For the past two years, like anyone with a talent for words and a functioning conscience, I wrote about power. I wrote about wars, genocides, cruelty, violence, and the cost of bearing witness. That cost was high for me. I lost myself in the process. I became a shell of a human being — waking up every day to frantically research the latest atrocity that had happened while I slept, taking notes, consuming, sourcing, reliving it in my bones so I could put it on paper and pass the information on. I haven’t slept properly in two years; I was napping, researching, writing — rinse, repeat.

I stopped writing about myself, and in doing so, I stopped examining myself. I stopped caring for myself. I stopped examining the world; the art, music, and craft I had loved and written about for most of my life.

Live genocide, streamed daily on our phones, paralyzed me.

How do you write about your life, culture, movies, film, books, relationships, love, and tell all these beautiful stories while children are being shredded to pieces?

Nothing seemed to matter anymore. I was blocked, and I was angry at my government for telling me this is normal. I have been researching, taking notes, saving, listening, reading, taking more notes, writing, and reporting on what I have learned to others, to the level of mental and physical exhaustion that became my constant. My permanent state.

I’m proud of what I have built on Antagolist and how many of you use it as a guideline, and a source of information, a take, an opinion, a breakdown, through these violent times. I have built a community of great people whom I discovered throughout this injustice — and if you are one of them reading this now, I’m grateful for you and our dialogues about dignity, community, and liberation. You keep me sane.

I won’t stop dismantling these systems with my words.

What I realized, though, is that I gave myself so fully to the work of breaking down the house of cards that funds and sustains such violence that I lost myself in the process. For the past two years, I felt as though I were outside my body, looking in — waiting for the nightmare to end so I could return to myself. And to my life.

I think it’s clear to all of us that this won’t be ending anytime soon. The atrocities keep piling up, growing bolder and more blatant, and by now we’ve learned how to live with a permanent fight-or-flight mode switched on.

Joy is resistance.

Around Thanksgiving, my Canadian friend told me to watch this new Canadian show, Heated Rivalry. I instantly said no. I removed the TV from my room so I could focus on writing and didn’t have time or focus to binge-watch anything. I had too many unfinished articles to work on and barely made time as it is.

But she insisted. Life-changing, she said.

For the past two years, I haven’t been able to write about anything beyond the constant stream of injustice, death, and manufactured narratives. There was no room left for anything else while mass suffering played out in real time, normalized and justified before our eyes.

I kept waiting for something, anything, that could pull me out of that paralysis, disrupt the despair, and remind me why storytelling still matters. But for a long time, nothing did.

I never imagined that the antidote to two years of genocide, permanent war, propaganda, and political decay would be two men fucking their way toward love.

I didn’t seek out this show for comfort. I wasn’t in the mood to be softened. I was exhausted, like everyone else, bracing for the next headline confirming how bad things were getting (are).

But it touched me. It sobered me up. It woke me up.

Love as counter-programming.

What caught me off guard wasn’t the mind-blowingly realistic depiction of sex turned into romance. It was the relief of realizing my nervous system hadn’t been lying to me all along — that I still knew the difference between something real and something manufactured.

We’re told, day after day, to accept stories that don’t match what we can see. That violence is unfortunate but necessary. That dissent is dangerous. That empathy is naive. That obedience is patriotism.

It’s all bullshit. They drained the joy out of us, and joy is resistance. Tenderness is resistance. They bombarded us with so much violence and cruelty that we began to accept it as a permanent state. The depravity they hurl at us daily is what numbs us, turning us into shells of human beings.

This little Canadian low-budget show snapped us all out of this despair.

Storytelling as recalibration.

Much of today’s culture is built for speed and profit. Stories are made to be easy to consume, not to stay with us. When everything is built on narrative, honest narrative becomes insurgent.

That is why a love story between two hockey players can matter more than a thousand prestige dramas engineered to launder power. That is why we all responded so intensely to something that simply feels honest. And that is why this show landed so precisely, and landed now — not as escape, but as recalibration.

It reminds us all how truth feels in the body.

Staying sane in this time of absolute, unchecked power, cruelty, injustice, and lawlessness means learning how to see clearly without being consumed by what we see. This moment isn’t asking for panic, but for coherence. And staying sane means filling your body with joy — music, craft, art, all the beauty life can still offer, despite the depravity we’re subjected to.

Returning to myself.

I have been exceptionally joyful these past two months, even as I continue to feel the cruelty we’re subjected to every day. I continue to witness the unabashed violence our government commits at home and abroad, analyze it, and write about it — but I counter it with JOY. I make sure to take in enough beautiful things to remain human, capable of feeling happiness, desire, love, lust, wonder, curiosity, kindness, and tenderness.

And it healed me.

I have more clarity and more strength to fight the unchecked power more precisely than ever before.

And I want to continue on this new (normal) path. I opened a Patreon account to start writing about myself again — unrestricted, unstructured trains of thought that help me examine my own consciousness and reclaim my truth.

I want to return to writing about the beautiful things that keep us human — the films I love to watch, the music I listen to, the books I read. I want to talk about love, real or on screen, about connection and self-examination. I want to laugh, to be joyful and silly. And I wholeheartedly reject letting the psychopaths in power turn me into a shell of the person I was for two years straight.

Staying true to yourself and your humanity, despite the horrors being committed in the world, is the greatest act of resistance and a middle finger to those trying to make you unfeeling.

Join me in this space.

William Faulkner once said that the only thing worth writing about is “the human heart in conflict with itself.”

Whether we’re examining the real or the fictional, the truth is the same. Fiction is written from someone’s lived experience. And in a world that makes less and less sense, where violence is committed unchecked, where power toys with us through its depravity, the only thing that truly makes sense is connection with another human being.

The only thing that fully and absolutely makes sense, and is worth living for, is love.

And I, for one, want to exist in that space.

Hope you share it with me.

Head out to my Patreon, and subscribe — it’s going to be my personal space, a platform where I’ll be writing about us, me and you, and all the beautiful, joyous things still happening in this world.

I’ll also be sharing excerpts from my book (still in progress), as well as essays that will be published as part of an essay collection — all centered on love, acceptance, desire, and self-examination.

Antagolist will, as always, continue to interrogate power — examining the structures that shape our politics and our culture, and remaining a space for analysis, refusal, and the reclaiming of reality.

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Taylor Swift has a new boyfriend. Possibly! Maybe? We need this. Lately, the world has been exceptionally exhausting.; a joyous event unfolding before our eyes, even if carefully crafted in some PR office, we’ll take it. Lie to us! But lie well. So far it has been well. Someone on Twitter phrased it beautifully: “It’s awesome, it’s fun and it’s American culture in all its corn-syrup glory. Are you not entertained?”. Yes we are @awi_sinha, yes we are.

Some could say we discovered Travis Kelce through Taylor Swift. And I would say I discovered her through him.

I didn’t always understand the phenomenon of Taylor. Huge fan base, awards in plenty; I couldn’t quite see it. I’ve heard her perform live and Adele, she wasn’t. In fact, people on The American Idol sounded better than her. It took me a little while to grasp what it is about her that makes her a global phenomenon. The understanding of music. Melody. Arrangements. Songwriting. And above all - storytelling.

And boy can she tell a story.

When I started to really dig her was when I realized all her songs are about some boy or a man she dated. That also came in three stages for me. First was, wow, petty, love it. Second was, a bit tongue-in-cheek, is it? The third was a realization that was all too familiar to me: I lived this story, and I own it, it’s mine and I can talk about it.

Too often we witness men run around disturbing women they aren’t ready for, playing house, flawed as they are, banging on you to accept things you didn’t sign up for. Convincing you suffering is just a part of love, and that’s our story, baby. Take it, have it. Claim it. Except, when the relationship or dalliance is over, they no longer want you to have that story. They are bothered when you remind them of it, and even more so if you tell it.

Her songs were fuck you, I lived this and I can talk about it. And if you’re bothered with it, why did you do it then?

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I can’t count how many times I got a call from an ex-boyfriend trying to police my articles. And I’m no Taylor, I’m subtle. “Why did you write this and this, I wasn’t that bad, why are you making it sound so much worse than it was”? Because our story is 50% mine and 50% yours. I lived it, it’s my life, my experience - how come it was fine to do it, but not fine to talk about?

