I’ve encountered a conundrum recently, one that you yourself may or may not have encountered before as well. I’ll say it plain, as there’s no point in dancing around to cushion the blow . . .

Let the record show first that I mean in no shape or form any sort of ingratitude: I’ve enjoyed each and every one of my experiences in their own way, according to their due portion, albeit, I’ll grant, with the sort of nescience incumbent to youth. If anything, what I’ll proceed to detail here indicates only problems within, as evidenced by the fact of their beginning and transpiring mostly when I was out there on my own, in search of some airy and intangible dream, instilled likely by Disney itself.

So here it is, reader:

Vacations are sometimes miserable.

There it is; I said it.

Now, before you get to makin’ assumptions, please note that there are many caveats, things I must add to this assertion to make it complete and accurate.

You’ll notice, first, that I included the term “sometimes.” That is because I do not believe vacations in and of themselves are miserable. Indeed, I’ve enjoyed many a vacation (thanks only to my parents) during which I had many good times and made many good memories. I could and should only be grateful. As a matter of fact, this noted misery came about only after adolescence, when I was closer to financial independence.

What I mean is to point out the fact that there are certain conditions, some internal and some external, that can render a vacation—something that is supposed to be a sort of pinnacle—utterly not close in the slightest to anything paradisical.

So you don’t get it twisted, here is what I think about vacations in and of themselves: I think vacations are awesome. When done properly, I think they are in many ways right up there with everything life is all about.

But when approached improperly, in the style that so many do today, they can be not just underwhelming, like a sort of expired, weak medicine, but debasing and demoralizing, since they can fool one into thinking life is empty, on account of the fact that the experience one thought would lead to a reprieve from his or her daily suffering at whatever job he or she despises did not in fact lead to any sort of relief,1 and indeed led to a feeling that was just about the opposite, particularly because he or she was so let down.

I say all this now, by the way, because I am trying to plan a vacation myself, but am struggling, because, having embarked on many foolish journeys before, I see just how impractical and potentially dire an attempt it might be.

But why? That is the question. Why would my journeying to the ocean, for instance, where there are palm trees and sharks and all that goodness, not lead me to the utmost level of happiness? I see two reasons.

Foremost is the fact that, as has long been the case, I am in no financial position to take such a trip.

Now, you must understand this here, because it is crucial: I could afford the trip, kind of. I could venture to the edge of my country, and stay in some cheap something or other, and save money by eating ramen, and walk around hither and thither, laying my towel on the beach for a couple of hours, then purchasing an ice cream come sunset.

But I could not travel in luxury, nor with complete peace of mind, unless I had a way to make money while I was at it (which, of course, would undermine the point of the trip), and I could not afford to do the things I’d like to do—like renting a boat —unless I wanted to dig into my savings. And God forbid I got stung by a jellyfish, or attacked by any one of those monstrosities, as I’d be in medical debt for the next decade.

The point I mean to make here is that taking such a trip, though potentially fun, would likely set me back in a way that may lead me to a state of regret, wishing I’d spent my time in another, more intelligent way. Money matters, you see, once you get a little past whatever age . . . If I were 19 or 20 again, doing some wackadoodle shit might be exactly what I need; but seeing I am 26, and have already done a bunch of wackadoodle shit, what I need—what would be good for me—is a little different.

Of course, vacations are destined to cost money, to not necessarily generate a positive ROI, so to speak; such endeavors will always set one back on paper. But what matters is the proportion, or ratio, or better yet, that the resources one uses to pay for it be taken from what’s flowing in. Because, like sharks, humans must keep moving forward; a vacation is simply not optimally enjoyable if it costs any more than 5% (I don’t know, probably less than 1% is ideal) of your net worth—although maybe this is just me getting older.

Now, money problems alone are not enough to deter me. I reckon if I had a little less dinero they would, but I’m relatively comfortable right now, and could feasibly justify such an endeavor. The second reason a vacation might suck is the fact of its inevitable solitude.

If I were to take this trip with friends, it’d be well worth it for the most part—unless I were to travel with my degenerate party home-slices who think fun is inebriation—because good company in paradise always leads to good times, even and perhaps especially (at least for dudes) if you and your company spend that time in a shack. As it stands, however, I’d be taking this trip alone, more or less.

The problem with taking a trip alone is that you’ve got to have a good and clear reason for doing so: you’ve got to have an objective. Because if you go somewhere without an objective—even if that objective is merely to explore, or to relax—you’ll quickly find yourself aimless.2 It’s for this reason that in the movies they always ask the foreigner whether they’ve come for business or for pleasure . . . If you’re not there to make money, and you’re not there to spend it, then you ought to be elsewhere. That’s the way the world works.

The nice thing about being with friends on a trip is that at the very least, when worst comes to worst, the dumbest person will suggest an objective, likely a very stupid one, and you’ll have something to do, despite its stupid nature, and, indeed, this stupid thing could and very often does become a funny, however regrettable story. But when you’re out in the world alone, there tend not to be said goofballs present to suggest such things, and you’re left to create your own objectives.

This can be a good thing, maybe even exactly what you need, depending on your nature and your circumstances. Maybe you’ve been so consumed with life and its means for so long a time that what you need is a little bit of aimlessness, a little bit of boredom, time for your mind to wander and be child-like again. But if you’re already a lost soul, what you likely need is structure, which tends not to be readily available on such endeavors.

I must add here that it very well could be the case that I am just bad at being bored nowadays—that I’ve forgotten how to play—that I’m too objective-oriented, or too focused on worldly things . . . Indeed, as my family knows, I suffer a great deal when I’m not doing something that I feel moves me forward in one way or another. I don’t much like sitting still (i.e., “relaxing”), and I certainly don’t like moving backward, unless absolutely necessary. This is likely symptomatic of a deeply-rooted psychological shortcoming, but I am too impatient to address it at the moment.

Nevertheless, you can see that it is for this second reason, compounded with the first, that a trek out into the world might result in misery.

I ought to add here, too, that for one reason or another, the things you find enjoyable tend to increase in expense the older you get. While a group of six-year-olds may contentedly occupy themselves with a sandcastle for several hours, a group of 30-year-olds likely couldn’t, unless they were inebriated, or thought the whole thing a joke . . .

But as long as the world remains inhabitable, you’ll [hopefully] not see a group of 30-year-old men constructing a series of towers with colorful plastic boxes in earnest. If it were a common sight, Step Brothers wouldn’t be so damn funny.

I have witnessed primarily in my life and secondarily in the lives of those around me that one can live two different ways: for the present, and for the future. We all do both; it’s more a matter of ratios.

Generally, when one is oriented towards the future, there is present pain, and pleasure down the road; when one is oriented towards the present, there is pleasure at the current, and pain later on. Of course, this is an oversimplification . . . but what I mean to say is that the best pleasures are those that become good memories rather than future regrets.

With respect to vacations, what does this all mean? Does it mean that any and all travel, on account of its pleasurable nature, should be avoided at all costs?

Obviously not. But it does mean vacations ought to be earned, and then treated with the respect they’re due.

Vacations are not for inebriation, nor for any other mindless indulgence. Vacations are a means of elevation—a sort of cherry on top of an already good life. Vacations are for reading books, and catching dawns, and scrumptious breakfasts, and midday floats, followed by afternoon siestas. Vacations are for pickleball tournaments, boat rides and scuba dives, reeling in monsters, and cooking them over campfires.

It’s all about working hard, playing freely, and living well.

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It’s been some time since I’ve been able to focus in the way that I’ve been able to focus for the past two hours. Something about this novel environment has freed me from the temptation to stop my writing session prematurely.

I am certain that part of it is the fact that in coming downtown Chicago, breaking myself from the routine to which I am daily bound, I have uplifted my mind from all worldly duty. Unlike the case on a typical day, I do not feel compelled to leave by a certain time, so that I can make lunch by a certain time, so that I can get to work on the yard by a certain time, so that I can get to the gym by a certain time, so that I can get to my job by a certain time. I am, instead, completely anonymous, bound to nothing at all.

I’ve been planning a day like this for a while; I’ve known I needed it, for various reasons:

First, everyone requires a bit of novelty in their life here and there. Aside from intermittent away games and several evening trips to the city this spring, the last time I left my bubble was in March for a short ski trip. Which was certainly fun . . . but I was sick, and not in nearly as comfortable a financial situation as I’m in today. Not to mention, we skied the whole time, meaning that I didn’t have much time to sit around and do nothing, like I do today.1

Second, as already noted, some part of me has been well aware but voluntarily oblivious to the fact that my focus has been waning, I suspect at least partly because I’ve not been giving myself the time and space to write.

It’s understandable, considering I’ve been working more than I ever have (i.e., a standard number of weekly hours) and putting effort into the yard and the garden. I know life comes in stages and seasons; I’ve acknowledged within that these recent months (and likely the coming months) will simply be less dedicated to writing than I’d like (although it’s always a lie to tell yourself you’ll have more time in the future). It feels good to get these things done, off my plate, to relieve my awareness of their weight.

That said, I suspect there is another reason my focus has been waning. Which—I now see—is the fact of my routine. While routine is good and can lead to success and progress and all that jazz, it is a surefire way, if done in excess, to live a forgetful life. Meaning that, while I’ve got a good many things to write about (far more than I actually have the time for), my routine has left me unenriched, uninspired, nutrient-deficient. I do not feel as excited to write, I hypothesize both because I’ve got less “material” to work with and because something about the predictability of my days compels me to want to get out of the cafe, into the less predictable world.

Frankly, though I’ve been enjoying life recently, it has all started to become a tad bland. Not in any way shape or form because I live at home, with my family, but because I don’t ever do anything I don’t ever do. My day is more or less completely predictable; before getting out of bed, I could tell you just about every single little thing that’s going to happen.

I’m certain many relate.

Since first writing this, I have made several more efforts to break myself free of routine. Last night, I went fishing. This past weekend, I took a trip up to a lake with my friends for the Fourth of July. I took few pictures because I was busy enjoying my time.

All of this reminds me of hearing from I-don’t-remember-where how those in relationships must make non-stop efforts to surprise their lover with some display of affection in order to keep the fire between them alight. It seems it is the case in a similar vein that one must make similar efforts to intentionally imbue one's own life with novelty if they want to maintain the flame with which they were born.

You may have heard before that Henry David Thoreau once wrote that “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” I suspect, having experienced such desperation myself before—and having been relieved of it by setting myself free from routine (and utilizing several other sober methods)—one of the main reasons this is the case is the fact that most men lead lives of soul-sucking routine, most always in the name of career success or stability. Of course, career success is good, but because it most always requires one to lead such mundane and forgettable days, it frequently leads one down a path of some sort of addictive behavior, since such engagements are the only way for one to either numb this unpinpointable pain or to feel something.

