August 4th, 2025 - The Bridge Stood Fast
Dear TNY,
I’m on time for once (at the time of typing, not publishing because I didn’t have enough time). And “The Bridge Stood Fast” just passed before my eyes.
Nothing to care about here, really. I like the vernacular. There were a ton of keen sentences with fresh phrasing. Hell, I read the whole thing. But, I can’t be motivated to show you what was good. That’s too much work right now. Just know there is some. And the rest of the piece…I just didn’t connect. To the characters. The loss. The youth. The anything. I was completely detached. Like watching a modern movie. Shit was going on right before my eyes. But there wasn’t a goddamn thing in it that said, “Hey, I’m important!” Just noise, seemingly for the sake of making it.
But, it could be me. All of this could be me. Like, I’m the one that’s out of place here. It’s my fault. Not yours. Who knows?
Today, I sent my youngest son home. It was time as school starts soon. He’s going to practice driving for two days. And then he’ll test for his license. He’s got all AP classes this semester. Trying to knock out as many years of college as possible now so he doesn’t have to pay for them. So this upcoming semester, he’s going to figure out what the workload is and then find a job that works for him with his newfound freedom of licensing. And then when I ask for his time, he won’t have it. He’s got a girlfriend. Soon a license. Tons of learning to do. A future job. And a plan to go to U of H Manoa when he's done with school. So I don’t know when I’ll see him again.
Meanwhile, his brother is working full time as a sprinkler fitter. He makes real money. Pays himself an allowance. Saves the rest. He’s got plans, too. And he’s being praised by all his coworkers for the quality and speed of his work. School sure was a struggle for him, but adult big boy work is going so fucking well. I don’t know when I will see him again either.
So I’m fucking morose, okay? I’m broke. But, I did it. I bought my fucking life back with hard work and then I spent all that money on freedom so I could squeeze every free minute of time with them that was possible. I have spent more quality time with my kids than most ever will. And the end result? They are the best people I’ve ever met. I love them so much. They give me purpose. Make me responsible. I work so much harder at being a better person when they are around. I try to make their lives so unique and full of life and fun and laughing and wisdom.
And I don’t know when I’ll see them again. I have no plans made. I don’t even have wisps of plans. I’m going to get absorbed into a house that isn’t mine, working on shit that isn’t mine. Working for three different people on this gig. Just to pull enough scratch to afford first and last and deposit on an apartment somewhere so I can start over. Again. I covered the whole gap of time when the boys were young enough to spend time with me. Just. But now they are casting off and don’t need me anymore. So I have to look after myself. But my heart hurts, guys? I said goodbye to Henry two days ago. I cried. I said goodbye to Finn two hours ago. I cried. I wanted every car on the freeway to smash into me. I want my heart to stop from the caffeine drinks. I want to drink myself to death. I want to have a heart attack while I sleep.
Last night my youngest asked that we go play pinball for the final task. So my sister and I took him out for pinball. We did okay. Won some free games. Laughed. He had a good time. Took an Uber home and my sister was a little schwasty. She doesn’t drink much anymore. I’ve doubled down. And I went to bed and I thought of Love Actually. Enough. Enough now.
Do you guys know why I “graduated” therapy? I’m going to tell you. Because according to not just this last therapist, but every one I’ve ever seen, I don’t need them. I see my life. See my problems. Why I act the way I do. How to make it better. I see other people’s lives. How they got to where they are. I see the shit, man. I see the fixes. I see the pain. I have insight. The last guy said it will always be hard. Because I’m just waiting for the world to catch up. Can you imagine? Saying that to a person? Hey man. You have it figured, pretty much right. Which is why it will be hard. The things you have to work on? Those things exist because you have the sight. The sight is what’s making you miserable. Call me anytime.
I have a really good lesbian boatbuilding friend. I have told you about her. And the other day we were asking each other what our worst fears are. Her worst fear will never come true. And I explained why not. But mine? I told her:
My worst fear is that I am what you all think I am. I have been called an angel. A daywalker. A genius. Weirdly attractive (strangely, I get hit on by a lot of black dudes; got hit on today actually). An empath. A writer. An artist. An excellent lay. A hard worker. “The smartest person I’ve ever met.” A catch. A good dad. A good friend.
That’s my biggest fear. That I’m what you say I am. Because I DO NOT know how to do that. Look at me. I’m broke. Depressed. Surely an alcoholic. Inept. Selfish. Arrogant. And so fucking lazy.