I never discussed my breakups publicly, he didn’t either. Call it - we both have nukes so no one is throwing one. But my life will always be present in my art. Once, he tried to blackball one of my articles from being published, where I analyzed the society trying to convince you any man is better than no man. He was a man, certainly not any, but not for me. The audacity to expect my articles shouldn’t draw inspiration from my own experiences so that he wouldn’t be confronted with the reality of his actions was rich.

Jake Gyllenhaal didn’t like All Too Well either. It has nothing to do with him, he says, it was just her “expression”.

I was always a fan of this pink panther move of men who willingly inflict things on you but end up bewildered by your account of it.

“And you call me up again just to break me like a promise, so casually cruel in the name of being honest” - will always be the sharpest sword. The art of hurting you with a sidebar of - I’m just being transparent. Actually, no, buddy. Transparent means explaining your heart before you do something, before the fact. They are grown adults who think being transparent means doing some shit and just telling us about it, after the fact. 

Was this loud?

I’m very into this cultural explosion of Taylor Swift, not overly sexy for a pop star, with a nerdy sense of style and awkward dance moves - while rolling an impressive Rolodex of men. It’s not her monumental fame but her confidence in what she is, outside of everyone’s expectations, that is her biggest flex. It’s attractive.

And if you’re able to have a Rolodex, it’s a sin not to go through it. Resentment that echoed in the society about Taylor and “many” men she dated always tipped me off, as a true Sagittarius, holding a door for Taylor, another Sagittarius; I want to give you a meal for thought - it’s easy to assemble these moral standards when no one wants you.

I always liked her roster, but Taylor was ready for Travis Kelce. And most importantly, we were ready for Travis Kelce.

Why are we all so taken with this guy? Because he’s pursuing a woman he’s ready for. Read that again.

There’s something about a guy who knows who he is, and he knows exactly what he can pull off, he precisely goes where he needs to go to move mountains to work in his favor. He’s Hollywood peak-level hot and he knows he can pull a Swift. He’s slightly show-boating yes, but he understands the popular culture well and he’s giving the masses exactly what we need.

He knows us well enough to give us the optics of jumping in a 1970s Chevy convertible with her, post game. He’s giving us 90’s movie teen movie, John Hughes or Licence to Drive; pick your poison.

He’s giving Americans their own Posh & Becks, less cool than the original, but every generation deserves their own athlete/pop-star reign to measure their life.

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But don’t let the visuals fool you. This merger is obviously much more than optics. Monica Hesse had a similar train of thought on the matter. In her piece for The Washington Post, she says:

“There’s an interesting case study here in what kind of celebrity power couples are acceptable and what kind are not, in what makes red-pilled fans decide that a beautiful woman is not a “Stacy” but just a self-obsessed bee-yotch.

Swift’s politics undoubtedly have something to do with it. In 2016, white supremacists were holding up Swift as an “Aryan Goddess”, but that was before Swift started speaking out for gun control, gay rights, and feminism, and calling President Donald Trump’s regime an “autocracy.” This month she encouraged her Instagram followers to register to vote, and the nonpartisan site she directed them to saw an immediate 1,000 percent spike in visitors. A woman like that is supposed to stick to dating softbois and poets (paging Timothée Chalamet), not rizzing up a superjock and screaming him on at the game.

Swift’s power undoubtedly has something to do with it. To those lamenting the relationship, Swift’s wealth and fame do not appear to be assets but rather threats, and signs that what she needs is a relationship that will take her down a peg or two. The same internet commenter who noted that Swift was turning Kelce into a “beta male” also commented that he had previously thought that “Travis was the alpha male Taylor Swift needed.” Instead, there was Kelce on the podcast he hosts with his brother, sweetly talking about how he had made Swift a “friendship bracelet” with his phone number on it, hoping to give it to her when she was in town for a concert. He wasn’t able to get through her security phalanx to arrange a drop-off, and they ended up meeting in person later, under different circumstances.

Making! A! Friendship! Bracelet! What was he even thinking, preemptively friend-zoning himself with a homemade craft? Might as well boil a pot of tea and get a cat.

The Taylor Swift backlash is a heightened illustration of the tightrope many famous women find themselves walking. She should be beautiful but not know it, have a lovely voice but not a loud opinion. Her feelings, if she has them, should be kept to herself or left to the masses to speculate over and imbue with meaning. She might be a worldwide influencer, but once she is in a relationship, it is she who should be influenced.”

My initial glimpse of Travis Kelce, perhaps as you did too, came through a video on the football field. He looked up, smiling and squinting in a cinematic, contemplative manner. His expression seemed to narrate a tale that I instantly wanted to read. The more I discovered - his tone of voice, constant joy, dancing, and effortless blend of confidence and humility; it was inevitable to draw comparisons with men I know or knew in the past.

Yeah, it’s easy to be a famous, rich athlete and be well-adjusted. But is it really? How many men do you know, public figures or just in your circle who can’t seem to align with themselves?

Taylor and Travis aren’t just a cultural explosion because of the merger of their enormous fan bases. They are a societal explosion by which we measure our own lives. They feel like what a healthy relationship should be. They both seem excited about each other’s careers and respectful of each other’s influence. They both seem to understand when to be a sidebar when the other is performing. It doesn’t matter who is more successful or who’s alpha or beta, they are both one or the other. “An elaborate scene of drawn-out pleasure, of almosts and near-misses, of denial and the controlling of masculine and feminine subject positions.”

I appreciate a spin by Anne Helen Petersen:

“Finding yourself enthralled by this sort of narrative, it’s about Travis and Taylor, or whoever, but it’s very much about you. You can take the basic architecture of a narrative fantasy and decorate it with the specifics of your own experience. That doesn’t (necessarily) involve taking up the role of Taylor or Travis within the existing narrative. It means you think about a Taylor-and-Travis-like scenario unfurling in your own life. A hot, thoughtful, BIG guy who also appreciates and respects your power and talent? Hello! It fosters or returns you to a feeling of frisson, the near-nausea that is the falling in love, not the longer (and differently fulfilling) labor of love itself.”

It’s my duty to finish off with sex.

Also Anne Helen: “The slow burn of the last few months has provided deep anticipatory pleasure — for Swift and Kelce, sure (and there’s ample speculation about what good sex she’s having). But it’s also offering a secondary form of pleasure for the fans, who assemble the disparate threads of the narrative.

There’s good sex, and then there’s an athlete good sex. Especially this athlete. And this woman deserves her screams.

Two years ago, an unlikely place held a valuable lesson for me. I’m not sure I deserved it, nor I was proud of how I got it, but it was mine, nonetheless.

2021 proved to be exceptionally challenging, perhaps the most trying year I've ever faced, in terms of dealing with people. Post-lockdown year created, bred, and nurtured many beasts moonlighting as humans. These vultures seemed to sense your vulnerabilities and needs, approaching under the guise of empathy and assistance, only to toy with you and make your life even more complicated. It was a year I’ve never felt more out of place, struggling to find common ground with those around me, unable to grasp people's actions, and often feeling like I didn't belong anywhere, with anyone, as if no soul truly understood my heart.

Right in the middle of feeling so out of place, there was a sporting event I went to watch with “friends”, at a restaurant. There was a table next to us with 7-8 guys; someone at my table knew someone at their table. A guy was sitting there who kept glancing over at me, not in a flirtatious manner, but as if he truly saw me. While watching the game, he would look over at me, whenever I spoke. I knew a lot about the sport (for a woman), and about his team (for a woman); it seemed to pique his interest. When the game finished, he tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to pull one credit card from the stack of cards he held. I chose a card, and it happened to be the one covering both our bills. He was delighted (jokingly) that I didn't select his card. We exchanged a few words, and he invited us to a nearby party.

Have you ever experienced exerting so much effort in trying to speak your soul to someone, yet it keeps getting lost in translation?

The struggle to show your true self, while people consistently misconstrue you. No matter how carefully you choose your words, or even when you do get them right, it just doesn't project the real YOU to others. But then, every so often, perhaps only a few times in a lifetime, regardless of your efforts, someone just happens to understand you. And you want to hold on to them for dear life?

