I got down to 245 pounds the other day. Then I went out to eat three times in two days and was back to 250. Weighed in at 251.4 this morning after cooking out last night and going to a BBQ joint for Fathers Day.

Such are the ways that my progress gets crushed in my head. I know it’s no big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it still messes with my mind. I started to think about 239, which leads to 229, and 219…

Instead, I’m wacked out thinking about one of my good friends. He had a massive heart attack last week. I didn’t know, but assumed something bad from Facebook prayer posts. I don’t understand Facebook prayer posts. But I guess if it makes you happy, right Sheryl?

I see my life ending that way. Massive heart attack. And I won’t get a bunch of Facebook prayers. Chances are, only 5-10 people will know, and they’ll move on.

Damn. That’s depressing. I know it’s not really true (well, I won’t get Facebook prayers), but my self esteem issues just go way too deep. Probably too deep to write about publicly.

Don’t you think so, future potential boss using AI to find out about me? Winky-winky.

I printed out some exercise and meal journals. I want to get seriously serious about getting my fat ass in shape. And that’s a good start.

I am reading two books at once…

David Joy’s “Those We Thought We Knew” and Omar El Akkad’s “One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This.”

We shall see if I can get the motivation back for 52. I think so. I’m writing, albeit a blog entry, for the second time in less than a month. So, the itch to return to what I love is coming. Slowly. Painfully slowly at times.

I took three days off from work. This is day No. 3. I don’t like to publicly talk about my job. Someone will stumble upon it or the next boss, as mentioned earlier, will find it. Use it. Instead of maybe think what it means and maybe what they need to do differently.

I can say I still miss things of my past. And that’s all they are. They’re not coming back…

My journalism career. God, when it was good, it was sooooo good. When it was bad, it meant ramen noodles and Miller High Life or frozen pizza and Yuengling every night.

My friends. I never see them. Well, one. He lives near. But I don’t see him often.

Two friends, I see once a year as we schedule it.

I’ve tried scheduling with other friends in far away places, and it never works out.

I will go see my friend in the hospital.

Do you remember the last time you saw someone who went away suddenly. By choice or not? It’s not easy.

I do remember the last time I saw her. Mostly because she drove past us on the highway a couple of years ago. That was strange. I do remember the other “last time” because that was me moving my stuff out of the house.

I do remember the last time I saw my dad. He was in a hospital bed. He died the next day.

I remember the last conversation with my mom. About a book. She was throwing away. That I used to read as a kid. I didn’t take it when she offered. And after she died, it sat in the same place in her house for over a year before I finally took it. It’s a haunted thing now that I really shouldn’t have taken.

I don’t remember last kisses, except one. Because she asked me to kiss her again after I broke up with her. She wanted to “know” it was over.

I remember American Aquarium shows. Awkward stumbly first kiss in a bar. One a sidewalk. In a parking lot. At a co-worker’s party. At a formal (ha!).

I’d love to actually hear other people’s opinions. Do you still think about these things? Years later? For no reason.

Do you habitually ask yourself the same dumb questions when you get in the shower every day? The literal acting out of Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

Songs still take me back. Mostly to sitting alone in my room crying. Sometimes, while driving on 395/495/66 in the suburbs of Washington, DC. Or on a train going to NYC. Or in a shitty dive bar here, there, just about everywhere.

Speaking of dive bars. Why didn’t I hang out at the Tackle Box Tavern more? Why is it easier to write about sitting in a bar alone than doing it? I mean, I’ve in my 50s now, so I don’t do it anymore. But in my 30s, that’s just about all I did. When I wasn’t by myself in my room, or on a futon. Dreaming of the past. A present that didn’t happen. A future that couldn’t occur.

The View is on in the background in the living room. This is awful. I need to turn my record player on and just watch it spin.

That seems like a perfect time to stop. Dorf on Golf just doesn’t come on anymore…