I’m glad I see this all now, although I reckon it’s never too late to make a change.

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It’s been over a month since I’ve posted. I’m fine with that, because I made the decision a month or two ago to free my mind of deadlines so I could create without pressure. It seems to have been working—I’ve got some good stuff coming, I hope.

In the meantime, I wrote this Note today that I’d like to share with you all, since most of my readers don’t spend much time on that part of Substack. It’s preachy, I know, and I don’t normally share things like this, but something about it surprised me as I was writing it. It’s not particularly insightful or wise; in fact, it is in a way that sort of redundant advice nobody wants to hear from the person they least want to hear it from. At the same time, it is not a philosophy by which most walk. So I have no choice but to send this to your inbox.

My generation seems not to understand what I detail below . . . we seem to have been convinced of a narrative in which life peaks in college or at 22, or 25, or whenever, and then steadily degenerates into oblivion. Of course, that’s not to say life is easy, nor even that it gets in any way, shape, or form easier—I know aging is hard, and I know life is hard—but that there is much to look forward to after childhood and adolescence, so long as one works hard for it.

It’s a short couple of paragraphs. My letters tend not to get too much interaction in the comments, but I’d love to hear what anyone thinks of this . . . whether you agree, or disagree, or would adjust the sentiment hither or thither a tad.

Enjoy!

I’m not sure why this has become so taboo, but the fact is that happiness must be earned. In other words, you must work very hard if you want to be happy, and if you want peace of mind.

Certainly, you can meditate all you want, and you can accept life and the world as it is and all that jazz—and I’m not saying you shouldn’t—but the reality is that you cannot think your way through bills, nor an unhealthy body, nor a disorganized home.

The older I get, the clearer it becomes that building a good life is very much a slow and steady matter, brick by brick, as they say. Most people are not anxious or depressed or whatever; they simply haven’t done what they should have been doing for years on end. . . . meaning that they must work and sacrifice to change the state of their reality.

Contrary to what seems to be popular opinion nowadays, there is no magical pill for happiness. You’re stressed and upset because you’re living paycheck to paycheck, and would be significantly impacted by a popped tire. You’re anxious because you’re out of shape, but aren’t doing what you know you need to do to change it. You’re down because you haven’t kept up with your friends, since you thought they were the ones who were supposed to reach out to you.

These things take time to address—and everyone knows, deep down, that they must be addressed.

The reason most often people don’t address them is that they think, compared to the mountain they’re up against, that one small step is insignificant, meaningless . . . They think, instead, that they’ve got to do it all at once or not do it at all. In other words, they bite off more than they can chew before they even get started, and so do not persist.

The most life-changing thing you can do, you see, is almost always the smallest step forward in the direction you least want to walk.

So get to steppin!

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your best friend. Or anyone.

Until next time,

RB

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Hey Dad,

I hope you’re doing well, and I hope you’ve been hearing my prayers. We miss you, Matt, Mom, Tanner, and I.

Everything’s good around here. We still have our struggles and our disagreements—Tanner’s most passionate grievances tend to relate to his food—but we also have many good times, and we love each other, and we take care of each other. What’s happened, I assure you, has only brought us closer.

Much has changed, although I’m sure you already know.

People have died; people are sick; I moved home; we installed a new mailbox; the park district cut down a bunch of trees around May Watts, exposing the banks upon which you used to take me fishing; we’re at war; one of my friends from the neighborhood will get engaged tonight (I can’t risk name-dropping, but you know him)—I’m going to meet up with the guys downtown to celebrate after my game in Libertyville; a couple more of the cousins got married, and another baby is on the way; aware of my opposition, Mom had the bushes on the side of the house removed while I was sleeping one morning; I used the degree you so lovingly urged me to get to find a job as a substitute teacher; Johnny Rockboy moved to Japan to become a chef; there is no longer anyone sitting on the back porch each night, cheering on whichever Chicago sports team is in season with the rest of the neighborhood dads.

Much is also the same. Tanner still whines every time someone comes home—or returns from the bathroom; the bunnies are still eating your perennials; Mom is still playing pickleball; Matt is still making music; I’m still playing soccer; Naperworld is still beautiful; the house you raised us in still shelters us from rain and cold—and a cold winter it was this year—though Tanner is increasingly distressed by thunderstorms; your umbrella still hangs in the Lantern, which is still owned by your cousins; the grass is still green, the sun still rises each morning.

I’ve been doing my best to help out around the house, taking on the tasks that were once your responsibility, for which you weren’t always appreciated. I’ve changed lightbulbs, air filters—the mailbox—toilet seats; I powerwashed the bricks in the back, and I just started on the driveway; I’ve yet to caulk the windows; I keep the kitchen as clean as I can, and I do my best to keep the garden intact, though I’ve been slacking recently; the note you left next to the sprinkler system box in case you ever got hit by a bus proved helpful, and the friends you made have proved even more so.

I often think—when I’m mowing the lawn, or picking weeds, or scraping Tanner’s hair off the floor—of that scene from Peter Pan. It makes me laugh, because I remember it once making you laugh, I must assume because you saw yourself in the father.

Dad, you taught me so much, but only now do I understand. Thank you for everything you did, knowing, I’m sure, that most of your sacrifices would go unnoticed. And thank you for, like Mom did, bestowing unconditional love, the effects of which cannot be quantified.

Though, like any father and son, we didn’t always see eye to eye, I realize now that you were everything I needed my father to be to become the man I needed to become. That’s not to say we didn’t have many, many good times; just that I appreciate who I am—because of you—more and more every day.

I’m not sure if there’s any way this could have been different. I’m not sure the father-son relationship is always supposed to be sunshine and rainbows. I try to tell myself I did my best.

While losing you was acutely life-altering, I found no part of the experience more striking than my plane ride home the morning after . . . because never before, in the midst of tears, had I so deeply and so piercingly felt the desire to have children of my own, your and Mom’s grandchildren, Matt’s nieces and nephews.

It’s a strange thing, to feel that way in such circumstances, not exactly what you’d expect. But the thing is, Dad, that it was in that moment I realized something I had never fully realized before. And that is just how much I loved you.

Life and all its problems, I saw—after the fact, of course . . . when it was already too late to tell you myself—had muddied my perception, had rendered obscure the truth.

I don’t know why it’s like this, why we can’t ever truly know something until after the fact, why we can’t ever fully appreciate something until it’s left our presence. It seems that, just as youth is wasted on the young, love is withheld from the living.

We’ve been doing our best to move forward, and we have in many ways been succeeding, but I’m also starting to see that your departure is a permanent scar and will forever be a tender spot in my heart.

When I was younger, I noticed on occasion, when I was around adults—I could see it in their eyes, their faces—that they were capable, or rather, that something was capable of rendering them destitute, pitiful, at a moment’s notice . . . That, though they were strong, hard as a rock even, certain things could force water from their eyes straight away, regardless of their present state.

I have this picture in my mind of an older, weathered man, sporting a nearly blank face. I don’t remember where I saw it, if it was in a movie, or in real life, or both. I imagine this man’s face, monotonous, and I see, from just one of his eyes, without blinking, a tear emerge, and tumble down his cheek as he looks into whatever’s before him.

He’s not looking at whatever material object is in his presence, of course; he’s imagining something, thinking about something, putting himself in whatever shoes he wore the day he was injured.

I never understood this, how it was possible, how someone could be moved to tears so quickly. But that’s because never before had something I loved so deeply—deeper than my awareness stretched—been so ruthlessly torn from my grasp. I don’t cry anymore now, but I know I could in just a couple of seconds.

To love something fully, it seems, means to have lost it, to know life without it . . . To love something fully, you see, is to transcend our material limitations. The circle of life and love is not complete without death and destruction.

There is nothing to be done about this; it is, as they say, what it is. We will always and forever take things for granted, us human beings. This is the nature of the game, the rules by which we must abide. We can ask and plead, why, God? Why can’t we know until we know? And we will be left, indefinitely, without a satiable answer.

But perhaps there’s a reason for this. Perhaps, if we humble ourselves, we might recognize that there are no accidents, that there is an Intention driving this design. Whether we’re capable of comprehending it, I do not know, though I’m sure you might now, Dad.

I’m certain that wherever you are, in whatever state you exist, you are content, at peace. I’m certain that everything makes sense to you now, and that though you miss us, you are also incredibly happy, in whatever way happiness manifests in eternity.

Thank you for everything you did for us, and I’m sorry for everything I didn’t do for you. We know you are with us every step of the way, and we know we will meet again.

Love,

Ryan

To be honest, I feel rather goofy writing about dating—like I’m giving my friends a valid reason to make fun of me—particularly because there is nowadays something implicitly feminine about wanting a relationship.

How this came to be, I don’t exactly know:

On the one hand, wanting a relationship could be by nature feminine, and therefore deserving of brotherly ridicule.1 On the other hand (I think this may be more the case), a man’s desire for a relationship could have become contaminated by a less godly version of masculinity, thanks at least in part to a group sometimes known as the “red-pill” bros.2

These red-pill bros—today’s male dating “experts,” the most prominent of whom tend to be non-Christian in practice—not only promulgate a non-monogamous lifestyle (purporting, by extension, that any man who pursues a covenantal relationship is “lying to himself” about “what he truly wants”), but insinuate that it is weak for a man to display any semblance of desire for a woman.

1.1 What the red-pill bros got right

Such an evolution (is this an evolution, or is this how it’s always been?) to the status quo is partly understandable, considering the sorts of responses western women have come to be known for these days (i.e., vengeful rejection or unwarranted ghosting).3 In many ways, I empathize with men’s newfound posture of indifference, having embodied it myself, since it seems to be about the only way to stave off said rejection and maintain one’s dignity.

Not to mention, the red-pill philosophy is in many ways effectively true, in that, contrary to what many young men are often taught, women do not want to be chased4 because they date across and up (meaning that for them to “consider” any given man, he must be at least as “valuable”5 as her), whereas men date across and down6 (from what I’ve gathered, though, compatibility matters most in practice).7 Indeed, the ideal “masculine frame” ought to be oriented towards the highest high,8 which means that it cannot, or should not, be so easily derailed by worldly matters.

What’s more, the red-pillers are correct in their observation that the “marketplace” has, since social media took root, at least partly shifted online—meaning that men are now “competing with” men who may not even live in their city, let alone their country . . . meaning that, in order to “stand out,” a man must either be truly excellent in one relevant domain (e.g., career, looks, etc.) or find a woman who’s not on social media (and good luck with that).