You know that one:

“I hope you find someone who speaks your language so you don't have to spend a lifetime translating your soul”.

We were part of a group of 20 people at that party, yet he focused his conversation on me all night. Regardless of what I said, he responded with an effortless understanding, even the things that didn’t come out of my mouth the way I intended them to. As others joined our conversation, he spoke about me to them, right in front of me, with genuine appreciation and joy. I felt a mix of confusion and contentment I hadn't experienced in years.

It wasn't only the words he chose to describe me, but also the way he was looking at me. His eyes held kindness I hadn't encountered in a long time. He didn't regard me, as most people tend to, with the familiar passive aggression that often comes my way; 6-foot-tall women usually don’t inspire kindness in people. Or ever get it.

Whenever someone approached, on the verge of pushing me, he would be over on that side in the blink of an eye to put his body in between me and anyone drunk that wobbled my way. When guys came over to hit on me or ask me what I wanted to drink, he would be slightly annoyed and calmly tell them to get lost. It wasn’t so much a flirtation as it was a genuine interest in another human being. Also, he had a wedding ring on. Someone mentioned a wife at some point. He asked me if I was coming to see the next game. I am. We exchanged goodbyes.

A few days later, the next game was up, and this time, my best friend decided to join. We arrived at our usual spot to watch the game, this time it was about 30 people at our table. He saw me immediately, waved, and invited me to sit next to him. As I approached, I explained to him my best friend was with me, he didn't know anyone in the crowd, and I didn’t want to leave him to himself. A blonde woman came over, introduced herself, and said: “I’ll sit with your friend and keep him company, go sit with him (the guy), he’s been talking about you all day.”

I take my seat, and once again, he's talking to me the entire game, attentive to my every need - what I'd like to drink, what I want to eat. During halftime, someone casually mentions his name and wife in the same sentence. They say something along the lines of “your wife just told me” - wait, how can your wife just tell him, if she’s not here? Oh, she’s here. Wait. What? Your wife is here at this table? Who’s your wife? A blonde sitting with your best friend.

A blonde that has been sitting across from us for an hour, the one that came to me and TOLD ME to sit with you, kept my friend company so that I can talk to you? Yes. 

What?

Why?

The game ended, and the enthusiasm to continue was there, just like last time. Our group of 30 began making its way to the next venue. I was puzzled. It's not that I was entertaining the idea of being with this guy or anything; I typically need much more to go on, to be inspired to take action, still, I enjoyed our conversation, and I wasn't ready for it to end. Clearly, this can’t go on.

While strolling, a blonde, the wife, came over to walk alongside me to the next venue. I felt a bit agitated and confused. I wanted to freely talk, throw looks, drink, and enjoy someone cool, intelligent, amusing, and, above all, genuine - in a year filled with vultures around me. I was selfish; I wanted this, this night. Realizing she was there, dampened my mood. I contemplated leaving and going home. I think I even mentioned it, and at that moment, I guess, she decided to walk with me.

She asked me not to leave please, go with us all, it’s such a cool night, we’re having a blast! As I was walking alongside her, I thought, Christ, what part of all this is a pleasure for you? What part of your husband talking to another woman is fun? I wanted to dislike this woman. I tried. But she was funny, smart, she was relaxed, confident, she was literally a mirror of him, in her behavior toward me. I have never in my entire life met such an endearing human being.

He talked to me again, all night, same as the other day, protected me from pushy drunk people again, barked at any guy that would come hit on me, and she was just there, fun, pleasant, joking. She picked up on my confusion, and at some point during the night, she came over to us, yes he totally was talking to me alone, on one side, when she came over and told me - “he’s so taken with you! And that’s totally cool because I see why, you are awesome, we both are taken with you”. He then jokes (hopefully) - if I had met you before her, I probably wouldn’t be married to her now. I’m at this point extremely puzzled, and uncomfortable, while watching this surreal exchange like a tennis match, wishing someone reveal the hidden cameras or at least clarify the situation.

But that didn’t happen, these two were just exceptionally pleasant, nice people, confident in themselves and their marriage, and we all had one of the best nights I had in a long while.

At a certain moment, my focus shifted towards her. I found myself wanting to talk with her more than with him. I thought to myself how incredible it is to find a man who understands you to such a degree, but meeting a woman like her holds even greater value. There are more men like him in this world, but there aren't as many women like her. Encountering a woman who is so self-assured, so evolved to let interactions unfold without ego is rare. At that moment, I felt small. I felt she was so much more than me.

We exchanged numbers. She invited me to another party a few months later. We all spent another great night talking and hanging out together. She invited me to their farewell gathering for their closest friends before they moved to another city. He wanted to take 700 pictures with me, she took the pictures. We all took pictures together. This woman left such an impression on me; I often think about this experience as some defining moment of my life. I wondered why I needed a reflection of a guy who appreciated me when I should have recognized my own worth. I know my worth, but why did I need a confirmation? And why do we value a confirmation of a guy more than anything else? Why does a man's opinion or actions towards us carry so much weight?

This woman came out that night to yank me out of that tired notion. She held so much more value for me.

———

A few days ago, a friend of mine texted me, telling me about a guy she hung out with a few times. She's interested in him, they are talking, and engaging on Instagram. She sent me screenshots, asking for advice on his responses. What's your take on this? What do you think his words imply? He hasn't replied in 2 hours, didn’t ask to see me again, does that mean it's over? We spent hours dissecting this hopefully a great guy but possibly a loser that holds a significant sway over my friend's mood, joy, happiness, and outlook, in the days to come.

At the same time, I started talking to a girl who had read my previous article and gave me such a good insight into something I wrote about. Usually, when I write about something that resonates with women or reflects their experiences, they message me to tell me about it. This woman stood out. The insight she gave me was incredibly precise, lived, experienced, and articulated so well; or she just spoke my exact language. I was eager to hear more. She wasn't a new person; she was someone who often commented on my articles, shared them and someone I engaged in a few inspiring exchanges before, over the past couple of years.

We began our conversation discussing my article and branched into a wide array of topics; shared experiences, challenges, relationships, business, love, health, and so much more. The conversation was engaging and so absorbing that we texted for about 10 hours.

The convo inspired me, filling me with hope, joy, and a sense of being understood. I didn’t have to try like I usually do, even with my close friends, to watch my words, or make sure I’m not too blunt or insensitive, it was just easy. It made me hopeful and inspired. In the middle of all that, my friend kept sending me more screenshots from her conversation with a guy. I talked to both of these women simultaneously and at some point, I started to laugh at the stark contrast of the moment. Here I am, having the best night, enjoying every second of my conversation with this girl where we shared experiences, plans, and ideas. Here is my friend, having the worst night, caught up worrying about the trivial words of a guy she had only met a few times - feeling anxious, having expectations that would likely never be fulfilled, and ending up worse off than she was before their conversation began.

Please don’t interpret this as a forsake-all-men manifesto. Absolutely not. Men should simply be to us what we are to them. Part of life, not what makes or breaks our life. They shouldn't hold the key to all happiness, dictate our moods, joy, or the hope we have about our futures.

How many times have you chosen to spend hours talking to some mediocre man online, while your girlfriend wanted to tell you something or your parents needed you? We all know the difference between a great guy who is direct and transparent in his intentions. But we also know a time-waster who needs a bit of digital attention, while having no intentions. Why are we constantly beating a dead horse, fixating on some part of that man we most likely invented ourselves?

My conversation with this girl started with a 10-hour chat, and it extended into a week of the most interesting topics. We began making some pretty serious plans that got me so excited. It was an absolute sensation for me to feel content, safe, seen, understood, and hopeful about life, and I didn’t get that from a guy. I got it from a woman. Like me. A friend.

Throughout my entire life, I had waited for a man to grasp me, my lifestyle, my aspirations, my ideas, and assist me in bringing them to life. I had always believed that this understanding and support needed to come from a man whom I would love and who would round me up. Put me together. Make a pie from all my ingredients.

Except, it doesn’t.

