in the message so deeply that they can't see their way out. they're all fucking gone. this enrages me because people are depending on military members to stand up for us all and all the ones quoted in this article are failing to do so.

there's mention of God granting peace to the families of those lost. absolutely ridiculous. peace? they had that already when they were alive. then we sent them to die by illegally starting a war which has so far bombed schools and killed children, and you want me to accept your hope for a time of peace as genuine?

i'm so bothered by this response from our military. if so many of these officials accept being a literal fascist mouthpiece as part of the job then there's not much left that would cause them to pause. shit is already as bad as it needs to be to refuse orders or complacency. we don't need to wait for anything further.

Hello! I'm looking for someone to talk to since I have been very lonely lately and most of my friends I cannot talk to online. If this is the wrong community, sorry, but it's the best I could find. I can delete this if needed.

Looking for SFW chat, no romance or anything, just someone to talk to. I'm a young adult with a lot of interests. I like coding, history, music, languages, cultures, and I'm interested in learning new things. I'm okay with chatting in comments or in PMs.

I will probably delete this in a few hours or whenever.

This quote is from the February 2016 conversation where my ex-wife and I agreed to divorce. It didn't seem at all plausible ... if we'd tried to make it work for seven years (of which perhaps three were good) and failed, how the hell was that going to happen?

A decade later, we appear determined to find out. Neither of us has a car, which means Lyfts are the order of the day when I head up there (she has a kitchen and indoor plumbing, so she doesn't come down to my van).

And this is keeping things to a pretty steady monthly cadence (three data points is a trend, and she wants me there next week) of a few nights, which I think is the sweet spot.

I've taken myself off the market. She's pulling me in far more than pushing me away (though she still does do both). We're both in our mid-40's at this point and uninterested in starting our life stories from the top with a new partner.

Which means we could be settling for each other, just ground down by life and seeking familiarity. There's no way we work long term; her kids hate me, and as such, the windows where I can visit are dictated by being sure neither will knock on the door.

But at this point, we've been talking on the phone almost daily, usually for hours, since my dad died in November.

We are not the couple who hated each other in 2016. In 2026, we are something different. Almost curious ... prodding, seeing what's still there. And the answer is a lot; we've not kept things platonic.

But it isn't about the sex. As I've said before, it's about the touch.

So, I was ordered a Lyft up to a town an hour away, and when I got there, what I'd signed up for was not at all what I expected.

We can stick a pin in the interview with the researcher for Molly Ivins who I thought was not going to have a journalism background.

Now, I have a problem on my hands. What was sold as the story to assist with fundraisers is not, in fact, the story.

Queer activist from decades ago? Sure. I can deal with that and have questions ready to go.

You know more than I do about journalism was not expected.

And he does. I'm an asshole and full of myself, but you know when you're the student.

Trump is tedious to listen to for 30 seconds, so signing up for nearly two hours of his worst hits didn't seem a good use of time.

I seriously have no idea who the audience was for that.

Well, I've seen this fucking movie before. My ex wife had two boys, and the first thing she did was have me shower, then did my laundry, then cooked food ahead of getting me stoned.

Granted, this time, her husband is involved, and I'm not here for sex. I'm only an hour out of Austin because she thought I would be useful for a project she's working on.

So, I meet this guy, sold as an early queer activist in Texas, and, as such, I presume this will be the main focus. I have an hour of audio and still have no idea what my nut graf is.

Dude was a researcher for Molly Ivins. Oh, and worked at 60 Minutes. Oh, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

Rachelle is watching this play out and realizes she did connect two people, but she has no understanding of what she's hearing. This is not a slight; when you get two newsmen together, we start speaking in code.

He's got a few fundraisers going, as he's in rehabilitative care, and the core of my role here is to synthesize (I know, I know) his messaging so that they can focus on fewer (ideally one).

Under ordinary circumstances, I'd not touch this with a 10-foot pole; however, he seems to be the real deal, just trying to live out his life after imparting information to many.

It looks like we're going to meet up again tomorrow before Rachelle drives me home.

This could actually be worse than it seems. It's fucking cold tonight, and I have HVAC and comforters.

Mike is a character I can't quite yet pin down. But then again, I generally don't open with "How I Lost My Career."

For obvious reasons, I hate this branding.

The country, the state, the county and the city have failed us, not the other way around.

Am I drinking too much? Sure. Why? Because I lost purchasing power for 23 years and see no path forward. As I am 46, this means that it was only the first half of my life that I had hope.

I mean, I was already a journalist to start, so it was likely inevitable I'd end up steeped in alcoholism.

As folks pen breathless analyses of the fall of corporate media, those of us who lived it and didn't have expensive bylines are aghast at what is happening.

But that's not important right now.

So, I have been homeless since 2023. I have solar and batteries, but little else works at this point. My 5G hotspot, laptop and phone survive because my fridge died.

Homelessness is not a one-stop shop for blowing up your life; it's death from a thousand cuts, as one thing after another goes wrong.

I sort of get the impression that there's this idea of "I'm working three jobs; why are you so lazy?"

Well, that's on you. If you think six hours of sleep while you pay to drive to three different jobs is an acceptable life, I guess, hooray?

I won't.

Pay me what I'm worth, allow me to afford fixed housing, and we have a starting point. "You can just get a roommate" is not that. Fuck you and your usury.

And fuck you for normalizing this when you're happily housed with your income. This is not my failure; it is society's. You're not a millionaire waiting in the wings for your big break. Stop believing that!