January 12th, 2026 - Deal-Breaker
Dear TNY,
I’m back baby! With “Deal-Breaker”.
Yeah, I thought about never writing these letters again, or taking a break. The year in review took it out of me. And then I realized that when everyone is going left, right is probably the correct choice. And if everyone is going left and right, I’ll take up, thank you very much. We’ll talk more about that later.
First, the story. The writing was clean enough that I read it all. But it wasn’t compelling. The protagonist leads us to believe her parents are going to be shitty to her if they find out she’s dating, dating a non-Jewish man, and that that man has been divorced. Cool. But then the parents are super cool with it. So where’s the conflict? Pam just made it up? Possibly not because her parents have always been shitty, we imagine though we cannot see, so this was a change. Great. But, for the reader, who isn’t Pam, the conflict dissipated so where is our interest supposed to live?
Then we see the boyfriend. Seems like a nice guy. They discuss how to get Pam to meet his daughter. She doesn’t listen to him when he suggests things that they should do to meet, insisting on having an activity instead. So she comes up with the museum and he agrees. Then she paints this whole picture of how it’s going to go and she’s so happy, right? But then the schedules get fucked and lo and behold on the day it’s supposed to happen…it doesn’t. Because his ex has had an injury and he’s going to stay around to help his daughter deal with it. A very fucking reasonable thing to do. Well, Pam loses her mind because why? Can’t figure that out. Because it wasn’t about her? Seems like it. And then later, when she talks to her parents about it, her reason is he is committed to his child and ex? The parents agree this is good. I agree. It is fucking good.
What was this guy supposed to do, be a fucking monster? Blow his ex wife off and not help though it was an emergency? Steal his kid away knowing she’d just be worried about her mom? What the fuck, Pam? Where’s your understanding? Where’s your empathy? Where’s your sense of self-awareness? Not there? Cool. I guess dating in your fifties has been so spectacular that you aren’t interested in being with a guy who is going to put the people he loves first in his life, and that means you if you stick around long enough to see it through. Instead, you’ll throw a shitfit, pout, and then go home to your parents to complain.
Cool story, TNY. If the point of the story was to make an unlikable protagonist, bingo was her fucking name-o. If you think this story shows any kind of transcendence or makes empathy in the reader, I’d love to meet that reader and find out where their understanding is. Where their self-awareness is.
Anyway, I decided to keep writing for now.
I went to the wedding. It was beautiful, actually. Small, cozy, every single person danced but me. And there was so much love in the room. And the wife’s vows were amazing. She said one line that really got me. “I love you more and more each day, the proof being I cannot recall a single day where I loved you less.” That’s the ticket guys. That’s the goal. That’s real love and not infatuation. That love carries people through storms and earthquakes and cancer and infidelity and car accidents and job loss and physical altercations and all the horseshit that life throws at us. And love that meets and beats those struggles is what will allow for golden afternoons with your buddy, not doing a goddamn thing, but knowing that this is the best it’s going to get, being with your life buddy and knowing they have your back and you have theirs. And those two at the wedding have definitely struggled, particularly with distance. But they seem to pressing forward in a really fucking beautiful way. It was really nice to see something like that through the porthole of my own darkness.
And speaking of taking the road less traveled from earlier in this letter, I wanted to talk about travel today. I was asked by a stranger yesterday, “Where are you from?” I said I didn’t know. Then he said, “Well, where do you live?” And I said, “Right here, right now.” He laughed. And then said, “Where did you come from before this?” And I took a long time to answer. Because, sure, I knew. But I saw the question more deeply. And here was 2025, to the best of my ability to remember:
Lincoln City, OR
Tacoma, WA
Portland, OR
Burns, OR
Spencer Hot Springs, OR
St. George, UT
Grand Canyon Village, AZ
Phoenix, AZ
Tombstone, AZ
Reserve, NM
Gallup, NM
Durango, CO
Grand Junction, CO
Taberg, NY
Grand Junction, CO
Portland, OR
Walla Walla, WA
Tacoma, WA
San Diego, CA
Seattle, WA
Grand Junction, CO
Ontario, OR
Portland, OR
Tacoma, WA
Portland, OR
Lincoln City, OR
Cape Lookout, OR
Astoria, OR
Tacoma, WA
Chimacum, WA
Tacoma, WA
Seattle, WA
Port Townsend, WA
Tacoma, WA
Port Angeles, WA
Tacoma, WA
Seattle, WA
Tacoma, WA
Portland, OR
Tacoma, WA
Seattle, WA
Walla Walla, WA
Seattle, WA
Taberg, NY
Seattle, WA
Tacoma, WA
Walla Walla, WA
Grand Junction, CO
Taberg, NY
Boston, MA
Some of those places were only overnight. Some of them I drove to. Some I flew to. Some I stayed in Chuck. Some were AirBnBs. Some hotels. Some with friends, lovers, family.
Jesus fucking Christ, guys. How the fuck am I supposed to heal or find any sort of stability in my life if that’s just one fucking year. So I talked to my therapist about this, and brought up how much I travelled. And he asked me how much of that travel was for me. This is a hard question, mind you, because I’m always moving my body so at least part of it is about me. But…most of it wasn’t. I spent most of the year doing shit for other people or being there for other people. Which is a blessing, as long as the people give a shit about the time I give. But where was I in there? Where were the people that moved time and space for me? And there were some. Really, just one. For just a little bit. Four days. But that’s it.
So, regardless of what’s happening everywhere else, what’s happening here, where I live, which is me, I live in me, it’s pretty fucking isolating.
The other thing that blew me away was…how did I fucking afford all that? I haven’t borrowed money. I’m not holding credit debt. I have started working a little bit more. But holy hell where did all that money come from?!
Anyway, I brought up rehab to the therapist and he once again does not think it’s needed. And he gave me reasons. And they are pretty sound. He said if maybe I 1) had someone to do this adventure with or 2) settled down a bit and did shit for myself, I wouldn’t need substances so much. I believe that. The times I have had either of those things, my life has been better. I think I’ve just put my life on hold for a while and this is the result. So, I’m looking into other things now. We’ll see how it goes. Right now it’s hot, moist, I’m in Hawaii, I had a good day yesterday, and I’m crapping out the remnants of delicious poké. I’m going climbing this afternoon. Have a little walk in front of me. I feel appreciated. I feel seen. I feel like I matter. I still feel very unwell, but I feel like knowing that and trying each day matters. The struggle is the growth. The alternative, not knowing and/or doing or trying the wrong shit every day seems like it would be doom. Or at least a waste of these precious years we get here.
So, there you go.
Also, I love you. Thanks for sticking with me. Year nine, one letter in the books.
Nick
P.S. I just did the math and on average I travelled somewhere every 7.3 days. That's…holy shit.
