Yesterday I got most of our boxes unpacked and put up all the curtains and curtain rods. We took the dogs to the park and I bathed them. I cooked all our meals and did all our dishes. I was tired. I slept a little better because I put Vader in his crate. The dogs have adjusted well to the new place. They are obsessed with marking outside immediately after one another, which led to Vader stepping in his own shit—oh well.

Today I’ll drive to Wells Fargo and get the rent check. We haven’t seen our “landlord,” Sarah, yet, which is nice, I guess. I suspect that our neighbor on our right, Chloe, keeps Sarah away. Chloe is your typical weed-smoking, roller-derby, white girl, complete with two large dogs—one being a pit bull. She’s loud and a bit kooky, but she’s been kind to us so far. She even gave us her wifi when we moved in. Our neighbor on our left is an older woman, maybe in her 50s. She’s quiet and nice.

My body is sore from all the moving and walking, but I’ll get used to it. Moving a lot is a good problem to have. Our backyard is a great place to stretch and work out. I just have to keep the piss hosed down. Maybe we could put a weight rack eventually. There are many “possibilities” for this place. Once the couch and internet are here, the place will be complete. Once we get those e-bikes, the city will be much more explorable. Having a car is nice, but it’s not as necessary as in OC. I still can’t believe I have skateboards in 2025. I would never have guessed. There’s a lot about this year I am already thankful for. Even this quiet San Diego morning spent drinking coffee and journaling at my kitchen table.

-A.S.

Buy me a coffee?

This is my first journal entry from the new apartment! We have everything all moved in! We forgot a few things at Julia’s dad’s, but that’s okay. We will slowly build a home. Most things are still in boxes. We brought Vader and Jacques last night, so it was their first stay in the new place. They seem to enjoy the backyard! They’re slowly figuring out the doggy door. I see the apartment coming together nicely. I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’ll be okay. I just couldn’t turn my brain off. There’s just so much to do. Luckily, all we have to do is fun work. We’re just getting the apartment together and, at some point, paying rent.

Side note, I have to put my phone away or else I’ll keep checking it for deliveries, my bank, social media, etc. I have to force myself to put down these words. It’s my morning reflection.

— I didn’t like driving back to Brian’s with Julia yesterday because I felt something would happen and I’d be stuck in OC again. I just want to be here, away from my “home” for a bit. I wanted an adventure. I think Julia did too. I am excited to get to know this neighborhood and feel a part of the community — I’m excited for Padres Baseball, checking out the food/shops, making new friends, the local live music scene, and just relaxing at home.

I’ve already been to a local bar on NYE, rode my skateboard multiple times, and walked for morning coffee. 2025 is great so far! It’s the little things I love. We’re getting e-bikes and a new TV too, all gifts! I am incredibly grateful to have this life. What if I got everything I wanted? What if it all works out?

-A.S.

Thanks for reading! Sharing is the best FREE way to help this publication!

Share

Want to do more? Donate to the book I’m writing and buy me a coffee!

Buy me a coffee!

Last night was my last shift at Blick Pasadena. I thought I’d be more emotional, but I wasn’t. I am too excited for a new adventure. After my shift, I met people at Kings Row as a goodbye party. I got some gifts from Mariam, and paintings from Bryan, Clara, and BMO. Mike, Emily, Michael, Josue, and some more Blick crew showed up. I felt the love. I had …

Read more

Last night we had a get-together with all our OC friends for one last going-away party. Even BMO made the drive out! We met at Everywhere Brewing and had some BBQ and baked goods. There were lots of laughs; it felt good. None of “my friends,” with the exception of BMO, came out. I know most of them are LA people, so it’s okay. I still feel like my guy friends here were kind of... flakes. Oh well, new friends in San Diego.

My new GM, Beth, called me yesterday to work out some scheduling and just say hello. She seems nice. I actually start work on the 7th, so I’ve got plenty of time for unpacking, getting the place set up, and relaxing.

