There’s a white girl coming to town. I met her in a hostel. She means nothing to me, yet I’m gonna give her the grand tour, flirt up a storm, maybe pay for a meal or two. She doesn’t like me. But my evolutionary bones scream that I need to find a mate to pass on these genes. Darwin’s cursed us all

Then there’s my mom. I just finished four days with her in Japan. I was short tempered, uncommunicative, distant, a terrible conversationalist: in short, a pouty child. I wanted to book my own return flight and leave her in Japan. I wanted to scream and stomp the ground and punch random Japanese men in the face to get my anger out.

My mom brought me into the world and my wicked heart tells me I don’t need her anymore. She won’t help me get my genes in the pool.

My mother has done everything for me. In fact maybe I’m too much of her life. She came to the US with a man who she hated, and then kids gave her meaning.

Then we got older. And we noticed the flaws. She’s quick to judge, assumes bad intentions, stereotypes, and lacks social and emotional intelligence. My blood boiled in Japan, and can’t help but wonder if it’s because I’m that messed up. Because I am. I know I am. But I never asked to be born. She had kids to purpose her life. Parents need their children. But children do not need their parents.

Because in fact it’s not just one white girl coming to town, it’s 3 white girls at different times. And I don’t want to go on another vacation with my mom. Is this the start? She’s 59 in four days. She’ll get older and older and my apathy will just get worse. My Cantonese will slowly fall off, increasing my frustration when I can’t communicate with her. Until finally she’s on her deathbed, and I’m filled with regret for not being a good son. I’ll maximize the week I have left with her on earth, trying to make up for a lifetime of distance

Then Darwin and his theory of evolution starts yapping, and I think it’s not my responsibility. I need to get my genes passed down. She’s already passed hers down. Technically me passing down mine will be me helping her pass on hers again. I don’t see how being in a pissy mood will help me find a mate. And my mom puts me in an pissy mate. But what if my mate becomes a mom! And we start to get pissy at each other. And the cycle continues. And the kids notice our bickering and develop into pissy people too until they find a mate, have a moment of bliss, and then redig up their own pissiness.

Break the chains. It’s time to break the chains. And I have no idea how.

Then there’s my dad. Who left home at 18 and never saw his mother again. Eff this government. They will hinder me from having babies, so I’m swimming to Hong Kong to freedom. Imagine the next time you see your mom is on a Skype call when she’s about to die, when you’re piss poor in a bum ass Columbus Ohio, telling her you’re supposed to have made it by now, and you haven’t heard her voice or seen her face for more than 40 years. So you cry and cry and cry. Now she’s dead and my dad still works immigrant jobs, even delivering packages for Mr. Bezos himself.

The only conclusion I have from this is that I’m messed up so dang messed up.

I was literally talking about her yesterday to my friends, an example of someone who was so easy to crush on because she ticked all the boxes- ambitious
– kind to service people
– witty
– channels the improv “yes and” mindset

She’s one of those girls that makes your heart tug whenever you just think of her. I don’t think of her that often because she’s literally 7000 miles away, but when I do it’s always “oh *insert her name*” followed by a pathetic heart flutter. And I feel nostalgic about a relationship that never happened and never was close. But hey I’m a hopeless romantic and love to read into small details. So what, she didn’t respond to my last letter? We don’t subscribe to conventional letter writing propaganda.

She’s so down to earth. She literally makes sketches of random strangers on napkins and doesn’t give a shit who likes the posts on IG. They’re about eating disorders and finding yourself in planes and whatever the heck it’s just cool because it’s her.

Then comes the dreaded mysterious instagram post with a dude in it. Oh no. It happened. The girl that you’ve secretly crushed on and haven’t seen in three years finally got in a relationship. God forbid somebody else finds her attractive.

The conventional bro-science of the internet prescribes hitting the gym after you 😢go through 😢 something like this. But then I clicked on the dude’s profile. Man’s a ginormous gorollia with pinky bigger than my thigh, flipping off the camera with a blue check as his bodyguard.