Now, it is my belief that the dating market is not exactly in as dire a state as we’re told, and that the media and its extremes have, as they tend to, concocted a hyperbolic narrative. I don’t think things are, in reality, nearly as hopeless as TikTok influencers make them out to be; I myself know many, many young people in perfectly happy and normal relationships, and when I walk around, I see plenty of happy and normal singles primed and ready for a covenantal commitment.

Indeed, while some people think dating is “f**ked,” I think it’s actually quite simple for a young man if he makes sure to do just a couple of things:

1. Get a job

2. Get in shape

Certainly, it is good to be ambitious, and charismatic, and clean (although some women evidently prefer the opposite—no, sister, you cannot tame the beast) . . . And yes, some women will only date you if you are famous.9 But for the most part, if a guy makes sure he’s fit, has an income, and doesn’t have any absolutely terrible habits, he stands a pretty good chance at finding a woman willing to date him.

All that said, unlike some of the other stuff the internet makes popular—the sorts of stuff, for example, you’ll see in the news that garners national attention and does not affect you personally in the slightest—I have noticed, in my own experiences and in what I’ve seen happen with friends, that there is a reason (albeit, an unfortunate one) red-pill philosophy has become so popular, because a certain sort of treachery truly does permeate today’s dating culture, and is actually affecting people’s lives en masse . . .

That treachery ultimately being the fact that it is more difficult for the average Joe to find a viable long-term partner (i.e., someone to marry). And tangentially, or proceeding from this core matter, that (1) young people are having a lot of sex with people they are not in a covenantal relationship with, in turn lowering their chances of getting into a healthy long-term relationship,10 (2) loyalty (perhaps consequently) seems to have decayed, and (3) there exists (again, consequently) a rather prominent narrative that marriage is not worth it.

1.2 What the red-pill bros got wrong

The solution red-pillers have offered young men is something along the lines of be better, or elevate your status [by any means possible], a message I don’t inherently disagree with [except for the “by any means possible” part].

I think it is good for guys to be ambitious, to pursue peak physical fitness, to build a successful career, etc. And I do think young men frequently miss the mark, giving far too much of their time, energy, and attention to video games, marijuana, and alcohol (among other things) in lieu of their divinely bestowed mission. In other words, I do not necessarily blame women for wondering “where all the good men are at.”

The problem with the red-pillers’ solution, however, is that it is not aimed at any viable long-term, self-sacrificial, and covenantal end. Rather, it’s aimed at polygamy. And in certain ways, it is the childish, insecure, and intentional opposite of everything wrong with feminism,11 which means that it is a reaction to feminism, rather than an effort to lead people into a better future.

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I would wake up each morning, or on certain mornings, and head out into the world in search of places littered with trash, and I’d clean it all up.2 Later in the day, or perhaps on another day, I’d focus my efforts on preserving the wildland we’ve already set aside, or on cleaning up the ocean, or on finding ways to incorporate wild things into the human world.

I would start a campaign, for example, to persuade homeowners to cultivate their gardens in ways more conducive to bees and other bugs3, and to stop mowing parts of their lawn, letting a portion of their property be dedicated to the uncontrollable, and to stop spraying so many damn chemicals all over the friggin place.4

When I think about America in its most ideal form—the America any pre-21st-century American writer depicted—I think about this great, pristine land, full of ancient forests and wild animals (much like the African safari) and blue rivers and teeming lakes and vast ocean shores . . .

When I think about America today, instead, much of what I think about is this:

Or this:

What’s most enraging is not merely the fact of its happening, but just how widespread it all is (especially because if scenes like these were further and fewer between, it is likely that people would be more disturbed by them and open to ensuring they have no place in our country). Indeed, I am almost certain that 99%+ of those reading this right now are closer to a place like the ones depicted above than to a body of water from which it’s safe to drink or to eat fish.

Now, while I am by no means a socialist, I must admit that I struggle to divorce the sterile and often disgusting state of America from the fact that there is simply no obvious monetary benefit to maintaining its natural condition (at least not to a degree that is favorable—pristine, as I said). There is, in other words, no clear incentive.5

Furthermore, I struggle to think that the reason for this [America being disgusting] is a lack of innovation . . . meaning that I’m suspicious of buying into the idea that there’s a profitable solution to this problem yet to be discovered or created, as a true capitalist might argue.6 Admittedly, some potential solutions are emerging (e.g., solar energy, regenerative agriculture, carbon credits); nevertheless, conservation and sustainability are generally not obviously high-ROI investments.

The reason for this is plain: most all economic progress is made at the expense of some resource, rather than in the name of that resource.7 As a consequence, any given resource will be maintained only to the degree necessary for governments and businesses to continue procuring value from it.

(This economic structure, to be fair, is a far more effective way to maintain a natural environment in a scaled human society than most alternatives.)

Certainly, smaller organizations will always find ways to profit in the name of nature. For example, I worked at a kayak and paddleboard guide company called Coastal Expeditions back in the day, which made money by taking people out on the beautiful Lowcountry marsh and dedicated a portion of its profits to conservation. But clearly, the money it dedicated to conservation efforts was, in essence, an out-of-pocket donation, or maybe even a tax write-off, rather than a true, free-market investment.

And so, you can see clearly that practically any effort made to either purify or improve the health of the natural world is not directly profitable.89

What’s not so clear—what so many of us have forgotten, or never knew (as noted by my friend’s father), and what we must learn to quantify if nature is to stand a chance—are the very real benefits of ensuring the natural world in any given municipality or state is thriving . . . the indirect benefits, i.e., that which cannot easily be accounted for by a financial analyst.10

I write about all this today for personal reasons. From 2019 to 2025, I lived in Charleston, South Carolina, a place that, to me, is far more paradisical than my lovely home, the suburbs of Chicago, to which I moved back last spring. The warming weather here has reminded me of the time I spent down south and brought to mind my northern grievances.

Although part of what I miss is the warmer air, there’s more: the ocean life, the endless greenery, the lizards and the alligators, the bugs—I don’t miss the bugs, but I do miss how much more alive the whole place felt—the birds, the stuff to do, so on and so forth.

When I’m home, an instinctual part of me feels very much like something is missing . . . like I’m waiting to go somewhere, to be relocated to a place that has what I’m after.

(No, Mom, I don’t hate being home; I’m just saying there aren’t as many snakes—which you hate [hate is an understatement], for the record—here in Naperville as there are in Charleston.)

While some of this feeling must certainly be a yearning for novelty (living in your hometown in your 20s can feel this way for anyone; I think I’d be quite happy, for example, to move downtown Chicago where there’s a lot more goin on, but no nature), part of it is also the fact that the environment, in practically all of the Chicago metro area and suburbs, has been devastated. Sure, there are rivers, though they are far from clean, and sure, there are forest preserves, though they are small—so small that you could not safely hunt in them—and sure, there are ponds, though many of them are manmade.

Aside from Lake Michigan, however, there is very little that’s wild about Chicago. There is no place to swim nearby; there are no wild plants from which you can pick and eat fruit; and aside from rodents, deer, and the occasional coyote, people don’t witness many animals here. I feel very much like a perpetual spectator: I can look, but not touch.

Unlike Charleston, which has leveraged its natural beauty to brand itself11, the Chicago metro area feels disconnected from its natural surroundings. This isn’t because there was never originally anything beautiful about the Midwest, but because such branding efforts were never made, for one reason or another, and its forests were bulldozed, in turn, without issue. Nature was relegated to second-class status, rather than being granted the obvious distinction of being that which makes our lives possible.

I miss living in a place where it’s not strange to encounter someone barefoot, where people park boats in their driveways, and grow food in their backyard, and eat fish they caught, or game they hunted, and where it’s not uncommon to see some asswipe teenager driving his dad’s pickup truck covered in mud.

In a way, I am saying that I’d like it if these more urban, domesticated places started making a conscious effort to cultivate their environments in ways conducive to this lifestyle I have described above. Though I know it’s unlikely, I’d like it if there was a way to get everyone on the same page, perhaps even to remind today’s adults of how much better the world smelled decades ago, and how much fun it was, as a child, to capture lightning bugs, and how fulfilling it is—for those who’ve had the pleasure—to catch and cook your own fish.

To give you an idea of what I’m after, I have generated two AI images. The first is what a typical new, sterile neighborhood looks like nowadays. The second is something like what I’d like the neighborhood I’d raise my kids in to look like:

While I’m not exactly sure whether there’s any truly scalable way forward here, I am certain that none of us are meant to live without nature, as spectators, in a sterile world. Instead, we are meant (no, not always, especially not at the gym) to walk around barefoot, and to enjoy sitting on our porches, and to pick an onion from the backyard to cook with dinner, and to be able to swim in whatever body of water is a walk away, and to be able to eat whatever fish you catch from it, with that onion you so diligently grew.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your best friend. Or anyone.

Until next time,

RB

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i.

I’ve been substitute teaching a lot recently (hence why I’ve not posted since February). Of the many things that have made themselves apparent throughout this experience—some confirming my previously-held suspicions, others discrediting them—one has stood out the most:

Boys have much more difficulty focusing than girls do.

The difference is so noticeable that the matter came to my attention as I was freewriting one day, in search of an essay.

Now, this isn’t exactly what I mean to make a point on today; perhaps I will address gender differences more deeply in a separate essay. But because it is so glaring a distinction, it’s given rise to a series of thoughts I would like to share.

Like most 20-somethings, I’ve been passively endeavoring to discern my “purpose” for some time now. One idea that cyclically returns is “fixing the school system.”

While this isn’t exactly akin to a transcendent mission, since it’s rather worldly, it is a good place to start, partly the reason I’ve been substitute teaching, and something I felt called to address from a young age, perhaps primarily as a consequence of how much I disliked school myself (and, by extension, how poorly I performed in contrast to what I felt my abilities were1).

Of the many bones I had to pick with “the system” throughout my education, one of the foremost was and still is (I can confirm) schools’ inability to treat students as individuals.

While they are certainly improving, I’d say the primary modus operandi through which schools address individual needs is their teachers. Meaning, in other words, that it is the teachers doing the best they can with what they’ve got to help students one-on-one, rather than something built into the system, otherwise known as the curriculum.

Because the goal of the curriculum is (as is the case with all large-scale systems) replicability. The administrators and curriculum designers, specifically at the tippy top—i.e., those not in the schools each day—want to ensure as little room for error as possible on the ground level. Which means, in practice, that teachers don’t exactly have much say (or as much say as you’d think from the outside) in how they do their job.

