Tag: writing

Is Speed Dating Worth It In 2026?

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment
Photo by Katerina Holmes from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/happy-couple-enjoying-romantic-moment-in-cafe-5911168/

(NOTE: The above does not typically happen during a speed dating event.)

Yesterday, I attended my first speed dating event in nearly 15 years. To put that in perspective, in 2011 we were only on the iPhone 4S. Bitcoin was as low as thirty cents. I hadn’t even moved out to the frozen hellscape of North Dakota. I was still living in the greatest city on earth–Philadelphia.

Fifteen years is a long time. I don’t know what prompted me to revisit the strange practice involving sitting across from strangers of the opposite sex for an hour and pretending to hear them in a loud, caucophonous setting, but I figured why not try it again.

Unlike my last two speed dating events, which took place in Philly, this one occurred in a town called Regina, which is in the Canadian Providence of Saskatchewan. I’d never visisted Canada, despite living near the border for almost 14 years, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone and check out “America’s hat” while also trying my hand at speed dating again.

By the way, the town name Regina is not pronounced like how you pronounce a woman’s name. It rhymes with vagina. Just fyi.

Speed dating, in case you’re unaware, is an event often held in a restaurant/bar with a group of ten or so men and women, wherein you get to have a “date” with each person for about five minutes. For this event, the time limit was six minutes, a one-minute increase from my Philly ones. I guess it’s like those “Seven Minute Abs” videos back in the ’90s–just enough time to give you a workout with just good-enough results. Who says you can’t size someone up as a potential life partner in less time than it takes to make a Hungry-Man microwave dinner? We are in the Age of Snap Judgments, afterall.

I’ve already written on my misadventures in speed dating in an article, “Why Don’t Men Attend Singles Events?” linked here. And I went into this new foray bearing what I’d written in mind. But thankfully, this go-around was slightly better overall.

To begin, the proportion of men and women was almost the same. There were ten men and nine woman, as one apparently cancelled at the last minute. This was way better than two I did in Philly, where it was supposed to be 15 men and women, but wound up being like 12 women and 15 men. I don’t know where the idea came from that men don’t attend these sorts of events. There are always plenty of dudes for these things.

The age group for the event this time was 34-46, as opposed to 25-40 or something for the ones in Philly I did. It’s been awhile. So, what’s changed? Is speed dating worth it in 2026? Is it even worth it at all?

Well, for starters, in both of my iPhone 4S-era events, I never matched with anybody. And in this last one, I didn’t either. This is largely my fault, as I’ve always been notoriously selective. I think it was Billy Crystal who said when it comes to how the sexes choose mates, “Women need an excuse, men just need a place.” Well, what the hell does the guy who starred in City Slickers know about anything? Not a damn thing.

There is a clear bifurcation in the age group 34-46 between those who are serious and those who just there because. It’s palpable. Whereas in the 25-40 groups most of the women were just there pregaming before a night out, or fooling around with their besties. Nobody was taking it seriously then. But in the older group, everyone’s a lot more business and frank. So, in that sense, it was better, because at least you know everyone was kind of there purposefully.

Like I mentioned in my previous article, as I entered, I immediately employed my male gaze “Terminator vision” to search for potential mates, and instantly I realized there would be likely none. Look, it’s tough out there no matter where you look–dating apps, churches, the corner bar, etc.–I blame romantic comedies for psyoping everyone into thinking “love” just falls in your lap. In reality, you’ve probably got about the same odds as winning $500 on a scratch-off lottery ticket. Like, it happens often enough. You’ve heard about it happening. You probably have a family member who won as much. But you could visit every gas station in the state and buy ten tickets from each and still end up broke.

Anyway, after a cheesy ice breaker involving some stupid bingo game, our group was ready to begin. I took my seat at table number 2. We were all given little lists on a clipboard so we could write down someone’s name if we matched with them. Even though it’s only been 24 hours, I don’t even remember the first woman I sat across from. She was not a match, obviously. It’s weird. Anymore when I talk to people, I tend to really only hear key words. It’s like my brain has been Google-ized. This goes doubly so for whenever I’m talking to a woman. Soon as I hear things like “my kid(s)” or they start ranting about politics (more on that later), that’s it, I’m out. I no longer give a shit what they have to say. It’s not that I really care about someone’s politics. It’s just that I don’t like people who make poltics their whole identity, especially when they’re just like a boring office worker. And I don’t date single moms for the same reason I don’t visit Chernobyl or eat out of the dumpster.

The first woman I can remember mentioned that she hadn’t tried speed dating before, but had done “speed friending.” This was new to me, as I wasn’t aware such a thing even existed, as obvious as it sounds. But she had just moved to the Regina area, and it was a way to meet some new people. Not a bad idea, I thought.