I’m in disbelief. This? This is the guy you choose? My man probably counts his veins in his freetime and probably never left the US except when he brought his passport to New Mexico. There is no amount of gymming I could do to make myself look like him. I mean, I get it. Look at his body. It’s hot. He’s white. He makes money. I just thought maybe she would go for someone who is yes hot, but isn’t a vat of aggression and violence and media masculinity. Someone who is in touch with themselves, not like some feeble chicken legs watercolor painter, but someone who looks at grandma’s with compassion and can appreciate good wine and likes to occasionally punch people only in his mind and never in real life. In short, someone like me. Someone take this computer from me and cue the simpy music.

Oh well. I’m one of two males that she lets follow her napkin sketch account. She probably thinks I’m some twink wanting to see her sketches, and I can stimulate her intellectually but would never be a viable romantic partner. I mean look at my arms.

Again, I get it. Maybe she likes holding his hand and he’s actually sweet in person. Not like his perceived persona. I guess we’re all just screaming: Please just look at me god damn it! I’m cool! I’m so cool! Look I’m so in touch with my emotions that I’m writing them on a public blog for everyone to read! I’ll bashfully say, “Oh you read my blog?!” in fake disbelief when you bring it up. Then like the self aware king I am, I’ll brush aside your compliments because my ego doesn’t thrive on your plebeian remarks.

Writing this blogpost and reflecting, I don’t even know if she is ambitious. We met while working dead end jobs. How can she be kind to service people if I’ve never seen her interact with service people? I don’t think she’s that witty either. She’s just dumb attractive.

There’s this scene from the show iCarly, I’m pretty sure, that lives rent free in my head. One of the protagonists finally gets some idiot boyfriend or something and her best friend says to her, “Are you sure you don’t like the idea of her more than the reality of her?” I sure as hell loved the idea of this girl.

Well folks. I’m just a sucker idolizing mediocre pussy. You can see clearly enough I put her on a pedestal that’s taller than the eiffel tower. That’s pretty unattractive and a lousy way to live my life. I haven’t seen her in three years. And you can change a lot in three years. ‘ve changed a lot in three years.

She’s allowed to like whoever she wants, including not me, and I have no say and shouldn’t have a say. Of course that iCarly wisdom is sound because real is always better than fictitious. Why the hell would I pick the idea of a bed over an actual bed when I’m tired and want to go to sleep? Next time I catch myself sketching her on a napkin like an idiot, some fake goddess 7000 miles away, I’ll hit pause on the rom-com soundtrack. No more casting myself as the lovesick extra in a scene that never shoots. I’m thankful I can learn, make dumb mistakes, spill it all on a blog, and move on. Here’s to chasing what’s real and leaving the napkins blank.

Three years after my one and only long haul solo trip, I book a trip to Sydney for five days to see Mumford and Sons. I buy two concert tickets, making it my mission to find a stranger to go with. Here are some of the things I learned on my favorite short haul trip so far.

– Seeing the picture of a landmark as a child and then finally seeing it in person (The Sydney Opera House), and then getting to be inside it to hear your favorite band sing your favorite songs you’ve been listening to for the past ten years is living life on blessed mode.

– If you’re out of practice, it’s hard to talk to strangers in a hostel. So it’s okay if you sit down in front of strangers, plop your laptop down, not say anything, pretend to do work, leave the hostel, go to a coffee shop, and journal for three pages to hype yourself up to go to strangers. It works. Go journal three pages whenever you’re feeling a bit scared.

– Learning French changed my life. I’ll continue to say this till I die. It turns out, everybody in that hostel was from France. Because I’m some American Chinese guy who spoke their language, everybody wanted to be my friend.

– Finally breaking out of my inferiority complex shell, I was a little taken aback to realize that people actually wanted to be my friend. Not only that, the really attractive French girls wanted to talk to me. Me? Are you sure? Except for the snob that was probably from Paris. All the others were from the south.

– Smiling, showing genuine interest, being relaxed, these of course helped to befriend strangers.