Understandable this may be, considering a job is a job, it is nonetheless an increasingly2 dysfunctional, or less-than-optimal way of going about.

Back in the day, which really wasn’t all that long ago—especially since I only became a crappier student the older I got (I was a nearly perfect A student in elementary school, a B and C student in middle and high school, and a D student in undergrad)—I was one of those aforementioned boys: typically not disruptive in class, as I am by nature a people pleaser, but struggled getting myself to do the work I had to do.

(For the record, I only got kicked out of class once for doing a Mickey Mouse impression in high school physics, and was, another time in middle school, lined up firing-squad style against the lockers after a cohort of my friends and I were caught launching food across the cafeteria at a group of girls by way of half-inflated ziploc bags.)

I don’t think the reason for this struggle was anything like ADHD3, though I would say that it is the case for many young boys. Instead, it was for me a combination of boredom4 and, most centrally, a lack of why. As in, “Why does this matter?”

When I was younger, earning better grades, I believed—however unfounded this belief might have been—that the work I did mattered. I believed that doing well in school was good. Perhaps not because I thought it would lead to a high-paying career, as I had not such foresight then, but for other, simpler reasons.

At some point, however, this changed. In my memory, this point was middle school.

I might have decided, seeing the work was becoming more difficult, that it would be easier to throw my hands up and pronounce it all useless, since I did not have to try much to do well in K-5. On the contrary, there was another part of me, maybe a more conscious part of me, starting to wonder, what’s all this for?

The work steadily became less invigorating. I did not look forward to whatever it was we were doing in class; I was no longer excited to tell my mother and father what we had learned that day.

I still liked going to school; I did not find it quite as intolerable as I’m making it out to be, partly because it offered many social opportunities otherwise unavailable. And not once, for how idyllically it was presented to us (despite how obvious it was becoming that I did not like schoolwork), did I doubt my desire to go to college. But my childish curiosity, in classic fashion, began to wane, and I stopped acting like I was responsible for my education as I once passionately had.

Is this because I was (and still am) a boy (now a man)? Or was it merely unique to my personality and tendencies? And how much better would I have performed if I were able to attach the work I was doing to a meaningful outcome? For now, again, I will suspend these questions because they are beside what I’d like to address today. Instead, what I find most interesting here, you might see, is the fact that I lost interest in things that I was naturally interested in—things I would do as play—I hypothesize because I had become compelled to do them.

Indeed, one of my foremost passions as a boy was reading, and even notetaking (and, of course, writing). I would write stories, and read fiction and non-fiction books alike, and take notes on many of the non-fiction books I read, especially encyclopedias (yes, I read encyclopedias for fun).

The older I got, however, the less I read and wrote and took notes . . . until finally, I nearly ceased the habits altogether.

Certainly, it could have been a simple mathematical dilemma: not enough time in the day, too many worldly responsibilities, the older I got. And it certainly was in part.5 But it also wasn’t; because the fact is that as I moved from elementary to middle to high school and beyond, these things I previously found deep pleasure in started to feel more and more tedious.

I admit, I’ve strayed from my original point slightly here, which was that if the school system is to be “fixed,” it’s got to do a far better job opening itself to the needs and abilities of individual students.

But in straying, I’ve highlighted what I think is or would be the natural, more particulate next step in the thought process of today’s administrative policy: okay, some students are different from others. So we’ll have these kids spend more time in math class, and we’ll have these kids spend more time in English.

Certainly, this is a good first step, and progresses us in the right direction. But it is far from insightful. An elementary schooler could have come to this conclusion him or herself on the first day back from summer vacation. The problem is not just how a student’s time is partitioned. It is also what a student does during that time—and, as I have illustrated, why a student does what they do in that time.

Not once in all my schooling did I ever do work that I was not assigned. Everything was compelled, in the name of or else you’ll get a bad grade.

“Well what if I don’t want a grade!? I was doing this here on my own before you came and interrupted . . . why can’t I just keep doing that?”

C.S. Lewis said, in his essay, “Democratic Education,”

None of this is to say that students should be let loose altogether, free to do as they please all day every day until they’re eighteen. Nor even that all work that is compelled is inherently bad. Just that there is very clearly something deeply wrong—nay: prehistoric, ape-brained, foolish—with our current mode of incentives.6

To be fair, also, I must acknowledge that there are many, many good things about American schooling (the first and foremost being the people who work in the schools). Perhaps many more than there are bad things. I am in a certain way nitpicking. Frankly, I think one of our biggest problems here is that we think we’ve got to demolish and rebuild the entire thing if we really want to set it straight. As it stands, I don’t think that’s necessary.

I think it’s good to get kids out of the house (while parents are at work), into these rather ugly buildings, surrounded by peers and mentors . . . Though it’d be ideal to have each school set out—like the great Hogwarts—in a distant land surrounded by a magical forest and a sizeable grounds upon which students could do whatever, such an expectation is impractical. I think it is good that students move around, engaging in different activities, immersing themselves in different subjects, meeting different people, so on and so forth. And I even think it is good that students are forced to develop their forethinking capacities: to plan what they’ll wear for the day, what they’ll eat for lunch, what they’ll do on the weekends, when they’ll do their homework, etc.

The problem, obviously, is what’s taking place in the classroom.

I am not (or hope I’m not) so self-aggrandizing as to think I’ve got a comprehensive solution here for you today. By writing this piece, I’ve been made aware of a variety of things I wasn’t thinking about before, and see that I have enough of an opinion about contemporary schooling to write an entire book about it. That said, I do have one hopefully tangible observation to offer.

While I think it’s important all students are exposed to all subjects—not just to let them dip their toes in the water, so to speak, but also because engagment in each subject offers a very real developmental benefit, similar to different forms of exercise—it is also vital students have things to look forward to in their day, things in which they can immerse themselves, and over which they have free reign.

Which means, in short, that the system (or, more accurately, administrators and curriculum designers) will have to start acknowledging and incorporating individuality, both for students and for teachers . . . And more specifically, that it’s about time we uplift ourselves from what I will call compelled learning.

Play, the opposite of compulsion, is by far the most effective form of learning. And there’s almost none of it in school.

Why? Because there is no way to know what a child will learn. It cannot be controlled.

The bigger question we must ask, then, is: What are we trying to control, and why?

Stay tuned for part 2!

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your best friend. Or anyone.

Until next time,

RB

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I’ve got another episode for you this week. Please enjoy, and feel free to add your thoughts or ask a question in the comments!

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I’ve got another episode for you this week. Please enjoy, and feel free to add your thoughts or ask a question in the comments!

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Bearing down upon the shoulders of all us young’uns is a whole lot of pressure.

Many different types of pressure, indeed, but specifically the pressure to make the most of each and every single day, since, as we are told, we are living in golden times . . . the best, most precious, vigorous, and adventurous years of our lives.

To waste such an opportunity is seen by all others as no less than an utter shame, a blatant tragedy, especially considering its fleeting nature. And quite frankly, I must agree.

While some might say such pressure is unwarranted, even an obvious externalization of parental and ancestral regret, I think such a vindictive reaction is shortsighted, and that it’s wise we instead take this freely offered advice with gratitude, shouldering the responsibility it beckons.

Many respond to such a call—that is, the call to live one’s life to its fullest—by shutting down or drawing inward, choosing to ignore the stark reality of life’s unique preciousness. It has, put differently, become far too standard for many to react to this pressure with passive dismissal rather than redemptive action.

That’s not to say I don’t understand why young people respond dismissively, as the weight can be made to seem unbearable and, correspondingly, bearing the weight made to seem unnecessary, like it’s not worth the effort, or like what must be invested will not return with interest1.

But this dismissal is in itself a choice—of a lesser ideal—and, more pragmatically, does not resolve the pressure. Instead, it either heightens it or renders the denier incrementally deluded . . . which may explain at least some of what’s going on with today’s young people.

What “living life to its fullest” means has been distorted; young people have misinterpreted or been sold a different version of this perennial message2. Hence the rise in popularity of figures like Jordan Peterson, whose central message is, contrary to the pop-narrative, to bear responsibility for your life, to take up your cross.

I find this matter particularly relevant now because, for one, it’s a question or problem that’s affected me throughout my young adulthood and, for two, because I think it’s relevant to the current cultural and even political discussion taking place.

To cut to the core of the matter, the fact is that nothing here in America has changed as much as its people have. Americans have far different habits than Americans from times past. Though it is certainly the case that habits evolve over time, our habits—thanks to widespread technological permeation and rampant access to easily attained (not earned) pleasure—have changed so fast, in so detrimental a way, that it has created a totally new, more dire mass perception, so to speak.

As such, I believe, the best thing any young person could do today for this country is to orient themselves towards a hopeful future, which would immediately result in or necessitate that they eradicate the short-term orientation compelling them to engage in destructive habits—many of which ultimately lead them to feel like they’re missing out on life, or on what true good life has to offer.

None of this is to say young people ought to take life too seriously. I think it’s rather important, actually, we do fun and crazy (though not destructive) shit, and have a good time and do things we won’t be able to do when we’re older. Because such engagements are a part of being young. What I’m saying is that there is a balance, in short, between seriousness and unseriousness, and that I think we’ve leaned a little too far to one side recently (i.e., degeneracy).

Seeing the year is new, I’d like to highlight what steps young people can take to make the most of their lives today, attacking this noted pressure head on with courage and vigor, rather than shying away from the responsibility it demands.

1. Young people must worship God

Atheist or not, you cannot circumvent the fact that there is one truth. In other words, the world in which we live has a solitary set of rules—referred to in Christian doctrine as “the straight and narrow” path—by which reality abides. (No, contrary to popular opinion, religious worship is not blind faith; rather, it’s something along the lines of submitting oneself to the nature of reality.)

Obviously, the physical, scientific world reflects this fact . . . For some reason, however, some like to think this does not extend to the realm of the moral and metaphysical.

Do not be deceived—morality is objective, meaning that there is a way to “go about” life that is good, and a multitude of ways to go about it that are bad. As they say, every unhappy family is unhappy in their own way, while every happy family is alike. It is up to you to learn these rules so that you live as fruitful a life as possible.

Remember, just because something feels good does not mean it is good. You exist in more than just the present moment. What you do today affects you in the future. These rules are designed to optimize life across time. By learning and obeying them—by worshiping God—you forge a covenant with the Divine, making way for the best of all possible outcomes.

2. Young people must seek novelty

While we all rightfully aspire to succeed in our careers, what we must do in the pursuit of success is naturally mundane. To become really good at something, one must do it over and over and over again.