For the best part of my life, I didn’t clock in the best relationships with women around me. There were girlfriends around, but a group of more than 3 women made me anxious. I felt more comfortable with boys. Women resented me, I resented them for resenting me. They blamed me for loads of things, breaking up with their boyfriends, someone not liking them, doing this, saying that; if I was in the room, I’d get blamed for it.

What I failed to understand is how threatening my exterior was to them. I was always strong on the outside, I never displayed any vulnerabilities (had plenty), never cried about men (outside), and never let numerous things that clearly bothered them affect me. No one could relate to me.

It was only when I began to write and share aspects of my life, my experiences, and my vulnerabilities, that women started to respond and relate to me. I would love to tell you money is the most valuable thing that came out of my writing, but it isn’t, yet - women are. Writing has brought many remarkable women into my life and has helped me understand them, as well as understand myself through the lens these women saw me through.

For the first time in my life, I could imagine myself walking in so many different women’s shoes. The exchanges I have had with these women, all of you, have changed my life in a way that no man ever did.

If we ease the pressure on men to be everything for us, perhaps then they can actually become something. For the first time in my life, I wake up excited to see if a woman has messaged me and what she has to say, not a man.

If that’s not beating the game, I don’t know what is.

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I popped onto Twitter the other day, scrolled through my timeline a bit, and within a few minutes, I ran into three interesting Tweets:

• “Stop disturbing women you’re not ready for”

• “Men be like “I’m different” then be a different type of disappointment”

• “When you first meet a man that fake version of him be so fire”

Why does it seem like everyone is always on the same page at the same time? I often stumble upon things that precisely correspond with the thoughts I'm currently having. Do I seek it? Or they just find me?

Guys are exhausting. Women are too, we all are exhausting at times, but men are a tailor-made, special kind of exhausting. I’ve always been a tomboy and constantly refused to pay a membership to an ‘all men are douchebags’ fan club. Help me out, boys. I don’t want to do this. You’re twisting my arm here.

A guy walks into a bar/restaurant/place and sees light, agreeable, and available. She could be stunning, he doesn’t want it. He sees a challenge. She could be plain, he wants it. It’s totally cool to seek a challenge if you’re doing it with the purpose of getting it—to derive enjoyment from it, to bask and revel in it—rather than attempting it to prove a point.

Once, I came into a restaurant and a guy was stunning, already there, talking to someone light and agreeable, then spent hours trying to get my attention, then the next six talking to me, then the next three texting me, and I wanted to go to sleep but he was all wired up because “I’m an introduction, plot, and culmination”.

I’m a challenge.

Truth be told, I can wake up a dead man with my words, I text like constructing a story, and many times I say things I don’t even fully mean or didn’t even yet discover, just because it sounds good “on paper”.

Men don’t like challenge. 

Men like to disturb.

“Stop Disturbing Women You’re Not Ready For”.

You embrace the notion of a challenge when you want to revel in it. You want a woman who is sharp-witted because you enjoy the banter, and banter is the finest form of foreplay. You seek someone who ignites the “fire, excitement, emotion”—as he put it—when you wish to immerse yourself in it.

These types of men aren't seeking a challenge; what they desire is a woman they can unsettle, provoke, and influence to desire something she hadn't even considered. Why do men persistently create and aggravate these situations? Is it because they struggle to feel significant or even alive unless they disrupt a woman's equilibrium? Why is their self-worth so linked to how much they've unsettled a woman, how effectively they've influenced her desires, disrupting her for no discernible reason?

The most harmless man on this planet is a man who just wants to sleep with you. Throughout our lives, we’ve been besieged by parents, society, and friends about the supposed danger of a man who wants to have sex with you. We were thought, or at least I was, to always be wary of a man seeking something physical.

It took years to see how laughable that notion is. Men who are straightforward about wanting to sleep with you, especially those who just want to sleep with you are the most harmless men around. Especially the ones that are honest and upfront about it. They present their intentions clearly, and you can choose to take them up on it, if you feel like it, or decline. I fail to see an issue here.

“When you first meet a man that fake version of him be so fire.”

Conversely, men who have no interest beyond disrupting your life to validate their existence, crafting a “fire” fake version of themselves, precisely tailored to your needs at that exact moment in time are the vilest time wasters in history. Why not just be what you are? You can still attract opportunities or people if you arrive in all the splendor of your incompetence, you’ll just draw the type of women you deserve. There are plenty of women who would appreciate your unique qualities, also known as your particular brand of mess. I get it, disturbing a woman with whom you have no intention or availability is a more entertaining pursuit.

Fear not, there are even greater time wasters in this realm. Those disturbers who actually want to be with someone, but consistently choose women who are stable, capable, successful, and sane, only to maul her with their unique brand of mess. Typically, they rely on crutches such as alcohol, drugs, or pills, lack a concrete career (they have 'projects'), sprinkled with a fondness for jealousy, drama, and overall unease, making them hard to be around.

There is also a celebrity version of a disturber, like that one up there in the picture, the one who throws a drunken fit in an airplane punches his son, grabs his wife by the throat, pours beer on the blanket covering his wife and kids trying to sleep, makes $25,000 worth of damage on a plane, BUT tells his wife - “You’re ruining this family.” Disturbers never aim to be alone or seek a similarly messy partner; rather, they seek out a stable, capable woman while insisting on maintaining their chaotic lifestyle, demanding people around them just tolerate and accept their mess.

“Men be like ‘I’m different’ then be a different type of disappointment”.

Men love to claim being different. The guy from the upper level of this article texted me this in one sitting. In a span of an hour:

• That’s why I’m interesting.

• You have someone totally different in front of you from everyone you ever met.

• I have character, personality power, not everyone has it.

• Again, I’m not like other men, but different.

• You can say that to normal guys, I’m different.

• There are no men like me.

You trying to convince me, or yourself?

What he failed to spend time on in this exchange was—having a wife (we divorced) who still didn’t get that memo and a girlfriend who’s arriving on Monday. He’s different, though, not like anyone I have ever met, and there are no men like him. Did I mention he’s different? He has character. To disturb a woman he’s not ready for, on a Friday, to feel a little bit alive before Monday.

I’m nostalgic for times when men were unbothered, straightforward, and just wanted to have sex. No disturbance, just plain ol’ let’s please each other. I’m used to these. I know how to handle these. It’s those who are trying to squeeze an emotion, a feeling, and a bit of fireworks into a long weekend that lose me.

The pandemic lockdown has given rise to a new breed of men: those who crave attention on social media but have no intentions of engaging in real-life interactions. From 2020 up to now, I've come across stories from various girlfriends about men who text, men who DM, men who send pictures, and men who want to have naughty FaceTime sessions, yet they never take the initiative to meet in person. Their aim isn't even to pursue a physical relationship. They simply need a daily dose of verbal attention. These are digital disturbers who avoid meeting in person to conceal their inadequacies (or impotence). They are not concerned with the fact that they're disturbing a woman's mind and soul for no valid reason other than to feel significant.

I had a girlfriend telling me a story about a guy that flew into her city, they spoke, she suggested dinner, he avoided it, only to send her a dic-pics no one asked for. A man would rather send a pic he expects to be praised and/or admired than meet for dinner, exchange energy, vibes, eat good food, and possibly have sex?

I have the utmost respect for men who articulate their desires and intentions, openly. This category calls upon us, women. When a man tells you he just wants to have sex, this is what he wants. Appreciate the honesty, appreciate a non-disturber. He doesn’t bombard you with sweet words or tell you more than he can chew or how special and different he is, only to turn into a different kind of disappointment, on a different day of the week. 

Where women often stumble in this scenario is that if the sex is great, they desire consistency, not in a relationship, but in desire, and that’s also a commitment. Texting you and constantly showcasing a desire for you is a commitment. Sending you pics, responding to you sending him pics, that’s a commitment. I understand your thinking here, you expect the alluring texts will lead to more passion. You convince yourself that you're perfectly fine with just the physical aspect, but you also crave continuous attention—because the sex was great, making you wonder why he doesn't want it all the time. Being constantly attentive is a form of commitment. Regular texting, frequent DMs, and a persistent desire for you imply commitment. And he told you, ahead of time, he doesn’t want one.