– I walked around the CBD on three separate occasions, trying to muster up the courage to ask a stranger to go to the concert with me. I couldn’t speak to anyone. Contrast this to me walking up to strangers in Europe literally asking if I could sleep in their house. It’s okay to go through different seasons. Eventually I realized the best person to go with was Paul, a friend I made in the hostel. Sometimes trying harder doesn’t get you farther.

– Of course there’s a small chance I’ll see these guys again, and that’s okay. Sometimes these little micro friendships that exist in a vacuum are good for your soul. And sometimes you do see them again many years down the line, and it’s still very very good.

– If you talk beyond the surface, especially in a hostel, you will earn all of my trust, and suddenly I care deeply about everything you care for in a nontoxic way. Hearing Liberty share about her little half sister, wow that made me want to be their biggest cheerleaders and supporters. But then suddenly Liberty turned it back to me, and I usually have so much to share, but I didn’t find myself sharing deeply in return. I’m not sure why.

– Being witty, full of personality, taking my joke and building upon it, being a bit piquant, continues to be an incredibly sexy trait.

– Australian coffee tastes really good.

– There are some hilarious animals in Sydney that provide a great contrast to the urban jungle of Hong Kong. Like the bin chicken.

– I got to see cricket played for the first time in my life.

– At the end of the trip, three people sent me off at the metro station. One was tearing up! Are you serious? Is this the influence I can have? Yes. This is the influence anyone can have! if they’re kind, smiley, themselves, not a massive dick, maybe good at french too.

– At the end, I hopped on another plane for nine hours, adding a butt ton of CO2 emissions, (writing this sentence in here for your woke folk), and arrived back in HK rejuvenated. This is the joy and privilege of travel!

– Though it can be really really hard. I will never stop praising the solo trip. And it doesn’t have to be necessarily a "trip". For my next adventure, I’m going "solo" to Baylor to start my master’s degree in film. I never NEVER expected to get a masters degree. You can be sure there will be so many lessons in those 1000 days in Texas. Yeehaw

When I was doing my 104 day hitchhiking adventure throughout Europe, I tried to blog as much as I could.

I wanted to look back and remember the times when I roughed it, and really feel proud of myself. I filled those blog pages with pages and pages of complaints. Lots of disordered eating complaints.

Now, I’m 25 and doing perhaps one last travel hurrah in Sydney. Social hostel, two concert tickets, finding someone to go with, maybe hitchhiking, finding ways to fill my time memorably (or not), inviting strangers to watch a terrible cut of Holding on to Water.

The first time I had stayed in a hostel, as a fresh 19 year old, if I had met someone who was 25, which I think I did, (Monika from Lithuania), I would’ve thought they were so OLD! In a way, they are. In a way, I am.

This hostel life won’t last forever (or will it?!), and I’m excited for one last one. Here’s the "calm before the storm", or the, "man I have no idea what the heck will happen in these next five days."

I look fondly back on literally all of the times I’ve stayed in a hostel.
When I was the odd one out in a room full of Brazillians, who smelled like straight dog shit.
When I went to Park Retiro with probably the most interesting man I’ve ever met, from Norway.
When I met Libby and Matteo in Cats Hostel and became bonded for life.
When I had my first confrontational chat with Sam at the Generator in Barcelona.
When, years later, I remembered the layout, I snuck in and slept in a hallway.
When I walked around Taichung with that man who could barely walk, he told me to hurry up, so I bought him ice cream.
When in the same hostel, I was trying to convince a British cop to hitchhike back to Taipei with me, when I was actually trying to convince myself.
When I went to Seoul, I thought I had so much experience talking to strangers after Europe, but didn’t talk to a single person.
When I told the receptionist in Lisbon that she is really pretty, which was a big deal for me at 22.
When I lay awake in Thessaloniki after one of the best weeks of my life and felt lonely because some german was getting clapped upstairs.
When I was putting my new snow bib on for snowboarding with a group of six friends in Tokyo; waking up and having matcha donuts together.
When we were the only people in probably the only hostel around in Jerash, Jordan, and speaking funny french with Arthur and Victor.
When Matteo and I tried talking to some boring ass strangers in Berlin, so we said, eff it, let’s have a hitchhiking competition to Prague.
When we got to Prague, and I blacked out for the first time, and Matteo made sure I was okay, when I somehow teleported back to the hostel bed.
When I said goodbye to Matteo in Krakow to go on a 10 day silent meditation trip, and wanting to cry afterwards when we hugged.
When I stayed in one purely for a bed and to save money, when I was out schmoozing famous people at Sundance Taiwan.