The problem with doing the same thing over and over again is that it naturally makes us feel like we’re missing out on life. Because living life to its fullest necessarily means we must do memorable things, and memorable things are inherently novel. Our brains will not form memories of things we do every day, as we are creatures of habit (consider how frequently you forget your commute to work), and the purpose of habits is to automate tasks, so as to conserve as much energy as possible.

Obviously, this doesn’t mean you should simply do any and every random thing imaginable (though it doesn’t necessarily mean you shouldn’t). What it means, instead, is that you should find ways, small and large, to imbue your life with novelty. And no, not impulsive novelty, but true and deep novelty.

Certainly, travel whenever you have the opportunity. But also do things that break you out of your typical routine. At least once a week. And if you can do it with others, that’s even better, as shared memories are all the more memorable.

3. Young people must make money

I write this for myself mostly, as I’m inherently work-averse. I do not like the idea of having a job, let alone being a full-time W2, since I’ve aspired for so long to make my money as a writer (no, I’m not rich and famous yet).

The reality is, however, that you cannot live life if you do not have money (duh). Without a doubt, do what you believe in, take those risks, start that business, pursue whatever it is you feel called to pursue. But make money, too.

There is no rush to achieve incredible success. If you are young and ambitious, you must realize that getting wherever you think you want to go is not certain to make you feel any more whole and complete than you are today (sometimes, it could make you feel even worse), especially if you forget God in the process.

So do what you must to make enough money in the meantime, because there is more to life than success. You will regret missing out on shared experiences you could have had in your 20s and 30s because you couldn’t afford the trips your friends wanted to take. Not to mention, not having to sweat about how much money you’ll spend on a date or a night out with friends is kind of nice.

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After making a mistake or two (or three, lol), it became evident that one of my buddies was having a hard time, especially thanks to how much pleasure our loved but crazy Greek coach took in berating him. I’d been in his shoes plenty of times myself, so I knew firsthand that while the incessant rebuking might have toughened us up in the long run—which may or may not have been the coach’s intention—it was never of much use in the midst of a game.

I saw my buddy was starting to lose it a bit, his confidence momentarily undermined, perhaps feeling, as I had felt before, rather abandoned, or like he was fighting alone.

It’s easy in these instances—when you see someone in the middle of a shitstorm—to spew tidbits of guidance, “advice,” or technical “how-to” instruction, as if your words are somehow going to open their eyes to something they don’t already see, or magically grant them abilities they don’t have. And that’s exactly what many of my teammates were doing . . .

“Don’t pass the ball if it’s not on!” No shit. “Check your shoulder before you turn!” Is that not obvious?

What I’ve observed so many people forget when someone’s in the midst of it, battling on the field, is that few things you say or do can change what’s already been planned and prepared. You’ve trained, and you’ve sat together and talked things through, and you made your way to the field, and there you are; you’ve got what you’ve got, and you’ve got to make due with nothing more. All energy is best spent working together, not changing the way you work.

Indeed, not once in my two decades as an athlete have I seen something someone said—specifically, a piece of technical “advice”—change anything anyone has ever done on the field. In fact, such babel has only ever resulted in a diminished performance.

And so, as the berating continued, I shouted out to him what I thought at that moment he needed to hear: “We are with you, brother!”

I don’t remember how he performed after this; for all I know, he might have been subbed off. What I do remember, however, is him coming up to me after the game, telling me how much my words settled him down, how much it helped to know he was not alone.

I share this short story today because I know there are people out there going through it, in the middle of life’s battlefield, perhaps not always hearing the things they most need to hear. While everyone else has celebrated the holidays, the new year, graduations, marriages, promotions, et cetera et cetera, some have been dealing with life’s most difficult challenges. Which can make the struggle even more painful, as—especially in this increasingly disjointed and disconnected world—strife can feel particularly isolating when everyone else is having a good time; like nobody understands you, or cares about you in your hardest of times.

And I know that the last thing anyone in a situation like this wants is a bunch of tidbits, or worse, questions. Because that person already knows what’s going on—they’re aware of the enemy ahead. What they really want, instead, is to know they’re not alone . . . Perhaps not that others totally understand their situation, but that they see what’s happening.

So I just wanted to say, today, that whoever you are out there, we are with you.

It’s hard, I suppose, to feel this when everyone is so spread out, when what messages you receive are not from a human face, but by written text, or however else. And obviously, physical, in-person support is irreplaceable.

But I think it’s important for people to hear this. To know that your friends, your family, and your greater community all care about you, and they’re all thinking about you.

And I reckon some of them probably don’t know how to support you, or were never taught how important even the smallest of messages are. Nonetheless, they love you, and they are with you.

Keep on swimming, don’t stop believing.

Sincerely,

Ryan

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Obviously, I’m not saying the humanities aren’t valuable. In fact, I think they’re about as valuable as they’ve ever been . . .

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Thank you for tuning in!

Until next time,

RB

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I’ve made my return to podcasting. Though not totally eloquent nor pleasing to the eyes, I’m proud to share this with you all today.

Let me know your thoughts in the comments!

Until next time,

RB

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My relationship with God has undulated cyclically.

Growing up Catholic, I attended St. John’s preschool, which was part of an Episcopal church, before moving on to a public kindergarten, May Watts, and then to a private Catholic elementary school, St. Raphael. Come junior high, I returned to the public system, in which I remained until the end of high school.

I then spent one semester at Loras College, a small, private Catholic university in Dubuque, Iowa. After dropping out, I spent five years in South Carolina’s Holy City, finishing my degree at the College of Charleston, a public university. And when I moved home, I half-heartedly joined a church group, from which I’ve since withdrawn for various reasons.

I’ve been baptized, received the Eucharist, Reconciliation, and Confirmation, none of which I understood at the time.

My relationship with God was strong when I was a boy—in spite of the fact that I didn’t really understand anything about my faith—and became patchy and half-assed upon my entering into middle school, continuing as such until last year, when my father died.

Despite having practically no affiliation with any church, I now understand more about God and the Bible than ever before, though I would say I’m still rebuilding to the strength of faith I once had; that’s not to say there’s a direct correlation between being associated with a Christian institution and lack of Biblical knowledge, just that I’ve been putting a lot of individual, or one-on-One, effort into getting to know God, which is really what it’s all about.

I initiated this effort because (1) something about my father’s death compelled me to pray more and (2) such honest efforts (I say “honest” not to pat myself on the back but because I mean I had, for once, a true, personal, viscerally to-the-core incentive for prayer) opened my eyes to how little I knew, how foolish I truly was about what I sensed—as I’m certain we all do—deep within was by necessity the most important thing in life.

One thing that’s made itself increasingly apparent now that I’ve been paying more attention is how controversial God has become. Certainly, many people still consider themselves believers, and I’d say a good chunk remain devout. But, especially in pop culture, God is now almost taboo, and mentioning Him has become in itself an act of defiance.

Why, though? What’s so controversial about the Foundation of existence? Why do people, especially and obviously those who don’t “believe in” God (whatever that means), get so riled up?

What I have found particularly interesting is that “non-believer’s” reaction is hardly one of indifference. Instead, it is most properly characterized as hostile. What did God do to them, I wonder?

Even more interesting is the fact that while many of these dissidents (lol, jk, kind of) object simply because they, often being more “scientifically-minded” folks, think Christians are fools who mindlessly worship some bearded man in the sky, I have found those most piercingly hostile to be young women. (No, not all young women. And no, not only women. It’s a generalization. And I’m not saying, either, that my experience reflects the statistics of it all, just that it’s what I’ve noticed.)

Perhaps what’s most interesting about this all is that these young women are not atheists. They are, instead, the “spiritual but not religious” types, often turning to practices the Bible calls “witchcraft” (that’s a whole ‘nother discussion) . . . Said differently, they acknowledge the implicitly obvious presence of the supernatural, but reject the structure, the divine unity, of the Abrahamic God, whose tradition they were born into.

This, I intuitively assume, must be a consequence of the fact that they believe that God directly hinders and even opposes their freedom, that He is oppressive . . . a mythological figure of less evolved societies, fabricated by the elites to “control the populace.” They believe this for many reasons, of course—all of which culminate in the idea that what feels good is good, and what feels bad is bad—but I reckon specifically, because (1) young women, understandably so, associate the potential outlawing of abortion with Christian doctrine, and (2) young women, being ambitious caretakers, tend to make the mistake of trying to incorporate everything . . . of pridefully assuming they are—and, therefore, that the world ought to be—capable of total tolerance, even of the serpent1 himself. And that, therefore, anything that opposes total tolerance is bad.

This isn’t a one-sided dig at women; men have an analogous prideful shortcoming, most accurately characterized by Jordan Peterson in his “We Who Wrestle With God,” which I’ve now quoted multiple times in recent posts:

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After listening to a variety of “political podcasts” recently, I can’t help but wonder: Is anybody actually offended? Because it seems to be the talk of the town that they in fact are . . .

We hear it all the time—that being offensive is bad—and we’ve damn near turned our civilization upside down in an effort to make sure that nobody ever gets offended, but, I mean, who are all these people that are so offended? (Relax, I know who they are.) Who are the offenders? And what does it even mean to be offended? Like, what’s the problem with it?

Every story I hear about the world pre circa 2000 makes it seem like nobody, no matter what was said, actually got offended, or if they did, that it wasn’t a huge problem, that they just returned fire, giggled, and moved on with their lives.

Nowadays, however, everyone makes it seem like a big deal. Like it’s a literal crime.

In fact, I just heard from some old friends that their high school “banned” students from smack-talking (is that Constitutional?) opposing basketball teams during games. I haven’t looked into it, and so can’t verify if it’s true or not . . . but the thing is that I don’t really need to—because the point is that I wouldn’t be surprised if this had happened, since it’s the direction Western culture has been trending towards.

So I want to know, what in the hay is going on? Because it’s kind of important—since this matter is starting (or trying) to shape not just our culture and collective psyche, but our laws.

When I think about it, I can’t say I’ve ever been offended. That’s how it feels, at least. Is it because I’m a “privileged white male?” Or is it because I just don’t know what “offended” means?

According to etymonline.com—which I always use when I’m trying to understand a word, because true definitions often get muddled by contemporary colloquialisms—to ”offend” means:

"to disobey or sin against (a person, human or divine)," or from Old French ofendre "hit, attack, injure; sin against; antagonize, excite to anger" and directly from Latin offendere "to hit, thrust, or strike against," figuratively "to stumble, commit a fault, displease, trespass against, provoke . . ."

I encourage you to do your own etymological research, but what I get from this is that
”offend” means, on one hand, to literally assault someone, and on the other hand, to transgress upon them. To sin against them, or even to distort them against their will. To trespass against their God-given rights.