Additionally, there's the aspect of “but the sex is amazing”. How is it that he doesn't desire it all the time? The truth is, finding a man who aligns with you sexually is far more uncommon than men finding a sexually compatible woman. Discussing this subject with my male friends spanning two decades, I've come to this realization, and you not going to like it: a good sex for men is essentially anyone who isn't lackluster in bed. Woman is not dead? She moves? Great sex! That amazing sexual experience you shared with him? Chances are, he's had similar great encounters more frequently than you. It's insufficient to make him want to commit, if that’s the only thing he goes by.

If he told you what he wants, that is exactly what he wants.

Men don’t play hard to get.

Disheartening subject, isn't it?

I don’t think so. I see it as a guideline for avoiding time-wasters, a reminder to appreciate non-disturbers, and ultimately a realization that the crucial factor isn't just meeting a guy and having an initial great connection. What matters is what happens afterward. This guy isn't that first impression or the first dinner that was the best you had in a while; he is his actions in the days and months that follow.

Summer is a notoriously challenging season for writing. Is it just me? I have to look outside my window and see gloom, rather than glee, to steady myself enough to put some sensible words on paper. Writing blossoms well in irritation, sadness, and hurt. Summer usually brings happiness and excitement, and those feelings rarely initiate reflection or self-analysis. I prefer to fully indulge in the food, wine, beach, and boating; emboss the feeling, and write about it in September.

This summer was not that kind of summer.

This summer felt unlike any other, didn't it? I'm sure you noticed it too. As I heard people around me categorize their summers—weird, out of the ordinary, passing by too quickly, or just plain bad—I couldn't help but think that this collective sentiment hinted at a shift in our lives, a change for the better.

I felt it, somewhere around May. I had a feeling this year will be different, and should be approached accordingly. Differently.

I thrive on my European summers. It's more than just reuniting with family and friends; every year it reconnects me with a Mediterranean lifestyle I was raised in—a lifestyle I yearn for more and more, as I tally my 23rd year of living in the United States. I like where I come from—a little slice of Split, nestled in Dalmatia, along the Mediterranean, where people are like no other, in looks or demeanor. I like our collective flair for drama and how simultaneously artistic and athletic we are. I like how famously annoyed we are with everyone who fails to grasp our way of life. I like our religious approach to prepping food, our precise timelines for lunch, a dip in the sea, or a post-lunch siesta. I like the cynicism that pervades every aspect of our existence. I take pride in our genetic makeup, the olive skin that never seems to burn, and this unruly hair I've inherited from my mother.

My summers in Europe are not a vacation, they are a lifeline. I’m so serious about it, in fact, I broke up with someone due to his constant American-style nonsense, banging - “How on Earth can someone spend three months in Europe”, puzzled and offended by someone being able to spend that much time in a different country. Also, a third strike, him telling a mutual friend who recently got married in the South of France, excited about all the amazing food catered at his wedding, remarking no such food can be found in the US - “Yes, but America is 50 times the size of France.”

Getting reminded of who I am and where I come from is my lifeline. But, something switched in me this year. I felt I was constantly on this rollercoaster of seeking the excitement that creates a certain noise, preventing me from actually hearing myself. It’s almost as if I felt I needed to evict the summer joys from my life in order to stabilize my life. Summers have high expectations, and this year, I wasn’t ready for it.

I needed a summer for me. Empty. Silent. The type of summer I can’t get in Europe. I needed to not be altered or expected to do anything. I needed a break from being readily available to others who expect my presence, as it often turns into me becoming a soundboard for their frustrations. Not needing my help but using my life to feel better about things they rather not solve.

I also wanted to avoid thoughts of packing, endless shopping for the things I don’t really need, long flights, jet lag, and the emotionally charged few months that my parents regularly bestow upon me.

A guy told me when I was 16 - “Miranda, sometimes you achieve more by absence”. I thought he was God back then and I imprinted everything he ever said to me, only to find devastation some 20 years later, when we reunited and I discovered a befuddled underachiever inspired all my life mantra. I do need to give him credit for this line, miraculously, he hit one winner.

I also felt I didn’t deserve my summer this year. I had a late start into a professional year (due to extending my last year’s European summer far longer than it needed to last), and I fell far short of the goals I had set for myself by the time this summer rolled in. Therfore, I felt I didn’t deserve any joys usually brought by summer. I thought to myself - “You will travel when you deserve it”.

Summers in Europe can be tricky, the magic of it screws with your mind; you meet someone, you think it’s more than it is, you change your plane ticket repeatedly and end up mentally altered by something that ends up being a time-consuming detour that takes months to undo, restoring yourself to your default settings.

This year, I didn’t have the time for it. And I didn’t want to be fodder for all those unhappy souls on borrowed time, waiting for someone to parachute into their stale lives to give them the appearance of options and change they don’t actually want.

More often than not, we're stuck in a never-ending loop, especially in the summer, fearing we might miss out, pressured to believe we must constantly seek some great experiences, share them on Instagram, and be a part of everything. It pushes us into certain situations, often not in our best interest, making us believe this is what, or this is who will fulfill us. We end up living on borrowed time, fueled by our imaginations, playing pretend with people who aren't right for us.  And then, we spend weeks, months, and sometimes years undoing the choices we've made.

I blame summer!

And you ain’t fooling me this year.

Jokes aside, we do it all year round, but I feel that summer is fertile ground to trick you into thinking and feeling something that is not. Summer has high expectations. Summer is dangerous. And I didn’t have the energy for it this year.

I felt the only winning move was not to play.

My incredible European summers usually come with a high price. I pay dearly for it, come September. All my Septembers are usually very stressful. The post-summer time when I stayed somewhere for too long jeopardized the stability of my regular life. When we’re not stable enough, we get altered by places, situations, people. Not being where you want to be in life isn’t a very good ground for starting something. This September that came along after I evicted the temporary joys from my life - was one of the best I had in a very long time.

My American summer was fulfilling in other ways. I call it my Beige Summer. It’s great to be excited and altered, but sometimes it’s also great to just be beige. To enjoy things while having peace of mind. Excitement over something or someone is what we live for, but the downside of something or someone not working out as we imagined or wanted - is soul-crushing. It’s hard. It’s painful.

This year, I’m just not in the mood for pain.

My summer in New York was beige, but it was peaceful; I love East Coast beaches more than I care for California, and if you had seen both, rather than base your assumptions on movies you’ve seen where they zoom in on those palms, you would understand this sentiment. I went to the beach by myself, bought some gourmet food on the way, ate it at the beach, read the books I never had the time for, and talked to the wide range of people I found interesting on my way back and forth. I went to the Bob Moses concert at 3 am, to hear one song, by myself; no one wanted to go, and I didn’t care or felt the need to be a slave to other people’s schedules. I killed myself in the gym 2 hours a day and I actually enjoyed it, without looking and keeping track of my progress. I looked at myself in the mirror one day and saw that body I wanted and felt I could lift 100 pounds - I felt power. I felt mental and physical power just from taking a step back from my regular path while enjoying small, beige things that made me stable and focused.

When I decided to stay in New York for the summer, puzzling my family and friends in the process, I prepared myself for Instagram stories of everyone I know and their mother, dog, and parrot swimming in the Adriatic, on boats, posting all the amazing food, sunset, and beaches - I was prepared for it as a boxer prepares for a fight. There will be punches! I’ll endure!

Surprisingly, there wasn’t.

I don’t know what happened to us this summer, but I feel like we matured into something we can be proud of. Yes, I heard the sentiments left and right - “My summer passed way too quickly”, or “This summer was so shit, what was that”, but think about this, we finally got sick and tired of performing for social media. We don’t want to feel like broadcasters creating content no one is paying us for, and we are finally enjoying life more than we’re posting about it. Instagram made its own deathbed by screwing with algorithms that took us from having an online space to hang out, to a platform for strangers and lurkers. No one is really engaging, liking their friend’s posts or commenting, all we’re really doing is using DM’s as a hybrid of an email and chat.

I don’t know about you, but my beige summer was great as a result of this altered mindset. I didn’t care to post anything, I posted 4-5 beach pics all summer, I enjoyed my time rather than thinking to let everyone know about my experiences. You did it too. Everyone I know put a break on posting their every step, every bite.