When the hostel was closed for winter in Perpignan, so I had to knock on Bernard’s door, and he let me in.

Hostels have been so good to me. I love hostels. I’m grateful. So grateful.

Here’s to one more.

Put a camera in my heart and you’d lock me up in jail. You wouldn’t let that beast see the light of day because of how messed up it is.

I used to have thoughts of punching people in the face. Now, I still do, but it doesn’t stop after one punch. I’ve had plenty of other thoughts that scare me – how can my heart be so dark. Sorry parents if you’re reading this. I’m not right in the head.

But I’d go so far to say that all of our hearts are wicked. Put a camera in all of our hearts and we’d have an overpopulated prison problem.

Some would say, “You need Jesus.” And I agree. And then I think of all the people who have Jesus whose hearts are still wicked. I think of when I feel like I had Jesus and my heart still frightened me.

Maybe I can blame it on my parents. I’ll share some sob stories so I can win your empathy. I used to cry over a lack of food on the table. My dad sometimes slowly drove through the neighborhood and openly stared at other women. I’m so tired of feeling icky when the police officers don’t take their fucking shoes off when they walk into my home. I almost killed my sister when we were playing with the futon, and I didn’t have the courage to ask my dad for help.

Sometimes I miss being depressed because if I killed myself, I’d be okay with it. Whereas now, if I killed myself, I’d feel like a stupid idiot.

So welcome in to my wicked heart. If I ever give off the vibe that I have it all together, I don’t. I’m a professional. I’m literally trying to make money off of telling other people how messed up I am.

So grab a seat and come on in. Tell me about your wicked heart, so I at least can feel like I’m not alone.

Heart to Heart, Fart to Fart, and Everything in between

I fear some people might think these silly songs are too revealing. "I miss the days when people kept their private information to themselves."

But what about the supposed "goodness" that comes from talking about your problems out loud?

In the journey of making a movie that’s hyper specific to me, in order to cut through the noise, I have to talk about the gross stuff. I definitely don’t want to. But when creating a personal brand, you are to lean into who you are. And this is who I am. You’ll know what I mean when you watch the doc.

Neil Gaiman said, “The moment that you feel, just possibly, you are walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind, and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself…That is the moment, you might be starting to get it right.”

1-2 years after the movie is done, we’ll see if I got it right.,

If you’re an emerging filmmaker you kind of have to play status games.

• Get into Sundance Ignite

• Have a lot of followers but not too much so you’re not an influencer

• Know a guy that knows a guy who’s Spielberg’s grand daughter

• Live in LA and workout (twice a month at most) at equinox even when you can’t afford it

• Get your films into SXSW, Cannes, whatever whatever. Look I’m cool guys. I swear.

It sounds like I’m jabbing at these things. Which I see how my tone conveys that. They’re not bad things. I applied to Ignite. I sent a short to SXSW and Sundance. I know a guy that knows an even cooler head honcho. When you’re emerging, you rely on these opportunities, these little games, to get your work out there. How else will you get recognized and then given more opportunities to make money? And it’s all about the money.

Here’s a completely made up case study on two filmmakers who started on similar paths and now are completely different.

Enter Casey Neistat. Grew up poor. Teenage father. Scrubbed forearm deep clam chowder in large stock pots. In 2009, he and his buddies Josh and Benny Safdie create a movie called Daddy Long Legs. It’s the brother’s first feature. I’m assuming Casey’s too.