A quick note on arrogance. A woman of my age said she was too drunk to drive home so she asked if she could sleep in my room in the dorms. So I worked the room over (big party with lots of friends) and found a person who would let me sleep in their room so she could sleep in mine. Didn’t think anything of it. And she did. A week or so later, the same thing happened but the room wasn’t available to sleep in so I said she could stay in my room but I would sleep on the floor. Later, while trying to sleep, she leaned over the bed and said, “You’re so stupid.” Turns out she wanted to sleep with me and I fucked up the first time. She was divorced and hadn’t slept with anyone new in 11 years and she wanted help with that. And she said, “You’re so sweet yet just arrogant enough to be attractive without turning me off. And kind.” So I helped her out in that endeavor as I had once been divorced and I know how hard that is. And you might be thinking, you can’t be that bad of a person if she chose you for this. Me too. What the hell even happened?
Guys, maybe I don’t want this. Maybe it’s really fucking hard. She was really grateful. And man, who am I if I didn’t help?
What does it say about me if I can help everyone else but cannot help myself? That I’m human? That I’m a piece of shit? That I deserve to end?
I don’t fucking know anymore.
This FTNY project is a ticker tape of a human losing his mind in real time. Trying to document it all. In the hopes that you won’t feel so alone. God, it is lonely here.
Oh. On the subject of God. I reached out to my mom. We don’t talk. Mostly for about five years. And I reached out. The gist of which was, “don’t God us because we don’t want it.” And for my birthday she sent me scriptures. So I sent her a screenshot of when I asked her not to God us. And she said she was still the same mom. So I asked her to treat religion like her sex life. We don’t care that it’s happening. Super happy for her. Do it up. But we don’t want to know about it. You know what she said? Nothing. The person that made me doesn’t love me enough to stop talking about God in front of me. Yippee-ki-yay, Motherfuckers!
So there we have it. My son is gone. My other son is gone. And I love them enough to be so fucking happy about their goneness. I’m alone. Broke. Desperate. And I might be an angel. Jesus Fuckface Christ. My organs are literally fluttering (Monster and Redbull and Tequila and a Brazilian milk sour are helping out; oh, a bloody mary and morning beer). I’m going to a Regina Spektor concert later tonight with my sister and I hope she plays “Loveology”:
Porcupine-ology, antler-ology
Car-ology, bus-ology
Train-ology, plane-ology
Mama-ology, papa-ology
You-ology, me-ology
Loveology, kiss-ology
Stay-ology, please-ology
Let's study, class
Let's study, class, sit down!
Loveology, loveology
I'm sorry-ology
Forgive me-ology
Loveology, loveology
I'm sorry-ology
Forgive me-ology
Loveology, loveology
Loveology, loveology
Let's study, class
Let's study, class, sit down!
Loveology, loveology
I'm sorry-ology
Forgive me-ology
Loveology, loveology
I'm sorry-ology
Forgive me-ology
Oh, an incurable humanist you are
Oh, an incurable humanist you are
I'm sorry, forgive me
I'm sorry-ology
Forgive me, I'm sorry
Forgive me-ology
Forgive me, forgive me
Forgive me-ology
And there it is. Transcendence.
Nick
Post Motherfucking Script. I didn’t get this done in time to post before the concert. Went. And I have seen her before. She’s an angel. She came out and was bubbly and smily and beautiful and a wonder to behold. And the whole concert was live streamed to hospitals and care homes the world over. For free. Because she wanted it that way. And between songs she would do shout outs to kids that were on the other end. By name. With age. Including something about them. I never saw her read a paper, she just had it locked in. My sister wasn’t familiar with a lot of Regina’s work, but about halfway through the concert my sister says to me, “I really like the way she writes her songs. They are so unique.” And I said, “She writes music like no one is watching.”
I cried through most of the show. Because I realized I can believe she’s an angel and it has nothing to do with what she thinks about herself. And a big part of that is the music she writes. It’s self aware. And she’s not the victim in it. It’s so full of love and hope and quick and pluck and it’s amazing. And that’s how Art should be. It should be the product of someone who is actually Art. And my biggest fear? That people think I’m beautiful enough to see the same way. The same way. So, maybe it isn’t up to me. I didn’t ask for any of this. I’m just trying to be me. Whatever that means. And if someone looks at me and cries and thinks I’m an angel, fuck yes. All day fuck yes. Whether I am or not, they believe it. And that’s incredible. What a thing to have happen. And maybe I’ll fucking live up to it one day.