And that’s really what it’s all about, I think: every person, rightfully so, wants to be seen and treated as an individual human being, regardless of what they look like (I say “look like” because appearance historically seems to be the primary modus operandi through which such offenses are committed), where they’re from, etc. Indeed, what seems to be going on, if I had to characterize this phenomenon in my own words, when people claim offense these days, is something along the lines of an admirable attempt to amend a falsification—that is, a falsification of who someone truly is.

And I’m all for this. I think everyone is, really. Except for people possessed by a spirit of evil. Which, no, is not half of the American population. Most people today, I believe, do not hate others for traits and characteristics they do not control.

That’s not to say those sorts of people aren’t out there . . . just that they’re not parading up and down every single street. And of course, not everyone (probably none of us, really) is totally pure-hearted, either. But the fact is that most people are good, despite their shortcomings (and if you think otherwise, perhaps you may be the problem).

And so, something very clearly seems to be going wrong. There is, somewhere along the lines of what’s being communicated, a lapse, or mutation. Because the term “offended” and its implications have undoubtedly overstepped their bounds.

With the previously noted definition in mind, perhaps I have been offended. Perhaps I have felt, at certain points in my life, like people have transgressed upon me, like people have crossed unspoken boundaries—which I learned thereafter I must forthrightly declare and uphold (in other words, I had to learn to stand up for, or defend myself . . . and no, I’m not blaming offenses on the offended)—and that I have been sinned against.

But, I must admit, these matters do not occupy much, if any, of my cerebral real estate. I don’t worry about “being offended,” nor with ensuring people don’t offend me in the future (insofar as such a matter is attended to consciously).

Is it because, again, I’m privileged and don’t have to worry about being transgressed upon? Am I just in a protected class? Am I little more than a foolish, ignorant high-brow?

That’s certainly the popular narrative these days. And of course, without being so naive as to think we live in a truly “equal” society—or that I haven’t had my fair share of “privileges”—I object to it.

For one, because, I mean, if we’re talking about facts—though it was certainly the case at points in even recent history—I don’t think it is any longer the case that someone like myself has any civic or “structural advantage” (some would say the opposite). As a matter of fact, in their attempt to level the playing field, movements like DEI and feminism have innately and indisputably rendered individuals, in their eyes, not the same. What is something like affirmative action if not treating people, instead of as individual human beings, according to physical traits? Is this ideology not akin to lipstick on a pig? The very same pig it so righteously claims to detest?

And for two (and more pertinently), because I find such a mindset detestable . . . mostly because, in addition to being distorted, it is so deeply disempowering to those who adopt it.

So what’s going on here? Why are some people hyper-obsessed with all things offensive, and why do others now apparently detest the term?

Perhaps I should first explain what drove me to write this piece: As I’ve been passively attending to those previously mentioned podcasts and, more broadly, to what’s going on in the world around me—my own experiences—I’ve noticed this tension (as I’m sure you have too) . . . a pressure to not say the wrong thing in front of the wrong audience.

What I find so fascinating, that not everybody seems to be talking about, is the fact that nobody actually seems to be getting offended. Meaning that it’s all an act. A routine, a conditioned response to a particular stimulus. Like, you’re not supposed to say that, but I don’t exactly know why. Even more specifically, those who claim something is offensive are often not the would-be offended, as was famously demonstrated by this YouTuber:

They are, instead, people who seem to have been possessed by an ideology.

I know I’m treading on thin ice here, and I’m not saying offensive atrocities don’t occur—even daily in some parts of America—but the fact of the matter is that I’ve seen people “get offended.” I’ve seen people whose boundaries have been wrongfully crossed, whose God-given rights have been trespassed upon, who have been treated in one way or another less than the child of God that they are. And their reaction is far different from the reactions we’re accustomed to nowadays when someone claims to have been offended. You can see the pain, the visceral broken-heartedness.

There’s no way to fake it.

What I see nowadays is more of something like an attempt to imitate. To simulate. I do not see the real pain you’d see when someone has actually been transgressed upon. I do not see a broken spirit. I see what appears to be someone who has been convinced they ought to act a certain way.

Which is a good thing, certainly, since it means, in my opinion at least, that there’s a lot less of this sort of suffering in the world than in times past. But also not so good, since certain countries are literally going 1984 mode.

Obviously, this is a complicated matter—especially because the aforementioned “offended” has this habit of immediately throwing anyone who asks a question in the same boat as Hitler and Stalin (relax lady, I’m being hyperbolic); indeed, I think what the 21st-century West most naturally wants to avoid are those 20th-century preconceived notions that led to genocide.

Nevertheless, such a tendency does not make it any easier to uncover the truth, the core of what’s actually taking place . . .

Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for part two! And Merry Christmas, everyone!

If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your best friend. Or anyone.

Until next time,

RB

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I’ve heard this mentioned before, sometimes in the context of the death of “third spaces,” public places where people can congregate, talk, and do God knows what else (no, I’m not promoting drug use) . . . And while third spaces are undoubtedly part of this issue, they do not fully put a finger on what I’m getting at, which is that:

1. Young people need ways to socialize, within the context of people and places they’re familiar with, with people they don’t know.

2. Young people need to relate to each other meaningfully.

Obviously, third spaces make way for these interactions to transpire, but they are not absolutely necessary. Because I think something like social media, which has clearly made the world a lot less social, is more likely to have directly precipitated this demise.

The ideal

Whenever I recall what I thought life would be like right now, in my 20s, I always think of *cringe alert* Fast and Furious1.

I think about a whole bunch of young people gathered together, organized not by an institution or, even better, an app, but by other people—word of mouth is what they once called it—a network of 20 and 30 year olds who meaningfully relate over something they believe in or enjoy, meaning that they have a stake in the matter of what brings the group together. Not everyone knows each other, but everyone knows someone, and there is a sort of subliminal yet openly acknowledged hierarchy, according to merit, ability, or charisma; in other words, people have reputations.

I think about what’s at stake, I think about how important someone’s word is, I think about the fact that this culture is what this group of people live for, and that even though not everyone is friends, nor even like each other, they all have each other’s backs if shit hits the fan (maybe that’s not necessarily true; what is true, however, is that they can agree to disagree without calling someone a fascist, lol).

And I think about how all these conditions make way for young people to relate to one another in, once more, meaningful contexts, which most importantly means they cultivate relationships that do not gravitate around something like hedonism.

The reality

Now, I’m not sure if this was ever a thing, meaning that I don’t know if being a 20-something ever felt “communal” (although throughout human history, being a 20-something was normally synonymous with being a new parent), or if it’s always kind of been muddled, and that there was never a united culture of young people out of school, without children, trying to “make it.” Indeed, I’m comparing my life in this example to the lives of movie characters, so I’m not sure if this is in any way realistic.

At the same time, movies tend to reflect or represent reality . . .

Not that I’m an avid watcher of movies these days, but it certainly seems to be the case, both based on my observation of what movies I’ve seen and of reality (and all the stories I’ve heard from older generations), that the life of a young adult is a little more disjointed from any group than has ever been the case.

And yes, this may merely reflect the fact that I’m living at home at 26 rather than, as so many of my fellow young’uns are, in the city (or that my soccer team is in off-season). But the thing is that I’ve been to the city, and there doesn’t seem to be anything like this non-institutional gathering of young adults taking place.

Of course, young people still get together. Friends from childhood and college and work do in fact commune at apartments and restaurants and clubs, and have a good time. But the thing is, as noted, that these gatherings frequently take place in the context of intoxication and/or laughing about what I call surface-level shit.

Not that I don’t occasionally enjoy such things myself, nor that I necessarily think it’s a bad thing. Just that I’m concerned that what’s drawing young people together these days is primarily not the highest High.

And neither is any of this to say, as well, that socializing for the sake of socializing is meaningless. Because it’s much better than not socializing at all . . . It’s only to point out the fact that I’ve noticed young people ever more frequently dismiss serious matters in lieu of more lighthearted ones.

In a certain way, young people do not see themselves as the next stewards of the world. They do not concern themselves with matters of society in an effort to prepare for their turn at the helm. They do not like to talk about serious stuff, perhaps because it’s uncomfortable, perhaps because there’s a stigma associated with those who talk about things like politics (especially), perhaps because they often don’t know what they’re talking about, and certainly because they don’t totally feel they’re capable of accomplishing meaningful things.

While there is a discussion to be had about young people’s participation in national politics, as it understandably seems to have increased, I can’t help but feel due to the nature of the circumstances that this participation is mostly isolated, since people can partake in it all while wearing pajama pants, sedentary behind phones and computer screens.

What’s happening, admittedly, is characteristic of something resembling a long-term psy-op (oh dear, Uncle Ryan’s had one too many beers) to misdirect and sever connections between young people. I don’t mean to peddle a conspiracy theory; I’m simply saying that what I’m observing is a group of young people highly capable of doing good for the world falling short of their potential—all in the name of, again, something along the lines of highly-incentivized hedonistic and/or comfortable lifestyles.

Obviously, there are plenty of capable young people out there who converse regularly with peers about important stuff. And yes, there are plenty of them out there doing great and wonderful things. But in general, we’re trending away (we’ve been trending away) from what I think is a necessary, harmonious balance between seriousness and lightheartedness that a prosperous culture needs.

The bridge

There are numerous reasons for all this: the solution isn’t so simple as calling young people out for hyperobsessing about sports and makeup (although, maybe it is).

For one, young people (most people, really) seem less able to disagree peacefully (which is largely a consequence of the fact that people do not agree on the same fundamental reality). Whereas before, people could believe different things, talk about it, and at the very least agree to disagree, nowadays debate risks severing relationships, or worse. As a result, people don’t want to have these sorts of discussions anymore, nor associate with anyone in a way that risks demonstrating who they really are. It’s almost like, though it’s so outwardly lauded today—which is telling—authenticity has become something ugly, perverse!

People don’t want to be the guy turning up the temperature at a social gathering, especially considering such gatherings are further and fewer between. Meaning, in consequence, that all social gatherings have generally become more meaningless, soft, and, as I said, surface-level. Unserious. And if you know anything about history, you’ll know it’s not good when discussion or even acknowledgment of reality is banished to the realm of private conversation.

For two, young people are consuming garbage (which partly explains why none of us can agree on the fundamentals). Yes, garbage food, which matters, but also garbage media. Young people aren’t reading as much, and what they are reading is not as, in short, good and great as the sorts of stuff people once read. Even the actual literary quality of news stories (young people don’t read news, of course) is much lower quality than it once was, since it’s now [or seems to be] frequently written by AI, which aims to be as captivating and short as possible.