It gets into Sundance. It gets into Cannes. I’m not sure if 2009 Sundance was on the map, but here’s a couple movies from that year:
Precious
Bronson
The End of Line
The Cove

Have you watched any of these? I sure as hell haven’t. Have you heard of them? Yes most likely.

The next year in 2010, Casey gets his own TV show on HBO. The brothers keep making features and shorts. Reception is pretty good.

Casey quits the formal industry announces his vlog in 2014. It gets big. He starts his company. In 2016 he sells Beme for 25 million dollars.

With lots of work to show on their belt, the brothers cast Robert Pattison in Good Time in 2017. It’s a fantastic movie. Next is Uncut Gems. The brothers now make their own movies. Josh’s next one has Timmy Chalamet as the lead. Benny’s has The Rock. Okay great.

This is how I interpret it. Casey said eff the status games, I’m doing my own thing. Amasses a huge fortune and audience.

The brothers have their status signals with the festivals, getting into Venice, Cannes again, SXSW. And subsequently get huge (in the industry). But maybe you’ve never heard of their name. But have you seen Oppenheimer? So you’ve seen Benny’s face.

All that is to say, whatever path you choose, the games or not, with a butt ton of hard work, you can get successful. Okay back to working on my applications so I can start winning these games.

It’s the second time I’ve gotten coffee from this lady. The first time she didn’t think I spoke Cantonese, so she said to her coworker, “Wow he’s really handsome.” I looked at her with understanding and said thank you.

A couple months later, I see her again, and she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, “He really is handsome.” This makes me feel good.

We love compliments. Asian cultures don’t often use their words to express affection. Because I sometimes exhibit cowardice and for the sake of this blog, I’ll write down some compliments here for my friends.

1. Trevor has a kind caring heart. He visited me in the hospital many times and tried to pull his doctor connections to get me through the emergency room faster. He also has a nice smile. He would be an excellent politician with his true North.

2. Teresa also has a nice smile. Is kind, real, isn’t ashamed to be herself, and is quick to laugh and be joyous. What a great trait!

3. Uday loves coding. You can tell he feels it in his bones. He has a knack for solving coding problems  and that translates to everything else in life.

4. James looks good without hair. He is a leader. Whether that is from learning on the job or being a natural at it, whatever it is, he’s put in the necessary and hard work to get to where he’s at now.

5. Joe is a world traveler and has a heart that deeply feels.

6. Jae can command a room with his presence.

7. Aidan is loud in all the right ways.

8. Emily looks great for her age. Her friend Shegalla too.

9. Fabio is the best bjj teacher in Hong Kong and his gym is making a statement.

10. Greig can beat your ass and also has a heart that has a large capacity to listen, care, and feel. I will regret having never gone skiing with him.

11. Christina is the best out of all of us. She can laugh, listen, be serious, get things done, be a supermom, command a stage, sing, rock a baby to sleep while giving a presentation on mental health, be a superhero, care deeply, cook delicious shabbat food, and much more. If I didn’t meet Christina during my time in Hong Kong, my time would’ve been robbed of more than half of its goodness.

12. Wes is funny. He doesn’t turn away when I jokingly shove the karaoke mic down his throat. He claps with his feet and is himself no matter who’s in the room.

13. Kelly is musically gifted.

14. Jojo is the most gifted person I’ve met at thinking of funny puns on the spot.

15. If Joy from Inside Out was an actual person, it would be Karene.

16. Gabe possesses deep theological knowledge.

17. Flo would be famous if she worked in Hollywood because of her administrative, organized, leader-heavy, and scrupulous personality. Even with all of this, she’s joyful, funny, and kind.

18. Sophie is good looking.

19. Alex excels in everything he points his mind to.

20. Evelyn has a deep, rich way of thinking with nuance. She also would excel at being a movie producer. She has an empathetic heart, loves deeply and widely, and is really cool.

21. Francis is a ride or die. Perhaps to a fault. That means ride or literally die. He’s athletically gifted, is hilariously witty, actually sings really well on the karaoke mics, and works hard.