Julia is stressed about money, and I understand. She just wants to find a job, and when she does her stress will go away almost completely. She will be worried about Cleo, but there’s not much I can do about that. I will miss her too.

I’m scared because I feel I’m making the right decision in moving, but who knows. San Diego is beautiful and the job seems good, the place is great, the neighborhood is cool. Julia is twenty-five, I think she deserves to know what living away from family is like. I think the adventure is worth it.

I know Julia will find a job quickly. She’s hard-working, smart, and beautiful. I worry about money too, but I don’t spend much besides on food. I should be careful with that.

I need to be really organized with our shared calendar, money, planning fun things for us to do, etc. I just want Julia to be happy. She deserves to be happy. I think together we can be our happiest selves. Life will always be crushing and sad, but moments with Julia make it easier. I love her and just want to make her proud.

Want to do more? Perhaps donate to the book I’m writing? Or keep me alive with coffee?

Buy me a coffee!

This new notebook comes at quite an interesting time. We are moving from Yorba Linda to San Diego. Julia and I have both lived in Orange County our whole lives. It’s going to be a new chapter for us. It’s been stressful, but we can figure out anything. We’re ready to start our new adventure on Louisiana Street. — My mind wanders so much when I do these journal entries lately. I have to force myself to keep writing instead of daydreaming. I wake up with my mind racing most days and it takes a lot to focus myself. The coffee gives me warmth and energy and if I’m not careful, I can zone out for ten minutes at a time. — I’m not worried about my new boss, “Beth”, but it is nerve-racking not knowing what kind of boss she is or how much she will expect from me. I want to impress, but I am playing the long game now. I will look for better jobs and apply as I find them. Blick was just a great way to get to San Diego, but I don’t think they’re going to give me the GM position any time soon. — Last night I met Julia at a holiday party in Yorba Linda after my closing shift. It was at Jess’ parents’ house. We met Jess at Pappy & Harriets back when we saw Mild Life. A bunch of people from Stereo Brewing recognized us and said hello. Anyway, the party was at a huge house, and everyone was nice. David has known Jess since high school, apparently. Julia had a blast. She seemed so happy. Jess and I talked about how she’s trying to cut back on booze. I had fun, but I was tired and left about midnight. Julia stayed. Not sure when she got home.

Share Opener

Buy me a coffee?

“He [Freud] was haunted by death anxiety all his life, and admitted that not a day went by that he did not think about it”. - Ernest Becker

I’m avoiding again. I pick up forgotten toys that keep my wallet intact. The scent of newness no longer holds. My heroes have always run towards what they feared most. I will do the same. I am swimming against a ripping current of words that do not come easily.

Death.

Finality.

Impermanence.

I have relived my father’s accident enough times to fear the twisting metal and screeching tires no longer.

The carnies’ shadowy faces are illuminated; scowls are replaced with aching. Death finds us all equal. The terror is in the sudden end. A real death you don’t see coming.

Chance.

Impartial.

Looming.

What does a ten-year-old believe happens to his father? Does death have a taste?

Fantasy.

Dread.

Illusion.

I was caught in this consistent loop of questioning reality and what it means to be alive while simultaneously trying to push past the limitations of my human perception and understand what it feels like to be dead.

Neurosis.

Obsession.

Crutch.

Twenty-two years later and my father dies each day in my mind. The book keeps his loop intact. His loop will only flatten when my own death strikes. It will come for me and those I love and when it does I will think, “Ah, there it is.”

Buy me a coffee?

Can’t buy me a coffee? A share or comment helps just as much!

Share

Leave a comment

Buy me a coffee

Thank you to everyone who tuned into my live video! Join me for my next live video in the app.

Get more from Andrew Sanyshyn in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Read more

“The idea that sleep is a waste of time is still deeply embedded in our culture, along with our commitment to achievement, doing, and material success”.

