JOURNAL ENTRY 2: WELCOME TO MY MADMAN ERA

Let me tell you something real quick... nothing... and I mean NOTHING prepares you for the moments in the house you built with your wife after she moved out because she was too busy playing the dick sports of extramarital athletics for three goddamn months.

Eighteen years... eighteen. Nearly two decades of a shared life suddenly evaporates like a fart in a hurricane, and now it's just me... wandering through this place like a confused Victorian ghost who died tragically in a Bed Bath & Beyond.

My son is here sometimes... he’s 22, so if the kid still needs anything more from me than a high-five and maybe a protein bar, I have failed as a father and as a mammal. But aside from him, this house is now an unregulated adult playground. No rules unless I decide to invent them. No supervision. No checklist taped to the fridge telling me how to properly fold fitted sheets like some sort of domestic origami wizard.

And here's where the unhinged part hits...

I didn’t know what the fuck life actually required of a person until now.

Turns out... she did everything. Everything.

Laundry? Haven’t touched that shit in 18 years. I tried it the other day and shocker of the century... it’s literally the easiest thing on earth. You put the clothes in... push the button... walk away, come back, put them in a different machine, then walk away again, fold repeat. She was complaining like she was out here hand-washing linen tunics in the fucking river like a medieval washerwoman.

Same with dishes. I used to help… occasionally… like a goddamn visiting diplomat performing goodwill tasks. But honestly, neither of us did dishes a lot because the kids were all chore-age and we happily outsourced that shit like a couple of exhausted middle managers. She still wanted them done her way, though, with precision, structure, choreography, and loading the dishwasher with the emotional tension of a high-stakes bomb defusal.

I never made appointments either. I truly forgot that adults have to call doctors. Speak to them. Interact with them like functional beings and remember what they said instead of looking at your partner like a lost toddler waiting for someone to translate adult language. For the longest time I just assumed doctors called you and said, "hey, it's time, I miss you."

I didn’t buy groceries, like ever, wasn't allowed... I don't look at the prices and I don't use coupons, so this was off limits. Didn’t order pizza. Didn’t call restaurants. Didn’t do shit outside of exist like a well-funded lab experiment. Don't get me wrong I was there and I participated in life... I'm writing more out of humor right now, so stop feeling bad for my ex-wife and laugh along with me.

Now I'm 49, alone, and apparently I have to relearn basic fucking survival like some divorced Tarzan thrown back into the wild.

And fast food at 49? Oh buddy... that shit hits your organs like a fucking hate crime.

But let’s get to the part that has broke my brain.

UNDERWEAR. Where the fuck do you buy underwear?!

I haven’t purchased underwear in nearly two decades or more. Santa Claus brought it every Christmas like a jolly pervert who knew my inseam. Now I’m scrolling Facebook and the algorithm is throwing ads at me for underwear with separate rooms for each ball and a soft tube for my dick like a tiny luxury condominium starting at $30 a pair.

Thirty dollars. For one fabric nut-hammock?? What the actual fuck?!

Can I go to Costco and get a 300-pack like I'm preparing for the underwear apocalypse? I don’t know the rules anymore. There’s no handbook for “How to Be a Grown-Ass Man When Life Suddenly Hands You Responsibilities You Didn’t Know Existed and Have Absolutely No Idea Where to Buy Underwear”

And don’t even get me started on socks. That's advanced coursework. I’m not fucking ready.

The plants are dying.

Every last one of them is staging a slow-motion protest.

The cats are alive but barely trusting me anymore. They just glare at me like they’re pretty sure I’m an intruder but they’re withholding judgment until the food bowl is empty. Then suddenly they're leading me across the house like furry sheriffs serving eviction notices... “HEY. DUMBASS. FIX THE MAGIC BOWL.”

And holy shit... I had to drive to a store, a store,  to buy cat food. Drive. Walk inside. Interact with dipshits. Pay. Like what?? This shit used to magically appear on the porch by some subscription sorcery I never questioned.

My kitchen is a barren wasteland.

I have exactly one pot and pan because I begged my ex-wife not to strip the house like a departing landlord. Joke’s on me, I don’t even fucking use them. I eat steak. That’s it. Steak. I need a cutting board, a knife, a fork, and a BBQ. That’s the whole food pyramid for me now.

My fridge has three things:

1. Water
2. A lonely dying spicy mustard
3. The emotional echo of better days and endless cheese sticks

If society collapsed like it did in 2020, I'd have exactly 17 minutes worth of food for survival. Maybe 18 if I licked the dust off the ceiling fan blades for protein.

But honestly? It’s not overwhelming. It’s just... really fucking weird.

I’m relearning life like a man who got knocked into a coma in 2007 and woke up today confused why everything is on subscription and why deodorant costs $14 and contain aluminum.

The best part though? If there is a good part. My house stays clean. So clean it’s suspicious, as if no one really lives here. Which isn't far from the truth if I'm honest. 

Dishes are minimal... a fork or two, a knife, maybe a popcorn bowl if I felt like having a whimsical evening. I could wash them in 3 minutes but... why? Who cares. There are no rules here. Fuck you Tom Hanks, I'm the captain of this unhinged bachelor ship now. I will do the dishes when the spirit of domestic responsibility taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “Hey asshole, that fork is walking across the counter chasing the cup, fucking fix this.”

Life is bizarre as shit right now... but I’m here. Alone. Learning shit. Becoming an actual adult at 49 like some sort of feral man-child rebooting his operating system and finding out there's 78 updates.

If you need me, I’ll be at Costco buying a pallet of underwear and a sense of direction. Bye.