Instagram lost relevance, and in the words of The Atlantic -

“Its decline is about not just a loss of relevance, but a capitulation to a new era of “performance” media, in which we create online primarily to reach people we don’t know instead of the people we do.”

We are no longer performing. We are living. We are having shitty, beige summers, and we are not mad about it. We are listening and learning instead of constantly seeking, trying, and spinning in circles. We're trading unforgettable summers for stability, honing our focus, and aligning more with ourselves—the reward must follow.

Mine did.

I’m not alone in my concept about summers being the perfect time to silence and face ourselves. This is what Hailey Nahman wrote last summer on her popular Maybe Baby Substack - 

“It’s also about facing myself. Unlike winter, when I can blame everything on the elements, summer inverts those conditions, leaving me with nobody to blame but myself. The enemy comes indoors.”

I've had an exceptional September so far. Everything I envisioned has unfolded—every wish fullfilled, every event attended. I found myself questioning, how is this even possible? I've managed to pull some pretty unthinkable things. And I’m convinced sacrificing my European summer rewarded me. 

But that’s a story for another article.

I used to write a lot about why men do what they do. I analyzed them to a point of unconsciousness, thinking if I break them down diligently, I would somehow instigate a shift in dubious behaviors. Men don’t bother me as of late. I understand why they do what they do. It makes sense to me, even their shittiest actions. I understand their logic behind it, even if they do me no well.

Women bother me as of late. I feel betrayed by every silly, illogical, insecure, hateful action women do. Men can’t hurt me. Women can. The way they treat their fellow women is one of the most crushing facts I have had the misfortune to witness.

It’s breaking my heart.

The fact men stick to each other in such brotherly ways, throughout their entire lives, makes me jealous. I want to experience that, if only for one day.

The line I’ve read somewhere made me sad, at first - “All men are the same age”, but then after it marinated a bit, it made me envious. They are all the same, all the same age, feeling an eternal sense of comradeship toward one another.

Why can’t we do it? My entire life, I tried to be that to women around me, who in return mauled me with their bullshit. Unimportant, silly, unfair bullshit. I’m taller? My hair is better? It’s insane what women find to be offended by or insecure about.

I got blamed for their break-ups if I was at the same event as their significant other a few days prior. Without even checking what happened, they would mobilize our entire friend group to ignore me, hate me, remove me.

My entire life I’m some woman’s scapegoat for something. Your husband bought my Playboy, back then? He might have wanked a few times on my pic when he was younger? Completely disregarding the fact - I’m a decent fucking human being and I’m good to you.

I’m not flirtatious when in the company of your men, I’m behaving like a tomboy, and I would never give your man a reason to disrespect you, on my account. In fact, I’d probably call him out on it, if he would do it in front of me.

Doesn’t matter? My legs are longer?

We want society to treat us with respect, yet we’re so infantile. We fight about boys, clothes, jewelry, bags yet we want to be taken seriously?

What’s most defeating to me is the fact that the quality of a woman as a human being rarely matters. You will betray a decent female friend just because you think she has something of value, which you don’t have - disregarding her character. You’ll pick your girlfriends not based on character, but on who’s the least threatening to you.

I had women love-bomb me in the beginning, barging into my life with all these ideas about how we can make it better, all up until the day their male friends gave me a dash more attention, or they realized my social currency is higher than theirs (who cares, if I’m good, you’ll be good), or they realized I have boundaries I don’t want crossed.

Always the same, exact, tiring scenario.

You don’t think I’ve ever met a woman that was more interesting or prettier than me? I did. Plenty. In fact, I had a friend so beautiful and mesmerizing, no one even looked my way when out together. But she was a decent, nice fucking person, and I had no heart to leave her home, not to suck up all the attention.

We all feel the feels of incompetence, comparison, I do on most days; this article is not to shame you for feeling it, it’s to make us all understand we can’t always selfishly act on it.

If I would ever decide to treat any woman less than the goodness of her heart, regardless of her having something I possibly don’t - it would sign my utter failure as a woman and a human being.

What I’m banging on with this?

It’s the recent examples of this I see in society that make my skin crawl. Women leaving hateful comments on other women’s social media. Having all these discussions that are none of your business. You are offended with Madonna’s face? But only because you are actually a good girl-scout who supports women and supports Madonna, and wish her well actually, you aren’t hateful, you just wish she could age gracefully - give me a fucking break. It’s not your business how someone ages. You aren’t nice. You are condescending, and acting superior; leaving women alone if they want to age gracefully or fill themselves with a bunch of fillers - both scenarios actually mean not being sexist or ageist.

Get it through your skull; not everyone wants a picket fence and a family, some women just want to fuck young hot boys until they can stand, and let this woman be. Let her photoshop her face if that’s her game, why does she need to age gracefully?

She can age in debauchery if that’s what she wants!

Her face has nothing to do with you, and isn’t it beautiful, to have so many versions of us?

The recent Hailey Bieber hateful rhetoric towards Selena Gomez, like, you are married to this guy and you STILL are banging on about his former love? There are so many records of this woman’s retroactive jealousy, I don’t have the time or the space to feature them all here, plus, I’m not 12.

The woman who used to be a fan, almost a stalker of Justin, can’t seem to let go, even after years of him expressing his love for her, publicly or otherwise.

Why are we like this?

Pamela Anderson’s documentary. After decades of abuse this woman suffered at the hands of men, media, society, and finally was able to tell her story - it should be a triumph for all of us, collectively. We are ALL women. We could be all women. And we should understand all women.

Instead, Brittany Furlan; Tommy Lee’s current wife found offense at Pam releasing her story, and went on a hateful tangent against her. Is a woman not allowed to tell her past, just because her past is part of your present?

The fucking audacity.

Brittany’s course of actions after the documentary was released started with subtle digs and ended with a full-on armageddon:

First, she tweeted: “You know what’s good for your mental health? Living in the present.”

Then she addressed the public on TikTok letting her 16 followers know she was doing ok amidst another woman telling her life story.

Then she recorded a video, in Pam’s 90’s Filter on TikTok mocking Pam while insinuating she would be happy if Brittany died.

And finally, she leaked Pam’s messages to Tommy to a TikTok gossiper who made it public.

All followed with the not so cryptic messages like - “Guys, making jokes is how I cope”, and “If you guys know what I know…”

Woman, we all know what you know. You didn’t discover a key to a holy grail of woman’s wisdom - you could be Pamela in a decade, she could have been you at some point in life with some other guy, I could be you, you can be ALL women. Precisely why we should understand and not judge or hate ANY woman. 

Unless they are Marjorie Taylor Greene.

Retroactive jealousy is one of the life subjects I’ve become to be most fascinated about.

I’m trying to understand the psychology behind it. Why does it happen? Why are women jealous of their partner’s exes? I don’t get the conundrum: if your ex or his ex still wanted to be with him/her - you wouldn’t be here.

The fact you are here clearly means - you are supposed to be here, regardless of how fun it is for you.

You are here. With him.

If you are following a huge, epic, publicly known, paparazzi followed relationship people loved and adored, you must know what you’re following up. And I totally understand if not everyone’s up for it, but then you just don’t do it. Don’t date a man who was in that kind of relationship, if you can’t follow that. Or handle it.

What is the point of deciding to be with a man whose past you can’t handle, but making everyone’s life miserable?

A super successful friend of mine told me once, he met a young 20-something girl (he’s well in his 50s), and she told him she wasn’t comfortable with him talking to his ex-wife. Erm, you are dating a 50-something-year-old, you don’t think he comes with something or someone in his past? Was he raised in the woods or a monastery?

He explained to her he has a huge million-dollar company, world known, that he founded with his ex-wife who he divorced 20 years ago. The ex-wife is the CEO of their company. She also has a partner. So he explained to his new 20-something-year-old girlfriend that not talking to his ex-wife is simply impossible - they are business partners.

His 20-something girlfriend responded that she understands that, but she just doesn’t want her boyfriend to talk to his ex-wife. They split up.

Can you erase the past?

Why would you want to?

Why can’t someone’s past be respected, as the present and the possibility of a future?