-J. Allan Hobson

At six in the morning, my dog woke me up and we went for a walk up the hill, past the old Victorian homes and treatment centers east of my apartment. I wore my black checkered pajama pants, worn in rainbow sandals, and my “Picasso Bulls” shirt that, due to stains, has been demoted.

At seven, I did some reading in the living room and decided at about eight o’clock that I would drive up the 163 North to the rock climbing gym. Julia was asleep in bed, recovering from a head cold that had lingered since our camping trip to Agua Caliente.

When I arrived back home, I meal prepped and left for work, barely making it for my closing shift in Point Loma.

It’s 9:16 PM now, and I find myself alone in the kitchen writing.

I have already spent thirty minutes “tidying up”. My dog Jacques lies on the heated blanket in the reading nook. I will make dinner soon. At this moment, I feel I have squeezed enough effort out of the day.

I sit here typing away, hopeful that I am working towards a nine-to-five of my own design. It’s out there just past where you can see.

How long have I been digging?

If exhaustion led to success, I’d be there already. The dishes have been dried and put away. I should delete all these words and go to bed. It only matters if I want it to.

During an argument years ago, I threw this laptop and now it’s permanently bent at one end, causing a rocking motion when I type. I fell off my skateboard drunk one day and now a bone on my right shoulder pokes out higher than the other side.

Is this enough?

Make my dreams come true?

The hardest part about writing a journal entry is trying not to make the whole thing negative. The purge is important. Putting it down takes the weight off my chest.

Last night I woke up in bed, the whole room dark except for a strip of light coming through the corner of a curtained window. Julia was a…

Read more

I woke up today with a plan: get a smog check for my registration and look at suits for my wedding at the end of the month. Julia left for work and I forced myself to be productive. Yesterday’s motivation carried on into today. Before I left the house I turned on the heated blanket for Jacques.

My car was parked up the street. Inside, it smelled of mildew. A cooler full of melted ice spilled as we left Agua Caliente, soaking the backseat. I turned the car on and rolled down the windows.

The smog place was just around the corner and when I turned, the attendant was guiding me in. He said to leave my car on. The car still smelled of mildew. It was embarrassing, but I figured it would be two years before I’d be back. My car passed, and I left to scope out some suits.

I hadn’t shopped in a mall in over ten years, but not much had changed. The department stores all smelled the same. There were more clearance racks than I remembered. I found a suit jacket in no time and figured I could order the rest online.

Walking around the mall always reminds me of my grandma Diana. She was classy and modern all at once. When I was younger, she used to work at the mall back home. My mother also worked there at one time.

Shopping for my wedding suit alone was not necessarily sad, but I did miss my grandmother and felt back for my biological father. He never married, and he would never see his son marry. These were the results of his own actions, and yet they are affecting me long after his death.

I went home, made some food, and took a nap with my dog. I awoke to Julia texting me that she was off work and would be home soon. I made myself an espresso and put in some eye drops.

Julia made tea, and we sat together on the couch talking about the wedding and making plans for the future. I rubbed her feet while we talked. She’s on the couch now, relaxing after a busy day at work. Our dog is on the heated blanket in the reading nook, snoring away.

I’m here, typing towards a dream I have and hoping that one day all these moments find creative significance in my work. These journal entries scare me because I never know which side of myself will come out. Today seems optimistic. Maybe looking back, I’ll have a greater understanding of how I felt.

Perhaps my children will read this and feel closer to me. I wish I could read about my grandmother’s life. I wish I could read my father’s journals, but I doubt he ever kept one. The only thing I’ve read of his was a letter to his mother and stepfather stating he was running away to live with his biological father, and a note to my mother stating he was going to the grocery store. He wasn’t a great speller, and he didn’t have the best handwriting, but I wouldn’t have pointed it out to him.

-A.S.

Buy me a coffee?

Share Opener

Leave a comment

Read more

Over the past week, Julia and I have been watching a Netflix series called “Untold”. It focuses on interesting and personal stories relating to sports of all kinds. The stories are engrossing and often times showcase a common theme, going farther than anyone would have expected through dedication. The result can be uplifting or terrifying. The best ones are the former.

