7.9.25 a surprise connection...
From the Desk of Gord Giant dust ball careering through space 7.9.25
Grateful For Music: A savage symphony screaming through my veins, keeping the chaos at bay. Hinge Women: Wild, untamed souls on a digital roulette wheel, daring me to spin. Creativity: The electric jolt of madness that lights up my skull like a neon sign in Vegas.
Proud Of Laying it bare with the women, no bullshit, no masks—just raw, unfiltered truth. It’s like spitting in the face of polite society and loving every second of it.
Emotions Energized: Wired to the gills, ready to tear through the day like a bat out of hell. Curious: Sniffing out the next adventure, hungry for whatever’s lurking around the corner. Fulfilled: Drunk on the moment, full to the brim with the sweet nectar of now.
Intention Be Courageous: Dive headfirst into the void, naked and screaming, embracing the terror of the unknown.
Connect The women on Hinge, each a potential co-conspirator in this lunatic dance. A stranger, some rogue prophet who might drop a truth bomb and blow my mind. Julie, the anchor in this storm of weirdness.
Learned Fuck what others think: Their judgments are just noise, static from a broken radio. I’m living for the rush, not their approval.
Exercise Pounding the pavement, racking up miles like a road warrior dodging the apocalypse. Push-ups, because a man’s gotta keep his fists ready for whatever the universe throws.
The Dispatch
Good God, what a ride! This laptop’s cold as a witch’s tit, humming under my fingers while the Canadian fall sneaks in like a thief. Winter’s looming, that bastard, and I’m plotting my escape before it buries me alive. I won’t survive another season of frozen hell unless I’m carving powder at Tremblant. Zero ski days last year? That’s not a crime—it’s a goddamn war crime. Thanks, family, for chaining me to the ground.
Here I am, 5 a.m., back at Timmies, the neon-lit cathedral of the sleepless. Slipped into my Asics, and sweet Jesus, my feet are singing hallelujahs—those Hokas were like walking on cinderblocks. Small victories in a world gone mad.
I’m half-dead, eyelids drooping like a junkie’s, dreaming of teleporting to my bed. This endless trudging is a soul-suck, but the miles are piling up, and I’m too stubborn to quit. Write or bail? Hell, I’m already here, might as well bleed onto the page.
Caught a nap this morning, 6 to 11, and I’m owning this feral sleep schedule. Sleep when you’re tired, wake when you’re alive—screw the clock. It’s working, and that’s all that matters.
Why not throw myself into the fray? Meet a few wild women, see if we can spark something insane together. Nothing’s permanent, not till kids show up and rewrite the rules. For now, it’s all a gamble, and I’m rolling the dice with a grin.
I’m ready, man. Ready to strip down to the bone, to be vulnerable, honest, present. The time is now, and I’m charging into it like a lunatic with a Molotov cocktail.
Just got off a marathon FaceTime with Natalie. Her name’s a cosmic joke, like the universe is winking at me. Seven years off? Maybe I’ve been chasing the wrong ghosts all along. Connect…
Gordon GordonBufton@Proton.me @GordonBufton