All of this is to say that if you have a people spiritually and intellectually malnourished, then you can expect they won’t, even when granted full freedom and flexibility, do much of anything substantive, which includes relating to others in deep and original ways.

For three, as I’ve already hinted, young people do not feel like they are capable of doing anything that would result in meaningful change, nor that such efforts would be worth their while. Maybe this is because their dollar has less purchasing power than previous generations, maybe this is because “we all know the system is rigged,” maybe this is because most of us have literally no idea where to start nor, more pertinently, an effective way of discerning right from wrong and good from bad since good and bad have been so cruelly distorted by today’s media, and maybe this is because fewer young people are parents, and so don’t have as much of a stake in the legacy of their world.

I do notice, from a more big-picture perspective, that we are living in an era of uncertainty. Almost every pop-culture, front-page-news narrative forthrightly or subliminally pushes this destructive idea that the future may very well be rife with catastrophe. And while I’m far from a historian, I have in my time picked up on the fact that whenever a people start to feel uncertain about the future, they turn inward. Meaning that they focus on themselves, how they feel, and the present moment rather than others and the world and their legacy. Because, well, why plan for the future if the future sucks? Or worse, if there is no future? Why not just live it up now?

How could we ever reverse this?

Obviously, that’s a complicated question, one that I am, as always, not totally qualified to answer. What I can say, however, is that we need to figure out where to start—the one primary input capable of generating large-scale momentum.

And quite frankly, I think that starts with reading (because reading is potentially the most effective path to depth). With promoting it, with glamorizing it, with making it cool again, and with shaming degeneracy. Indeed, I don’t know when or why this started, but at some recent point in American history, it became cool to be an idiot, as evidenced by the late 20th and early 21st-century growth in popularity of the ultimately accusatory term, “nerd.”

To be fair, I think the primary issue most Americans take up with nerds is not their intelligence but what they appear to have to trade in exchange: masculinity (or, I suppose, femininity as well)—hence the more recent popularization of the term “jacked nerd.” Nevertheless, it is indisputably clear that something like wisdom remains not nearly as pedestalized in American culture as something like physical appearance.

What’s interesting is that everyone seems to know that reading is good, that it’s something they should do. But it doesn’t often seem to make it to the top of their list of priorities.

So let’s reverse this trend. Let’s start reading more, start discussing what you’re reading with others, and start asking others about what they’re reading. Because, quite frankly, our country depends on it.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your best friend. Or anyone.

Until next time,

RB

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There was a period of time after graduating from college during which I thought I wanted to go back and get a master’s degree, or maybe even a Ph.D.

That period has since passed.

Because I’ve realized that the only reason I ever wanted to return (I hated school, for the record) was to replicate the experiences I had in undergrad . . . because I had found the “real world” comparably suckier.

This desire, you see, was not driven by the belief that I’d be stepping forward into a better life, a better opportunity, but a Peter Pan-ish impulse to stave off adulthood, to return to the ignorant bliss of my hyper-social youth, and to forgo my responsibilities to myself and, indeed, my future family.

i. Ceremony

When not properly framed and embraced, “adulting” sucks. Because it feels, in short, like a sort of drawn-out death. And that’s because it is.

Obviously, it’s the death of youth.

While there is no clear line, no specific point in time at which one suddenly metamorphoses into an adult—though that may be the problem, as we have left behind many of those coming-of-age ceremonies which distinguish such “transitions” (graduation is the best we’ve got)—abandoning one’s youth and accepting the necessary responsibilities one must bear remains in every way necessarily and acutely self-sacrificial. In other words, adulting requires we voluntarily inflict a pain upon ourselves so that we can progress meaningfully.

While straightforward, this is no simple or easy feat, hence why it’s most always not been something done alone. Traditionally, or in an ideal situation, young people step over the line, embraced by their peers, cheered on in the stands by their predecessors. (I know, it’s cheesy. But it’s true.)

That’s not to say that one coming of age doesn’t cross the line as an individual, but that in a proper society, they are backed, supported by the greater community and their contemporaries, so they know it’s going to be okay. Better yet, that good lies ahead.

Every formative childhood experience leads up to that very moment.

The problem nowadays is that we do a terrible job illustrating the value of those experiences to young people (hence the classic math class question, “Why do I need to know this?”). Meaning that the pressure for young’uns to grow up is compounded by the confusion of what “growing up” entails. As you may well know.

The other problem is that instead of that pressure being released, or set free, ceremoniously, in the manner and style which you might say it deserves, it is pricked discreetly, and allowed to fizzle out passively.

Becoming an adult and bearing the responsibilities that come with it is no longer celebrated as it should be. Though we still act out some of these ceremonies (failing miserably, again, to articulate their significance), growing up has become, at least subliminally, something not thought of as progress into a better or at least good life, but instead something to be loathed; getting old has become taboo (by no coincidence, mind you, in the same period of time that religion has deteriorated).

Certainly, in some cases, for good reason. Being an adult, I’m learning, is far from easy. In many cases, it’s painful.

Generally speaking, though, some things that ought to be acknowledged and honored seem to be being pushed under the rug.

But why?

ii. Perception

Many young people do not have a positive conception of adulthood; to some, it does not feel in any way, shape, or form worth the sacrifices one must make.

Of course, nobody really has a choice [to become an adult] . . . but at the same time, they do. Because, while part of maturity is a simple matter of age, it is far more a matter of something along the lines of behavior. Of choice.

We must wonder, then: when properly embraced, what’s so great about growing up? What’s so important about these sacrifices I say teenagers and young adults must make? And why do young people feel the sacrifices aren’t worth the reward? Why does it seem to be the case, in just about every measurable metric (average age of moving out, average age of getting married, average age of having children, average age of buying first home, relatively immature behavior—not saying I’m exempt—of young people, etc.), that people are delaying “adulting” more and more?

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One of the many things I’ve learned and realized recently is that it is actually a really big problem that people are not “religious” anymore.

Of course, being religious isn’t synonymous with being virtuous—though they’re also not necessarily opposites—nor with being cultishly blind and obedient. What I mean when I say it’s a problem people aren’t religious (it could mean many things without contextualization) is that people aren’t theologically/philosophically sound, let alone valid; they are not aware of much of what they “believe,” nor why they believe the things they are capable of articulating (which can naturally lead them to believe foolish things).

Said differently, people are utterly ignorant of, and perhaps more importantly, unwilling to try to comprehend the foundations of their beliefs and worldviews. They are, instead, guided by impulse, by feeling. And indeed, it is their very impulsive nature, which began with one small decision that snowballed into a series of habits and then into a personality, that inhibits their will to dig deeper.

In general, I do believe there remains, and always will remain intact some inherent sense of right and wrong (since I believe in objective moral reality, meaning that its structure exists even if people refuse to acknowledge it), at least in regard to certain matters, at least here in the United States, whose law is, whether you like it or not, borne of Christian doctrine. Basically everyone (save for the unsettlingly increasing number of murderous psychopaths) believes it is wrong to kill or physically harm someone; basically everyone believes (though doesn’t always act like it, which makes you wonder if they believe it, since a human tends not to act opposite to what they believe) it’s good to preserve and nurture the natural world . . .

That said, I could go on, down a list of something like the Ten Commandments, and you might notice something like the fact that an increasing proportion of people seem to believe—as evidenced by their actions—that what has generally been held in place throughout history as objectively wrong is [to them] not actually all that bad (although it is interesting to note that these sorts of cycles are depicted in Scripture).

How many people these days commit adultery? How many people these days covet? How many people these days worship false idols?

The answer is a lot. I’d say a lot more than ever in American history.

They do so, of course, not always in a blatantly malicious manner—again, to them—but under the guise of it’s not that bad, or even on occasion that it’s good.

Why, though? Why do they think it is good?

Because it feels good. Because their compass is the present moment, because they refuse to acknowledge that they are a miracle baby of the past and that what they do today affects them tomorrow and in a decade, and because they have so pridefully and laxadasically tossed aside the hard-earned knowledge, wisdom, and experience of their ancestors, having been convinced that they live in a more “advanced” and therefore more moral society.

The most dangerous—and, to its wretched end, effective—sort of evil, I’ve learned, is not the evil that comes rapping obnoxiously upon your front door; it is, instead, sneaky, a Trojan Horse, a Satanic spirit creeping in, not just unnoticed, but in plain sight, disguised as good.

Those most vulnerable to such an assault are those who lack principle, those without a solid, sound foundation, through and through, those unable to see through appearance and comprehend essence. Not just because they have weaknesses, points of vulnerability which lack stuctural integrity, but because they have nothing greater to look up to (or because they believe they are that greater thing), no divine lens through which to screen the world, nothing that could possibly ensure them against the wanes of their fleshly desires.

It’s not that bad. Isn’t that something like what the serpent said to Eve in the Garden? Did he not, in fact, infer it is good, and that God is oppressive, and does not want you to be like Him? And did she not eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil because she “saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise”?

“A delight to the eyes . . .” These words have stuck with me recently. And, just as much, “desired to make one wise.”

Desired to make one wise . . . as in, to become like God, a god in your own right, capable of discerning right from wrong. Discern how, though? Based on what?

Isn’t it obvious? Based on how you feel!

Don’t you see the problem here? The problem with not being religious—theologically sound—aware of objective moral reality, and more importantly, the fact that you, I, do not get to say what is right and wrong (and what is, by extension, good or bad for ourselves), and that I must consequently make an effort to accustom myself to this Foundation? To humble myself?

A delight to the eyes . . . Are we not, today more than ever, derailed by that which is visually delightful and captivating? Are we not, more than ever before, vulnerable to attack by means of a Trojan Horse? Indeed, has the horse not already been delivered, its soldiers not already amongst us?

Is it not too late already?

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your best friend. Or anyone.

Until next time,

RB

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Being broke sucks.

Not just because it’s stressful, and not even primarily because it’s stressful, but because you simply cannot live life when you’re broke. Meaning that, one, it’s hard to do things because things cost money, and two, it’s hard to justify, or feel okay spending time doing anything other than trying to make money.

I myself remain broke primarily because I’ve been trying to “become a writer” for a while now, and have consequently devoted a considerable amount of time that I could have spent working instead to bumming around in cafes. Indeed, for the past however many years, including throughout college, I’ve made ends meet (in addition to help from my parents) via Uber Eats, restaurant gigs, and selling life insurance, simply because, though not always the highest-paying, they were flexible means of income.

And no, it’s not like I’m living in a van down by the river (though it would be nice) . . .