The series is motivating in a way that makes me feel like a failure. I’m watching these people dedicate themselves completely to their personal goals without regard for anything else. They know that doing so will be selfish and hard on those around them, they know that they’ll miss family and friend obligations, but they are unflinching in their determination. It’s hard not to measure myself up to their success when I know in my heart I am not putting everything I can into my dreams and goals. I am currently four months into writing my first book, the one that has haunted me since my father’s accident. I’ve had a journal since about the age ten. I always wanted to be a writer and tell this story. But when I really look at myself, I am not dedicated. At least, not how I’d want to be.

I should be working on this book for an hour a day minimum. And yet, I can’t seem to set aside time for it. My drive is not there. I do not have the mental toughness to be selfish in the face of the normal obligations of daily life. I find myself in an endless cycle of cooking, eating, doing dishes and cleaning. When I do have time for myself, I find myself trying to take a nap or mindlessly scrolling on my phone. The mental load it takes to write this story of my father’s death and how my ten year old mind was altered into believing in divine intervention has taken a toll.

I want to be tough enough. I want to set aside the time and push everything else away. I have no guarantee this book will be picked up by a publisher. I have no guarantee that it will sell if it does. What I do know is that if I do not finish this book, it will eat me alive. If I do not write something I’m proud of, it will haunt me.

Watching these sports documentaries makes me realize how little I am willing to risk to be successful. It makes me realize I’ve prioritized temporary comfortability over enduring happiness. It’s motivating seeing people beat the odds, but it’s also humiliating for the ego if I take an honest look at my life. It hurts to say but I am not proud of who I am right now. Yes, I have overcome a lot so far and worked on myself and even outlived my father, but those are checkpoints, not the finish line.

Knowing I am capable of more and only being held back by nothing other than myself is a terrifying realization. I have worked so hard to silence the voice in my head that calls me a failure. I live my life attempting to minimize panic attacks and the shame that comes with them. In this effort to soothe and protect my mind I have also become soft.

Comparison is the thief of joy, but also a motivator for success.

-A.S.

Buy me a coffee?

Share Opener

Leave a comment

In a little over a month, I’ll be marrying Julia. There’s still a lot to do, but for some reason, I am not worried. There’s a part of me that knows on the day we are finally married, it will be a feeling of, “finally!” She and I already act like a married couple, and there’s really no way in which we aren’t bonded besides the actual ritual and governmen…

Read more

Read more

Last night I shot five people dead. Luckily, it was only a dream. Their home was a colonial two-story on the cliffs. The light lay straight as a sheet. All the windows were open and no breeze entered. In its absence, a slow sucking draft pulled backwards out of the home.

My breath was calm as I entered each well-lit room with the door ajar. Each member of the family screamed at the top of their lungs. I stood in front of the bed, raised my revolver, and shot without hesitation at the flailing body before me. The pop of the gun did not make my eyes flinch or shut, nor did I smell the gunpowder or feel the sparks fly on my face. When they were completely still, I dragged each by the ankle to the top of the stairs. There was no weight to the bodies, and no sweat came as I threw them over the edge of the railing onto the white tile below. I repeated this for mother, father, sister, brother, and infant, watching each settle upon the body before them on the cold flat ground.

Another painting I’d soon forget.

I exited the home and climbed into my car parked in the middle of the cul-de-sac. I took one last look at the house on the bluffs and for the first time, felt a breeze hit the back of my neck through the downed windows of my vehicle.

I watched a car pull into the driveway of the house. The driver bounced cheerily out and slammed the door shut to alert his family that he was finally home.

In four seconds, he is going to have an image burned into his mind that will haunt him until he dies. In three seconds, he is going to feel the sting of it. In two seconds, he is going to wish he hadn’t stopped for milkshakes at the halfway point. In one second, he is going to find out what that curious red pile is through the refracted glass of the front door.