You can be any woman. You are any woman. You are a young girl, you are an older woman, you are an old woman, you are depending on someone and you are independent, you are ALL women.

Tides can turn, and probably will; you will at some point in your life be what you despised or disapproved of once. You will probably be someone’s ex and you’ll wish to have your past respected.

I had a huge epic 8-year relationship that everyone loved and adored, which was followed in media heavily. We had a very amicable break-up that was cooking for a long time; I didn’t like his lifestyle and habits and saw him more as a friend by the long end of the relationship. There were no scenes or any drama, so we stayed pretty good friends after the breakup. I still liked him as a human being. It was easy for us.

When he met his new girlfriend, he told me that the first thing she asked him to do it throw away the boxes full of magazines with us in them. 

It was so foreign to me, I thought he was joking when he told me “she just doesn't like you”. She has never met me.

This is the conundrum that gets me, the audacity: when we were together, it was my doing that got him the manager and later the agents that helped him get his first roles; and after the breakup, I helped him get the biggest acting role of his life where he made tons of money. This wasn’t an accidental course of action, it was planned, working on it daily, while I neglected my own career, to get him to the point of having that Hollywood life, residency, and the ability to be where he wouldn’t otherwise be.

His new girlfriend, later wife got to enjoy the life he has because of my logistics, my contacts, my doing. You don’t like me, but ya like the life?

She forbade him to talk to me. She got someone to erase the information about our relationship from Wikipedia. He told me she told him how she’s pissed I got to be with him in his prime, and not her. 

This all seemed like a movie to me, and not real life.

I don’t want to be with him. You do. Is this mental gymnastics really needed?

He told me he saw my car outside of the store once and he wanted to go in to say hi to me, and introduce us; she didn’t want to, he didn’t insist probably for the fact he would have to explain how he knows my car I bought after we broke up.

I would have loved to meet her. In fact, I can meet them both for lunch, and feed their three kids chicken fingers.

Why can’t the past AND the present be equally respected?

What is wrong with us women?

You hate me, yet you never met me, and you can easily be me in years to come.

He’s not an easy person to live with, and I’m the only other person on this planet who knows exactly what she’s possibly dealing with, at times. I would think, that could connect us, and not divide us.

I don’t want him to be unhappy, I was glad he found someone that’s more similar in lifestyle to him.

A friend once told me I’m too American and too detached to understand this feeling.

Or maybe I’m just too Sagittarius.

So this is me trying to.

It’s the theory and logic behind retroactive jealousy that fascinates me. Why does it develop? Is it founded on actual fear, or is it just instinctive? 

Do these women really fear losing this guy? Makes no sense to me, because if someone wanted to stay with a guy, a new woman wouldn’t be there. Doesn’t this realization solve the issue? Or that’s exactly what’s making them insecure?

An interesting article popped out in The Cut, as I was dwelling on this subject. “A Love Letter to All My Exes’ Exes’ Instagram Accounts” by author Morgan Sullivan, giving her account as to why she can’t stop looking at her exes’ exes’ Instagram accounts.

This might give some insight:

“I’d first found these accounts when I was dating our now-mutual exes. Sometimes I’d click out of visceral jealousy, other times out of curiosity. No matter: They were all, in their own ways, the woman I wanted to be. These women could’ve been anyone, but because of my exes, I had more stake in their game and more reason to compare myself to them. Gutted by my jealous, irrational early-20-something feelings, they were the center of every fiction story I’d write in my mind, where I’d grant myself the answer to questions like, Did they make my ex happier? Was the sex better? — always in their favor. It didn’t matter if they were funny and bedazzling or edgy and aloof. Come to think of it, they were all so different but had something in common; something both my self-doubt and the Hollywood Industrial Complex fooled me into thinking held a great deal of weight in relationships: They were there first.”

“There were there first”.

All this because someone was somewhere first?

Someone is always going to be somewhere first. But why should the first bother us? First doesn’t mean the best compatibility. It’s just first. In my opinion, being first doesn’t have a great deal of weight.

I might be wrong.

Also, it’s probably not the first the first, but the first that mattered.

I often wonder how my situation would play out if my ex and I had kids. To even think how much damage some women can do to someone’s kids because they don’t like “someone being there first”.

A friend of mine told me a crushing story the other day, after she read my article on Pamela’s Documentary, where I introduced this subject. She was a top model, one of the most beautiful creatures I laid my eyes on. Still is. She was married to a famous athlete. They have 2 kids together. It was one of those public, famous relationships. They split up and both have new partners and another child with those new partners.

I would say perfect, amazing story, one big happy family, everyone found someone that maybe fits them better, all are happy, what more can we ask from life?

Except it’s not all happy. Except, my friend’s ex-husband's new wife is interfering in her life, meddling; as a result the ex-husband is not talking to his teenage daughter and is trying to turn the younger child against her, even filling reports of her not being a good mother to her third child she has with someone else.

I can not in my right mind understand it, condone it - how someone’s past can threaten your present so damn much the children need to suffer as a result?

Egos > lives?

We must do better.

And as Morgan Sullivan concludes in her The Cut article - 

“It took years of maturing and one healthy relationship to realize my exes’ feelings for them had no bearing on me; I was never up against these women. But while that pinchy feeling is gone, my nosiness remains. The routine is almost instinctual now, like itching a scratch.”

You are NEVER up against any women. Only women fully understand what you are and will be going through.

I sometimes dream about my ex’s new wife finding my number and calling me so I can tell her - don’t abandon your career for him. Cheer him on, but do YOU too.

I want to tell her the things I know, and she yet has to discover, hoping she doesn’t discover it way too late.

We made it. Despite everything that happened to you, you are here. You managed. You survived. And you also thrived. Give yourself some credit right now, while reading this; your past year was full of challenges and trespassers trying to get in the way of your peace, and you survived them all with a stable head on your shoulders.

That’s major.

They did not damage you.

They just taught you.

Sit in this realization for a few minutes. Let that marinate.

I launched this platform last year with the plan and a promise to myself to write stories that are more personal. Shorter than my usual articles (here’s hoping), and deeper from the heart. I didn’t do the greatest job with my resolution, as there was always some event that occurred in culture, a moment in society, a phenomenon in relationships, or a series/movie that touched me, that was more urgent to write about.

Is it urgent? Or do I always just run towards writing an op-ed on something that’s not me?

Going deep is hard, people.

Unpacking things you experienced, writing about it - means you have to relive them again. A method writing as I popularly call it. Some stories are beautiful to relive, but let’s face it, all the stories that make a difference are the ones that nearly crushed you.

Pain reaches more. And teaches more. Also, heals.

I’m pretty proud of my 2022. Hard year, but maybe my best yet.

This year, finally I felt I truly arrived to myself. I was patient, steady, and weathered the storms with a stable mind. I analyzed all the hardships and laid out a plan for overcoming them. 

I’ve never felt more focused. Aware. Most of my previous years were spent in a sort of daze, not understanding where I’m headed, not realistic about many relationships I had; romantic or friendly, and failing to see my part in many of its demises.

You can’t be ready for someone if you aren’t still ready for yourself.

But in 2022, I fully got it. Other people’s shortcomings, my own; how I got in all these situations that don’t benefit me. 

I, like you, dealt with many dubious people in the past year. Some were so terrible I thought, how are these people allowed out in the wilderness, among humans? Yet, surviving those with a clear head on my shoulders made me - this, now. Focused. 

Unreachable.

I might have taken some time to get here, but I’m here, at this platform, where I feel warm and fuzzy like someone is handing me a cup of hot cocoa through the screen, vying to do what I have envisioned here on Antagolist.

Going deeper. Diving in.

My 2022 was filled with so much. Lessons. Travels. Great trips. Food. Wine. Meeting great people that pick you up when in shambles. There was some unexplainable magic, as the stars really saw me and awarded me for the struggles I faced and handled on my own in the past decade.

2022 might be the year I made the least money, but I did the best work and, somehow, got to travel the most. It was made possible due to laser-focused planning and making damn good decisions. I’ve seen cities and countries I’ve never been to; it changed my perspective of what’s important in life, and how much I appreciate the solitude, good food, sea, sun, and simplicity of life.