It’s Chinese New Year in Hong Kong, and I don’t have many people to spend it with. That’s okay. It’s a holiday for families, and I thought it was a good idea to move 8000 miles away from home. Historically, I’ve never felt good about this holiday. My mom would give me $100 or sometimes $200. I would feel bad, because she doesn’t have that kind of money to spend. And she has four kids. I would join her at the Chinese Restaurant, making $8 an hour, to help her stay on top of the grueling lunch and dinner rush that lasted hours and hours and you didn’t even have time to sweat. At the end of the day, the boss would unjustifiably keep some of the tips we worked hard for. Now here in Hong Kong, without any friends inviting me (except for Trevor, thank you Trevor), I stare at my empty wallet and think, "Shit. CNY money was supposed to pay for lunch next week."

So don’t tell me it’s not about money. Because it’s all about money. You can be a pack a backpack and find yourself during your 20s, hopping from country to country, kissing girls in clubs, drinking beer from bottles you can’t read and throwing up in a language you didn’t know you learned, finally begin your career in your 30s with the cushion of daddy’s money under your ass, and proceed to try your best to not feel bad about yourself. Or you work your ass off despite a far less favorable hand, get into an elite school, get a job in consulting or finance, and work your family out of generational poverty.

Or your me: you couldn’t bring yourself to do the corporate thing, though you tried with your first job, being paid a fair wage for only working 1/8 hours in the day and watching YouTube videos with the rest. After graduating from an elite school without paying a dime because of your family’s low income level, you did the country hopping too, because you wanted too wanted to "find yourself." And now at 25, you have consumer debt and medical debt, and you used to laugh at people who had debt. And you think, "How am I going to dig myself out of this?" So it’s about money. And you need money to solve money problems. And you need to build a fortune before you can say, "Wow I still feel empty even with all this money." But you still have to get there before you can confidently make that claim. So happy Chinese new year. May this year bring you dump trucks filled with dollar bills.

While my mom works at a Chinese restaurant again this year, more than ten years later from the first time I did with her, I sit on my keyboard, tap tap taping away at this blogpost, complaining about how little money I have. Sigh. I find it so unfair for someone to tell me that it’s not about money when they make more than me and give less than me proportionally. So I guess all my eggs are in this film thing, to break my family out of generational poverty that seemingly started with my parents. Then I get anxious. Of course like any high achieving child, I want to buy my mom a house that’ll be too big for her to clean and too, "Son this is nice, but you know I love you despite this." And I want to buy my dad a Tesla because he’s been riding a piece of shit on four wheels since he moved to the USA in ’96. And to get there requires lots of hard work and lots of gatekeepers saying yes to the work I make. And I think sometimes I’m not cut out for this, and I’m not good enough. So what do you do? Foot on the gas. Nose to the grindstone. Trade parts of your soul (or all of it) for some numbers in your bank account. That’s even if you have the chops to work work work and work. I don’t know if I do. Happy Chinese New Year.

It’s the first time you’ve stayed overnight at a hospital.

You’re 25 and you thought maybe you could make it longer.

First you go to the private one because you thought it wouldn’t be that expensive. Plus all your rich friends can afford it so of course you can too when you make nothing compared to them.

You stay for 5 hours and you realize fuck it’s way more than you thought. Like WAY more. So now you’re 3k USD in debt.

So you leave mid antibiotic cycle and wait in line for 5 hours to be admitted into a public hospital. The vibes are different. There’s a girl repeatedly dry heaving in a wheelchair in front of you, and you don’t know what to do.

Two hours after you’re finally admitted, you’ve miraculously fallen asleep in the bed despite the crowded ward full of oldies with problems more pressing than yours.

You got your problem from pretending to playfight grown men. And you blame it on one of the grown men’s long fingernails who sliced your leg. Yet it’s your fault for not taking care of it sooner.

And the doctor shouts your name at 3am and you awake and probably the other oldies too, so you feel bad. And he speaks to you for thirty seconds, and you feel like you can’t stand up for yourself.