He stands before them in the open doorway, and I have driven away.

Leave a comment

Buy me a coffee?

I am conscious of the fact that there is no way not to be performative. Someone I know could read this. Someone I don’t know could read this. There’s a delicate balance of knowing how much to reveal. Who really cares about this anyway? What a silly thing of me to believe that someone cares enough about my writing to make a judgment. I tell myself I do t…

Read more

We got our first computer when I was eight years old. It sat on the floor with my parents’ mattress. The dial-up sound was like a foreign language. My mother and I laughed at it. We put in an AOL disc and sent my grandma an email. In her response, she included “:-)”. It blew my mind.

When I was about ten, we upgraded and moved the computer into my bedroom. It was the era of point-and-shoot digital cameras. I took my first selfie at that desk and was sure to include the desktop computer to show I was with the times. My stepfather tried putting a parental blocker on the internet, but my mother got tired of my whining and gave me the password.

The internet back then was just a collection of things. Whatever you wanted, you found. Nothing was hidden by algorithms yet.

At twelve, I gained the complete freedom of a skateboard. My mother was happy to let me hit the streets and be gone for hours. We’d skate alleys and drainage ditches until thirst led us to someone’s house. Older brothers in these houses would get us high and drunk for the first time.

They thought it was hilarious to show us videos of people being beheaded and other things children shouldn’t see.

I was scared of pornography because it looked like the women were being hurt.

I remember an older brother, about sixteen, inviting us into the backyard to swim and share some beer.

He was with a girl who was about the same age. She wore a light blue bikini and had dark, wavy hair. He took her by the hand, and they went into his pool house to have sex. She came out by herself and sat next to me, and we shared a cigarette. I didn’t know how to inhale, and she laughed at me in that loving way that didn’t make me feel insecure. She kicked our reflection in the pool with her painted toenails.

It was the era of Jackass, MTV Cribs, and the aftermath of the September 11 attacks. Violence was not uncommon to see on television, but the internet was still wilder.

We spent all day making our own skate videos. We didn’t feel the eyes of the world upon us yet. It made us laugh, and that was enough.

Everyone sees everything now. The reader can imagine me however they want.

The internet has never been a safe place, but it once felt like a secret.

-A.S.

Share

Buy me a coffee?

Mona Lisa never smiled.

People thought it meant something.
A mystery.
A secret.

She knew.

Kings rise.
Kings fall.

Money moves.
Power changes hands.

Wars begin
with the same explanations
they have always had.

Someone says the world is ending.
Someone else says it already did.

Still, the rooms fill.
Still, the arguments start.

Mona Lisa never smiled.

-00/00/0000

I'm tired. Buy me a coffee?

I’ve reached the point in writing this book where I no longer read for pleasure. I gave myself until the end of March for “Research.” It includes reading, mailing off my saliva in hopes of finding family, and writing letters to the man my father hit in the accident that killed him.

I am collecting moments.

I’ve gone back to all the books that changed my life, the ones that made me want to tell a story. When my life flashes before my eyes, I hope it’s the director’s cut.

I’ve collected my whole life, and I’m ready for “The Outline”. All of my notes, highlights, journals from childhood, drug-induced moments like the toilet bowl liner when I was sixteen that told me, “First pull up, then pull down.” It all makes its way to notecards. I’ll organize them by theme and hope the story tells itself. There will be sleight of hand, but no magic. “The Real Work” comes next.

How can I be loved if I haven’t decided who I am?

I keep collecting anyway.

-A.S.

Share Opener

Buy me a coffee?

Nightmares patrol the periphery, hot on the scent of guilt. The phantom stands guard bedside, ready to drag me to hell. I sold my soul in place of the innocent.

“Dear Phantom, is hell anguish unending?”

“What else could it be?” he leaked.

The foundation buckles, dismissive of the stucco patchwork.

Joan Didion knows the difference; I do not.

If the devil gri…

Read more