I visited Puerto Rico. It shocked me, in the best ways possible. I got to swim in the sea that’s not mine, yet I felt the same rebirth and healing that I only feel when I jump in the Adriatic. That never happened before.

The best way to find yourself is away from familiarity.

I enjoyed the simplicity of the people I met, the art on the streets, the history of every building, and the helpful, kind strangers on every corner. I traveled with a friend but decided to stay and enjoy the place on my own.

I had the best time.

Talking to strangers.

I wrote so much in the evening breeze; I could do this life, do my work, eat some great food, enjoy the sea, a glass of something after a job well done.

I went back to Los Angeles on a business trip, a city where I lived for 9 years and hated vigorously. I got reminded of people constantly trying to convince me one simply cannot hate the palms and the ocean. I also remembered how I always stood my ground, removed all the noise coming from people who simply don’t know what’s best for you, and finally moved to a city that fit me best.

We make the mistake of listening to the outside chatter often; friends who see your life through their lens and impose their takes on you, as well as American TV shows telling you palm trees must mean happiness, instead of trusting our intuition.

Los Angeles almost destroyed my mental health. The city is not about the palms, the city, at least for me, is about the people.

My coming back to LA after two years on a work trip was a victory lap and a confirmation of a good decision made.

I saw my former friends, shells of the people I left, with dubious lives I no longer understood or even wanted to witness for a few days I was there.

In 2022, I also shared my living space with a friend who was intent on obstructing my life, it wasn’t personal, as much as she was miserable and wanted a partner in misery I wasn’t about to give her; I simply have no time for empty socializing at this stage of my life. Every minute of my day is accounted for, and pointless conversations or TV watching where I learn nothing - no longer interest me.

It was the hardest living situation I have ever experienced, but I was the most productive in it. During those few months living there, I wrote more articles and chapters than in the past 2 years combined. I learned that my body goes into full-on combat mode when someone tries to prevent me from producing my articles. SWAT-style mode to achieve what I didn’t manage in the most serene living environments.

I never knew I could have such mental strength, and I feel unpenetrable for it.

I visited my family over the summer, usually a very Shakespearian undertaking. But this year, somehow, the beef I usually have with them was minimal - mission impossible for the past 20 years. I laid out some boundaries as I stepped off the plane, and after months of therapy and self-therapy, I finally learned how not to get affected by people who wouldn’t be able to walk 300 meters in my shoes.

Unapologetic.

I also ruined a relationship/connection I invested in for the past 2 years, or whatever you can call a union where two people live on separate continents; one half-fight, and a few misunderstandings later; we were gone.

No communication, no explanation, just gone. I didn’t take it well at first, but then I unwrapped this conundrum of realization: I often don’t make good choices in people, and the universe is here to assist me, to take away the situations I cannot, that aren’t best for me.

I didn’t need explanations, I didn’t need closure, and you don’t need it either.

Usually, when we say we just need closure, what we actually want is a window or a door back in. We don’t need it, we just want it.

You don’t want closure. You want back.

And back is where you don’t need to go.

In the midst of me still not realizing all this, someone else busted into my life. I wasn’t particularly nice to him, he was a rebound; I was annoyed, short, and even rude at times. When I was rude or assertive, he didn’t challenge me, he would just say - “Ok, you can elaborate on that when we see each other”.

My sister was spending the summer where he was spending his summer, the place he insisted I come to so we could see each other. I came intending to hate the place and everyone in it, hate him, and stay in that wallowing space. The first night I saw him he was slightly annoying me, or was I just too tired and worn out from the previous experience, that I didn’t have enough energy for someone’s excitement over our possible union.

I asked for Red Bull and he got it for me, but then ordered a bottle of wine at the restaurant and sat too close to me on the stone steps while we were waiting for the table. The scenario of him sitting too close to me so I couldn’t look at him to have a conversation, as well as having both Red Bull and a glass of wine in both hands wasn’t a perfect layout for a neurodivergent mind. I was annoyed and he was excited. Apparently, he wanted to meet me since 2004, or something slightly similar, but definitely in the Dickens vicinity.

We did meet briefly in 2006, and he said I wasn’t receptive back then. I might have been too popular to be focused on him, he says.

I wanted to be receptive now, but the Red Bull and the wine in both hands, sitting too close on the steps, and watching over a bottle of wine not to fall from the stone steps were unsettling me.

When we finally sat at the table, he across me, not sideways anymore, Red Bull in my stomach, tiredness subdued, wine glass and the bottle sturdily on the table, and a smell of the most amazing food in the Adriatic about to hit the table (and my mouth), I felt good. Bordeline enjoying it, but I didn’t tell him that.

I was wounded when I met him. Not in 2006, but now, in 2022. In fact, the first night we met was 3 weeks before the Red Bull and the wine situation; we met when he jumped in to remove me from decking some guy who had spit his drink on my hand in the club, to get my attention.

Yes, that’s how my summer of 2022 started.

And the summer ended with him nursing me back to life. He took me to the best beaches, and restaurants; we took boat cruises and went to all local exhibitions (“because we need to support Croatian artists”), we visited local stonemasons and admired their work, and we found the best secluded wineries on Croatian Islands. I wasn’t into wine that much before I met him. I could drink white wine here or some red when the hosts insisted, but I never enjoyed it like most people do.

He had a good tactic. He loved red wine (he’s French), but kept drinking white with me and slowly introduced me to drop of red here and there. I wasn’t there yet, but I drank it to make him happy; after all - all he was doing for the whole summer was trying to make me happy. And then one night, I had some red and actually liked it, without pretending. On our way to a restaurant, he knew a great little secluded winery on the island that had the best red wines in the country, I tried one, I don’t know if it was him or the wine, but that glass hit differently.

I enjoyed it.

It was a good day.

When I go out now, I order red wine, and not to make him happy.

He restored my faith in people. In men. He’s far from perfect, and not someone I want to stay with, but for that moment in time, and for a lifelong friendship, he was what the doctor ordered.

He calls every day and somehow manages to do every single thing he says he will do.

He doesn’t like texting. He calls you.

Sometimes he’s annoyed with the busyness of his life, and when I need to hear details about something that’s not logical to me, instead of explaining it to me, he just says - I can’t now I’m tired and never gets back to it. Not sure if that’s his tactic too, but it taught me to let go. Not everything had to make sense to me.

He keeps being there, day after day.

He taught my neurodiverse brain not to need to know the process of everything, sometimes things just ARE.

And to finish 2022, I also got the World Cup on top of an already mind-blowingly emotional year.

When I first heard the ’22 World Cup is to be held in Qatar, a non-football country, in the middle of the winter, I was offended. How dare you? World Cup is an event, the occurrence you watch in your tank top and shorts, half drunk in the middle of the day, talking smack with your friends and anonymous enemies online belonging to a country of your opponent.

And yet, this particular World Cup and all its dramaturgy worth of a volume of Sartre - delivered so much, in the exact time we needed it, finishing off not just 2022, but a period of taxing two years with a bow-out worth of Broadway.

Croatia. Back-to-back medal. Two Cups in a row. One columnist once said football is about who we are, but even more so about who we are not.

It was a perfect ending to an already crazy, taxing, and emotional year; an epilogue. I’m proud of this team. I’m proud of what we represent in this world and how we came about, how mauled we had to get during history to have this; the phenomenon that we are in football, and a question many sports commentators have - how does this tiny country and this team manage to do THIS?

A team reflects a nation, they say. But also it doesn’t. As one Croatian columnist said: “Football is just a metaphor for life. In the Croatian case, the national football team is the most convincing metaphor for the nation. But the nation is also just a metaphor.”

I like the metaphor of my nation, who they are, and what they allowed me to experience at the end of the arduous two years.

Or in the words of one distinguished Twitter Commentator:

“Croatia don’t dance, don’t make noise, get on their business quietly, and are one game away from back-to-back World Cup finals. Respect man.”

I read that last “respect man” in the voice of Wayne from Wayne’s World.

“None of us is only what we are, but also what we’re not. Especially when it comes to us who were born by hardships on the borders of the worlds.”

We are always what we are not.