So your head wanders for the next two hours, and the doctor yelled for the lights to be turned on, so your circadian rhythm is getting messed up, and you’re thinking of all the ways you’ve been weak before in your past. You wrap the hospital jacket they gave you around your eyes but not over your mouth which is hard but helps you sleep.

And suddenly you awake and there’s an IV stuck in you. But you have to go pee. So you ask the nurses how am I supposed to go pee, and they hand you a cylinder carton of milk looking thing. And you’re like wtf how do I use this? And they just hold it near their groin. And you say well shit can I have some privacy? So they close the curtains which they only close for special occasions.

And instead of being an idiot and trying in your bed like all the other patients do, you stand up and pee straight into the carton and feel better. So you set it on the ground, but you’re unfamiliar with this shape, so you don’t set it down well, and it falls down and the pee goes everywhere.

And you say loudly, fuck, shit, fuck. And you realize what you’ve done. But nobody hears you because you’re in a foreign country and fuck, shit, fuck doesn’t hit the same for them.

So you try and hit the nurses call button without stepping in your own pee and getting your leg double infected.

And you feel like an effing idiot and tell the nurses sorry and you can’t look them in the eye.

And the cleaning lady drops some paper towels on your pee and gets a broom and dust pan and swipes it up.

And you think how in the heck is that sanitary.

Then think why the heck did you spill your pee all over the floor in the first place.

And you can’t console yourself with, "this happens to everyone." Because this does not in fact happen to everyone.

So now you’re afraid to go pee. You’ve never peed in a room filled with sick old people before, hiding your carton under your sheets.

So you think okay I’ll wait till it’s lights out, rip the IV out, pee in the toilet like a normal human who’s been practicing for 25 years, and get back in bed.

But your leg is effed from surgery and so numb you can’t move it.

So what you do. You just want your dignity. You just want to feel like a normal person in this hospital, instead of a weak burden who’s $3000 in debt.

And you haven’t brushed your teeth or washed your face or showered.

And you might be here for one more week.

And what the heck will you do when you need to poop?

So what do you do?

12 hours later, you wait till there’s no nurses around, and start to grab one of the cartons, but a nurse appears around the corner, so you divert your hand to a different direction.

And you wait till he walks away. Then you grab your carton, hold it under the sheets, start to pee, while another nurse starts to come, but you don’t look at her, and she must know what you’re doing because both of your hands are down beneath the sheets, maybe she was supposed to go talk to you, so she starts to stall, or you’re just creating stories in your head again, and shoot the carton is getting full, or at least you think, because they’re so dang small. So you stop mid stream, check, and it’s only a third full. But you can’t start again because you’ve already stopped.

But you did it. You peed in a public hospital with people all around you.

You did it. You defeated the pesky pee demons.

Imagine ripping the IV out, trying to hobble to the toilet, getting there, starting to pee, losing your balance, falling and slipping in the stall, and now it’s even more embarrassing than just peeing in your hospital bed which is not embarrassing at all.

So sometimes you have to lose your dignity in order for you to gain it again.

A study my friend told me about: – participants put in a room and told to write until their hand is messed up and disfigured that you can’t write anymore
– when you’re done and in so much pain you finish your part
– now go ahead to the back of the room to sign the form and receive your money for participating
– somehow they all found the strength to sign their name even after their hand felt like a beehive.

Because it’s about motivation. Their motivation to get the money was greater than the pain in their hand. Add social pressure into the mix and you’ve got yourself a recipe to change your behavior.

So you want to lose weight. You could sign up for Stickk. It might work because it’s strong social pressure.

Or put your ego on the line for a bjj tournament at a lower weight class. Of course you don’t want to lose play fighting another grown ass man. So you starve yourself.
Yes starve yourself. Say you do it for 5 days. Tell other people. Feel good about it when they praise you for your discipline. But then you’ve lost too much weight: around 10-13 lbs in 3.5 days. So you cut the starvation early. You start to eat. But you’re afraid of binge eating again. But you won’t cause you want to win the tournament.

