September 1st, 2025 - Project

Dear TNY,

“Project” is some real self-important bullshit.

But first, sorry I was late again.  I had to swap both rear half axles on Chuck.  The CVs were clicking something fierce and I had been trying to avoid doing it because my slowly increasing laziness is something I despise in myself, but here it is nonetheless.  I did myself the favor, two weeks ago, of building the new axles out as I carry spares around.  So Monday was spent laying under Chuck and fetching out the old worn axles (CV joints, to be super clear) and installing the premade ones.

But check this shit out.  About 14 years ago, I pulled the axles because the boots were torn.  That process is a little different than what I did Monday in that you have to disassemble, clean, and reassemble everything.  Not just put new joints on.  And it’s difficult, without a press, to take the joints off of the axles.  But I designed a part, complete with drawing, and sent it off to my father to make at his machine shop.  He did.  And mailed it, rather them, to me.  These two mirror image parts interlock and come up underneath the inner race and allow me to pull the joint off with a gear puller.  On Monday, I busted out those pieces again and they worked a treat.  So for a brief minute, I spent the afternoon with my father doing the Lord’s work for Chuck.  Brought my pops back from the dead to have a real father/son moment, but, you know, I was alone.

Anyway, back to this tale. This story possesses nothing of value, really.  The plot is pretentious.  The navel-gazing is atrocious.  Especially how the story progresses from some super douchey position of being a writer and getting asked to write a celebrity’s biography.  Then there’s the important illness of the partner, but it’s so fucking sterile it’s hard to even connect to.  I especially like the ripoff of “In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried” in the form of the MC being excited to escape the hospital.  And then we get existentialism and a switch to pseudo-first person plural perspective and jerk ourselves off to the beauty of our city, which must be NYC (I am too lazy to go back and check), and it just comes off as so out of fucking touch with reality that the whole things feels like a brick-shit that we are glad when it clears the tensile strength of our frazzled anus such that we may flush it to parts unknown and never, and I mean NEVER, fucking think about it again.

But maybe I’m sensitive to this kind of shit lately, that being self-centered cockery. 

Right now I’m faced with a dilemma.  I know a person.  I know how they work.  I’ve been given access to a big portion of their life while I was going through my hard time as well as having access to a therapist.  And I’m a problem solver who likes to help.  So I studied.  And, as I covered with the therapist today, I’ve got this person on lock.  Their patterns.  Causes.  Analysis.  Breakdown.  The whole shebang.  I have witness testimony.  I have a narrative.  And it all checks out.  So, essentially, I could say, “Hey bud, let me tell you a story.”  And that story would be the thing behind the thing for this person.  Here’s why you do this and why you do that, here’s why this is so hard for you, etc.  So the dilemma is:  Do I tell them?

And I don’t think it’s that easy.  The question I have been asked a few times is, “Why do you feel compelled to?”

Great question.  I, like most of you, also exhibit some narcissistic tendencies, but I work on them.  But I’m sure a small part of the pie chart is that I want to be right.  Small small small.  I care for this person as well.  A lot.  If it was one of my kids, I would have already had this conversation.  That’s how important it is.  Also, this person’s life makes me sad.  Like, I feel bad for them that this is how they choose to live.  I could help, you know?  Because right now it’s, as far as I can tell, an ignorant choice.  I don’t think they know.  You know?  How can they change if no one has really broken it down for them?  After that, though, I have NO expectations of change.  In fact, I don’t think it will be heard at all.  But I feel compelled to help if I can help.  And I’m in a unique position to help.  And I care enough to help.  But will it fucking matter?  I don’t know.  So I’m still thinking about it.

Other than that, I’m so so.  There’s one line from this story that is actually good.  And it kind of represents my state.  And Ben’s, really.  And a lot of other people I know.  Well, not a lot.  A few.  And it’s this:  His self-abuse is the product of despair, whereas the community behaves as it does out of ignorance.

That’s me in a nutshell.  I know.  I know.  And that’s why I drink. 

But call me a narcissist.  That’s fine.  I have gone down that road.  And the reality is that a lot of my behavior appears narcissistic on paper.  For sure.  I talked long and hard with the therapist about it.  But just because some of these traits align with the disease doesn’t mean they are exclusive to the disease. 

Today I talked to a woman who was an expert in stained glass.  I’m not.  I explained a project I am working on.  And she laughed a lot and offered really great advice.  And I never thought I was better than her.  She was wonderful.  And she said my plan would work.  But it wasn’t the right way.  But that I’ll save the clients a couple thousand dollars, which is a goal in itself.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.

I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.

I don’t know what life has in store for me.

I don’t know where I’ll find love, or if I will at all.

I don’t know almost everything.  I just don’t fucking know.

But I know who I am and I know the direction I should keep heading in that regard:  Kindness, patience, love, selflessness.

I intend to give myself away, lasses and lads.  Maybe then I’ll be okay.

Until then, see you bitches later.

Nick