It’s just that not once in my year and a half out of college have I committed to a full-time job (to be fair, I did experience some hiccups along the way, namely the death of a loved one and a surgery) that could have led to any semblance of wealth generation.

Now, I know admitting to my financial struggles—and oversharing my potentially foolish decision-making process—in public may not be in my best interest. But I feel I must, because it’s relevant to, or the root of a matter on which I’ve been fine-tuning my opinion: online hustle culture1.

1. The seed

My refusal to commit thus far to any full-time job reflects primarily, in addition to my wanting to give as much time as possible to writing, the fact that [I was convinced] such an act felt like a spiritual sacrifice—like selling my soul.

Admittedly, I aspired for quite some time to be something like a travel blogger . . . To lead a lifestyle in which I woke up each morning whenever I so pleased, to write, and nothing more, and to make enough money not only to not have to work a job but to travel around the world. What exactly it was I would write about, nor what I would do when I wasn’t writing, didn’t cross my mind so much as ensuring I wasn’t bound to a soul-sucking W2 (that’s not to say I didn’t love writing).

More recently, however, I’ve been having second thoughts. Meaning that I’m opening myself to the idea of full-time work.

(*Note: Mom, my admitting to said thoughts is in no way, shape, or form akin to contractual obligation. They are merely thoughts.)

Yes, because I’m sick of being broke (and private health insurance is expensive), but largely because I’ve realized that I’m not sure, even if I was making a lot of money, a lifestyle funded by writing on my laptop would be all that good.

You see, though being a great writer is my central aim, my second has been, as I said, to be free, unbound, and I’ve had, as a result, the [not-always-so-pleasurable] pleasure of experiencing firsthand what remote work is really like . . .

I recall, when I didn’t have a job like I do now, which is at a restaurant (and was instead selling insurance from my computer), getting done with everything I needed to do that day and feeling a little aimless, almost wishing for someone or something, some duty, something in society, to call upon me. Indeed, as noted in a previous post, it is partly for this reason that I picked up the restaurant gig I now have.

I know this may sound weird to those who’ve never lived life without a job, but there is something very nice about being bound to that which requires of you something you’re not totally excited to give. It’s nice to be a part of a group with whom you labor, to be dragged away from the wanes of your comforts in order to do something you otherwise wouldn’t (I’m not saying some people don’t love their jobs, nor that I aspire to work a job I hate, nor that I lack self-discipline and prefer to be told what to do). And it’s nice to be done with work—kind of like how it feels good to walk out of the gym after a workout.

5 pm (for me, at the restaurant, it’s either 3 pm or 11 pm) hits a lot differently when it’s the end of your workday than when it’s just another hour in a day of total unboundedness. It’s nice to know you’ve done what you needed to do and earned enough money to not have to second-guess grabbing some food with friends on the weekend.

More pertinently, though, it’s almost like there’s something about the pain in the ass of having to work that does good for your mental health. Like, life itself is better, more free—maybe it’s just the financial stability, and I’m certain it’s also the community—whereas when you don’t have to do anything, reality itself risks becoming a prison of its own (again, not saying self-discipline can’t remedy this). Which is counterintuitive, because you’d think you’d feel freer without any commitments.

And perhaps I wouldn’t feel this way if I had all the money in the world. Perhaps I wouldn’t have felt so aimless in my free time when I didn’t have a job if I felt more like I was making meaningful progress, and if I were earning enough money. Perhaps I would fare best as a travel blogger . . .

It’s true: I struggle to see myself wanting any sort of job, no matter how desirable, if I were making a full-time income on my own (although I did once hear about this guy who made a billion dollars in crypto and proceeded to pick up a 9-to-5 because he didn’t know what else to do with himself).

To be totally transparent, as I’ve been writing this piece, I’ve undulated cyclically between both sides, depending almost entirely on how much clarity I have in my writing and reading process—in other words, depending on how much I feel like I’m making meaningful progress in my work. When things are going well, when my aim is clear, when the words roll easily from my mind onto the screen, and even when I enjoy whatever book I’m reading, then I think there’s nothing in the world I’d rather be doing; but when I’m struggling, when I don’t see my mission clearly, when I feel I’m not actually creating something valuable, then I become more and more open to alternative paths (i.e., a W2).

Either way, having been an adult for some time now, one without a full-time job, I have become rather suspicious of a life without real-world commitment. Because, simply put, I’m a human being, and I’ve got to have stuff to do during the day, and I’ve got to partake in society, because partaking in society is healthy.

None of this is to say that being “tied to” a job is good for everyone, nor myself, nor that it’s good that people look forward to the end of their workday, nor that a job is the only way to find this commitment I speak of. I’m just saying that there’s something off about this whole 21st-century, build-an-empire-from-your-computer hustle culture. And, moreover, that a life devoid of some duty isn’t as good a life as we’re often made to think it is.

2. The omission

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My coworker asked me yesterday, completely unprompted—it was rather silent actually—if I was 21 yet. I asked him if he thought I was a bitch.

I suppose it’d have been a compliment if I were a girl. But I am not a girl. I identify as a man.

It’s not that I want to get older, merely that I’m not sure it’s good people think I’m younger. Perhaps I just take good care of myself. Perhaps, too, unemployment wasn’t as stressful as I sometimes made it out to be (lol).

After I inquired why he thought such a thing, however, my coworker proceeded to detail that while it was partly the way I look, it was also very much a consequence of the way I talk.

That sent me.

Quite frankly, I’m confused, the 26 year old male—he/him pronouns thank you very fuckin much—I am, because I’ve been getting mixed signals lately.

I joined a soccer team earlier this fall, which has players aged 16 to early 30s, and one day some little shit asked me how old I was, and I asked him how old he thought I was, and he said 30. At the time, I was 25, so I said, motherfucker, I’m 25.

My new coworkers have similarly been enjoying themselves . . . some saying I look like I’m in my early 20s, others, on the contrary, like I’m in my early 30s. Various individuals have even gone so far as to say my buzz cut, which I rather like, is despicable, and that I risk looking like I’m balding (I’m not fuckin balding) unless I do something about it.

I feel like I’m in that most classic corner of trying to figure out where my [nonexistent] girlfriend wants to eat, even though she won’t tell me where she wants to eat, but also doesn’t like the options I’m presenting.

Am I 26? Am I a geezer? Or am I a little bitch? Pick one! At least I’ll know what I’m working with!

What about the way I talk makes me seem to some like I’m on the verge of outgrowing my fake ID? And what makes me look to others like I’m about to have children? Is my identity crisis reflected in my physical appearance?

It’s all jokes of course [haha.]. I suppose this is what it means to be in your mid twenties—feeling like you don’t belong anywhere.

How’s that one song go? Nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three . . . What’s my age again?

That’s how the fuck I feel.

No, I’m not emo or anything. And I don’t actually feel like I don’t belong anywhere. It’s just that I (and many 20 somethings) am still adjusting to the real world.

Where do I belong? It’s a question that often requires first you figure out where you don’t belong . . .

Everyone wants to have a place in the world. Indeed, it is solely for this reason that I’ve considered a move to the city (i.e., downtown Chicago), where all my 20 something peers seem to live. If I had it my way, I’d get everyone and start a village out in the middle of nowhere, closer to nature, because I don’t really like cities, where we could all have a good time and raise our families and shit. But I can’t, because I’m 26, and broke, and rather incapable of such an act at the moment.

What’s worse about all this nonsense is that many older farts like telling us younguns, almost sadistically, that your 20s are the best decade! sO YOu’D beTtEr eNJoY iT wHiLe It lAsTs!!

The best decade? What in the fuck are they on about? Hey, no pressure!

I mean, I do my best not to be ungrateful, and I’ve certainly not lived life according to what’s best on paper (nor am I saying I’ve not had many damn good times thus far), but I’m almost certain, too, that the nature of the 20s decade has morphed—yes, morphed—into something a little different than what it was before.

My experience of the 20s decade has thus far been hard. Difficult. Painful. Yes, for reasons not necessarily inherent to being a 20 something, but also because the world has changed. In what way, I struggle to articulate comprehensively, though it is partly the mission of my work to decipher.

Am I just making my life out to be more difficult than it really is? Am I making my life more difficult than it need be? If I just did what everyone else did, would I not be having a ball? Job, wife, kids?

Why do I feel the need to see the Amazon? Or the Costa Rican rainforests? Or Alaska?Why do I feel so compelled to write in lieu of a corporate career? Should I go to grad school? Should I just get a job? Should I become a teacher? Should I keep doing what I’m doing?

I was struck recently by some lines in this book I’m reading (which I’ll be quoting more in future posts), We Who Wrestle With God, by Jordan Peterson:

. . . any man or woman who steps outside the domain of the eternal human values has essentially ceased to be human and has therefore not so much transcended the human as destroyed it. What such stepping outside almost inevitably means in practice, as well, is not the grand and heroic transvaluation upward envisioned by Nietzsche. It is instead the degeneration and fragmentation of a uniting morality into hedonistic whim or the false incorporation or suppression of all such slavish impulse under the rubric of power. This is the elevation of narrow self-will to the highest conceivable place, in the guise of ultimate freedom. (“I can abide by whatever values I choose”—something that almost immediately deteriorates into “I can do whatever I want” or, more accurately, “Whatever impulse grips me rules.”) This is simultaneously the presumption of subjective omniscience, omnipresence, and omnipotence. (“I have the capacity to determine the very definition of right and wrong, valuable and contemptible, good and evil.”) It might be objected: is this capacity not desirable? The appropriate response to that question is simple: Do you live, successfully, as of now, in Paradise? If not, does that mean that the cosmic order itself is of questionable validity, or that your perspective is dreadfully flawed? Better pray that it is the latter, rather than the former, because there is no hope if it is the former. Better look toward your own inadequacy and attempt to rectify it before calling God out for His insufficiency.

Do I successfully live in Paradise? Have I made a mistake by not listening to my parents? By presuming I know better than beings much older, far more experienced than myself? Is this my generation’s Fall? Our Pride? Is technological progress—which has suggested to us, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden does to Eve, that we are worthy of eating of the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and that we consequently may be gods ourselves—both our greatest advantage and worst enemy?

I’m not too sure what to make of all this. I mean, I am. I’ve just got to say that I’m not.

Clearly, you see, this means there ain’t shit I can do. That I’m doing exactly what Anyone would suspect I’d be doing. And that I’ve just got to keep doing what I’m doing, even if what I’m doing changes.

Clearly, this means I’m right where I’m supposed to be, and that it’s all going to be okay.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this post, please share it with your best friend. Or anyone.

Until next time,

RB

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