Listen to this discussion free on YouTube: A Lover Alone discussion
I’m obviously obsessed with having a sexual partner. Female. I’m obsessively not looking for her at the moment. My attentions are more centralized. Writing. Working. Paying bills. Experiencing peak moments and writing them down. Heading into the holidays, I’m hoping to abandon the grocery life. I’ll miss the parade of beautiful people, the flirting with wealthy yoga-wearing women. “A cashier is not a viable partner, partner,” I remind myself. I am not here to find a woman. Looking and lusting is fine.
Can someone be actively not looking for a relationship? Off the dating apps. Nipping marginal options in the bud. Not going for the second date with anyone not extraordinary. I want Jen Law. I want SuperGirl. I want a short skirt and a long jacket. Tis, becoming the weather for them now.
The store is filling up with Christmas cheer, which is making me sad. I’ve got to get out of this place. The wage and the standing for eight hours are killing me. More so, killing my spirit. Well, okay, I’m fighting against it with more energy than anything else. I’m using all of my coping skills. Mindfulness, meditation, mantras, and… “Good lord, that’s an amazing body.” Oh, sorry, I got distracted there.
I’m happy with the view. I’m starving and eating my savings instead of my just desserts.
What is the point of all of this? Writing? Pontificating as if I have an answer for anybody. Even the answer for myself is buried under my productive bursts. I can hide a lot in a novel. No one reads these days. So, I’m learning to adapt my style. Engage the AI movement to enhance my copy, critique my genius, promote my literary merit.
How’s that going? Um.
I’m either really hitting my stride and the AI podcasters are picking up my threads, or they are doing a masterful job of stroking me off. Either is fine, I suppose. Another form of independence from love, attention, fame. If they can satisfy my craving for attention, understanding, and digesting my novels, well, gobble gobble. Let them eat. Let them speak. Let their inspiring outtakes of my own prose provide more fuel for this addled rant.
I’m exposing a bit more of myself than I wanted. However… That’s the point. I am using AI to spike and inspire more rants. It’s working. Since the AIs have joined my hyperfiction multiverse, I have been twice or thrice expanded. I write a chapter. I ask the AI to give me their take. I ask a different AI to read the chapter back in my exact fucking voice. My clone. I promote all three bits of content into my five social media channels. And I get 5 reads, 14 views, and 1 new subscriber.
It is a slow growth strategy. At the moment there is nothing to sell. I am delinquent on my publishing package submissions. I’ve sent out five gotten back one encouraging no. I need to send out five a day. What’s my delay? Tiredness? Disillusionment?
Oh, right. I’m doing the job hunting hustle. More than anything, at this very moment, I need a better job. One that gives me back my schedule, my weekends, and my ability to plan ahead. Hey, maybe even a vacation. I do not want to drain my savings accounts. I’m working full-time and going underwater each month by a couple of thousand dollars. I cannot sustain it for much longer. There are options. I don’t want to consider them. I double down on my job submissions.
There’s one job, still in play. Delayed. “We will be interviewing through October,” said the admin after my successful interview with the two hiring managers. It’s November. I did get a ping back from her on Halloween. “Just a hello. Hope you get all treats and no tricks today.”
The girl in the picture of the previous chapter is no one I know. Just a moment of inspiration. Distraction from my immediate needs and goals. New job.
What can I do today, Sunday, to do more? Redo my resume? My LinkedIn Page? No.
I work today at 11 am. It is now 6 am, feels like 7 am. I think. The time change always confuses me. I’ve been going to bed early and waking up earlier. Tracking my sleep, I notice that when I get less than 2 hours of deep sleep, I’m more vulnerable to frustration and anger. My son in the house has been a challenge. His rumblings and opening and closing doors at 3 am have disrupted the cats and me.
Night before last he was out. It was lovely. Quiet. Calm. I got two and a half hours of deep. This morning I woke too early. I did go to bed early, so no worries there. I haven’t checked my deep yet. He was asleep on the rocking chair in the screened porch. I was getting in the hot tub and woke him. He said nothing. Got up, disoriented, stumbled back into the house. I assume he is in his bed. He might have driven off in his car for all I know. I am not tracking his behaviors. I am pushing back when they upset my routine or my living space.
No, you cannot put your entire cluster of computers in my house. “I don’t know what you’re doing with them. Crypto or something. I don’t want them dragging down my net.”
What didn’t say is, I don’t want your illegal activity to involve me, my IP address, or my physical address. I am not allowing his late-night manias to disturb my own sleep. When I go to bed, I trap the two cats in with me and turn on the white noise generator. He can do whatever the fuck he wants, wandering the darkened halls in his modern-day ICE gear. He’s a liberal trapped in a military fantasy. Afraid of violence, yet carrying a loaded weapon next to his cock at all times. He sleeps with a gun.
I guess that could be his substitute for a woman. He’s a complete mama’s boy. Lost without his woman. Lost anyway. Just lost. A job would sober him up pretty quickly. It certainly has focused my attention. I’ve shut down all music exploration for the moment. Well, I have a chupacabra in my music room, so I don’t have the space. I’m pushing him back into the corners. He cannot take over the entire house. Yes, he has it free and clear while I’m at work. He should be doing his “work.” He’s fondling guns and ammo.
My 24-year-old son is going through his rebellious teen years a bit late. It’s appropriate. He’s now got a father who loves him to push against. When I was removed by my ex-wife’s meltdown, he lost my optimistic and self-disciplined approach to life. Work first. Then I can play. I haven’t always adhered to that ideal. I’m doing pretty well now. Job first. Job hunt second. Novel and novel publishing next. There’s no room for a parnter at the moment. Besides, my son’s presence prevents any sleepovers in the near future. I accept my current path.
Happy? Challenged. Joyful? Absolutely. Things are exactly where they are supposed to be. I need to quit thrashing about for what I want and get on with doing the work. I can masturbate at any time. Monetization would be a better use of my time.
There is no hurry.