You lose the tournament. Feel like shit. Why did you put yourself through that? Okay now gorge your face. Put all the weight back on in less than two days. Now you’re fat. You feel fat. You feel like shit. What do you do? Gorge your face some more.

Okay now you’re fat and you want to lose weight. So what do you do? Around and around we go. Giddy up merry go round rider because you’re in this for the long haul.

Congratulations. You have an eating disorder. Hip hip hooray you fat bucket of lard.

Today I taught students how to edit their film. One of the energy ones said, "The intakes are just as important as the outtakes."

So anything that is not a blooper is important. All the main footage you will craft the movie with is important. Yes, that seems like common knowledge.

But when the student said it, it sounded really profound.

When is the intake even more important than the outtakes? When is the good stuff so much better than the bad stuff? Going on good dates far outweighs going on bad dates.

Eating clean food is better than the literal outtakes you’ll have from dirty food.

When are the outtakes more important, or equal to the intakes? Obviously when you’re editing a behind the scenes/blooper reel.

When you’re trying to think of a good idea, you need to have tons of bad ideas. Learning how to run a marathon, you have to first run half a mile and slowly work your way up. When you start a martial art with belts, you need to start at a white belt and develop a base of knowledge to get to black belt. Without that knowledge you wouldn’t be a black belt.

In a way this is, journey is better than the destination.

But Naval Ravikant says if you didn’t have a destination, then you wouldn’t even have the journey. So it’s all about the destination.

Or maybe it’s simply this: in life you have intakes and outtakes. And one of them will be better than the other. But you can’t have one without the other.

You can’t make a good film without messing up some shots. You can’t learn to draw without a crumpled pile of papers next to you. You can’t find your significant other without going on some unpleasant dates.

There’s rainbows and rain. Cold days and warm days. Intakes and outtakes. It’s all the same.

When I was working, I saw a man with the shirt that said “Dublin” on it, my hometown in Ohio. I was driving. He was walking around the round a bout. I yelled out the window, “are you from there?”

I looked at his face and immediately recognized him. It was Mr. Eckhart. He was my fourth grade language arts teacher. As soon as I knew it was him, I yelled his name out multiple times in shock. I told him to stop walking so I can park and say hello. He was with his wife and family. It had been about 14 years.

This is one of my fondest memories of life. The only other time I had seen him was maybe two years after I left his class, I was walking into the grocery store with my mother. I felt vulnerable he could see the brokenness in my relationship with my mom.

Then all those years later, I get to see him again and say thank you for all you did for me and reading. I loved reading in his class. I loved how he loved reading. He told us to read Percy Jackson and Inkheart. In his classroom, I developed the desire to genuinely want be a wizard in hogwarts.

I learned pig Latin in his class from a book on the shelf. I learned to sit still in silence with a book.

Now I get to teach some students film and possibly have the same level of influence Mr. Eckhart had on me.

It’s been hard. It’s not the end of the world or anything but I didn’t think it’d be this hard. I’m coming up on 1 year of editing this doc. In 2 more months. Yes I have lots of progress to show. but im honestly ready for it to be over. To just show people, celebrate it, heal from it, and make the next movie

First, you’re no longer a teenager. And then you’re at the legal drinking age. Then it’s your Taylor swift era. Then Jordan year.
Then Kobe year.
And now you’re 25. You’re halfway through your 20s. It’s your senior year of being an adult.

Next year, you’ll be 26. You’re officially part of the next option in the drop down when you put your age in a survey.
What will this year be called? Your Caamp year? What will next year be called? In How I Met Your Mother, Ted is 27 in season 1. So when you turn 27, you have a 1 year to watch season 1. And when you’re 28, the same for season 2. All the way until season 9, when you’re 36. These are your How I Met Your Mother years. You have nine years, nine seasons to continue making mistakes, having fun, watching your parents grow old, watching your body change. And somehow when you blink at 27 and wake up at 36, I hope you’re happy. I hope I’m happy. Damn of course we won’t be happy. But at the very least, I hope we can look back and think, those 9 years were packed in the best ways, and I’m so proud.