The next woman I recall was a lawyer. She wasn’t really a match, but she was cool to talk to. She had a sleeve tattoo. I asked her if she was concerned about AI stealing her job. She wasn’t because AI gets a lot of legal stuff wrong. It’s useful for very basic stuff, but it can’t replace the human connection that clients need. Just as things were getting interesting, the bell rang, and it was time to move on.

The event organizer called for a ten-minute break afterward, which gave me some time to chat with two women at the next table over. One didn’t want kids and the other was um, “plus-sized”–so, neither were matches, needless to say. It was fun talking to them, though.

Next came another gargantuan single mom (this was to be a recurring theme at this event) who happened to be a Canadian Royal Mountie. I would have loved to learn more about that job, but unfortunately, she kind of buried the lead and only mentioned it right as the six-minute timer sounded. It’s all’s well, though. She probably wouldn’t have appreciated me asking if she looked up to Dudley Do-Right as a kid.

Because of the one woman who cancelled last second, I had a table all to myself at the next switch. But afterward, I met with a Nigerian lady who had moved to Canada years ago and was working as an accountant. Very nice woman. Sweet. Attractive. Not a match for me, sadly, as I am not into Black women. I felt deep sympathy for her, though, as I know that Nigerians are very family-focused. It’s part of the reason why Nigeria is one of the only places on earth right now having a population explosion. She was stuck in dreary Saskatchewan away from her family in Africa, in a place she probably had little real chance of meeting available Nigerian men, or Black/African men whatsoever. All while being too educated to just go back home and find a husband there. That’s a tough spot to be in. Regina seems like a liberal place, but interracial relationships are actually still quite rare, despite what the media may have you believe. I wish “Daisy” well.

The next potential partner became anything but very quickly as she asked me point blank if I was visiting Canada to “escape the Trump bullshit.” Now, like I said before, I don’t really care about a woman’s politics, but I really don’t like it when someone has no decorum and immediately starts spouting obscenities like we’re at a frat party. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. It’s best to be polite and well-mannered at first, at least. Especially from someone who was at least in her mid-30s. It’s quite rude. However, I can’t resist winding such a person up, so naturally I assumed the role of being the world’s biggest Trump supporter, telling her I had forgotten my MAGA hat in my car, and had wanted to wear it in to the event. This prompted her to go on a screed about the Epstein files, and how Trump had forced a 13-year-old girl to give him a blowjob, and how this girl had bitten his penis. To which I replied that none of that had been verified, and in fact Trump’s only mentions in the Epstein files had to do with him and the dead former socialite creepster douchebag crossing paths on occasion at parties and such, nothing to do with underage sex or trafficking or visiting the infamous island. We went around and around. She was very impressed with the penis-biter, even wishing she could have been that girl so she could have been the one to bite Trump’s penis. An odd thing to aspire to, I thought, but whatever. We parted quickly enough. She, too, was not a match, just in case you were wondering.

The next woman, and the last one I recall, was one of those strong and independent types who had traveled to like 25 countries. I figured as such when I saw the short hair and the sleeve tat. They are usually a dead giveaway that one is in the Don’t Need a Man Camp. But she seemed very self-aware and accepting of the fact that she was set in her ways and not changing, and didn’t see a place in her life for kids or a family. That’s the nice thing about this age group. They tend to be honest and upfront, at least.

Aside from the assortment of characters I met, the venue proved the worst part of the event, as the acoustics were absolutely horrendous. Like, I could hardly hear what someone was saying sitting right in front of me with everyone else talking and their voices bouncing off the hard walls. This is the third time I’ve run into this issue, as my last two speed dating events in Philly suffered from the same problems. It makes for a very frustrating experience. But for $25, what can you expect? High-definition doesn’t come that low priced.

Most of the women were pretty nice. Many were intrigued that I was from the U.S., but other than the Anti-Trumper, I didn’t get any comments, negative or positive, about my American-ness.

—

Some final thoughts. Speed dating is really no better than any other type of matchmaking or social event like going to a bar, as far as I can see. It’s only advantage is that it obviously involves real human interaction in a controlled environment. But you’re actually just as good on the dating apps, believe it or not. I suppose some people have had luck with speed dating. For me, I really just look at it as a fun social exercise and a way to improve my communication skills. When I can actually hear people, that is. But due to the bad sound acoustics, I find myself just sliding into that “smile and nod” routine where you can’t tell what the hell someone is saying and you’re trying to be polite. That’s uncomfortable and kind of ruins the whole scene. I think if speed dating is to be improved, it needs to be held in a place with seperate booths, or maybe outside if the weather is nice. Someone where you can actually speak at a reasonable volume and hear the other person clearly. I would go again. But it’s not like I put any stock into it as a viable means of meeting a partner. For me, it’s just a fun diversion for an hour or so.

Thoughts On Writing A Slasher

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Recently, I completed the first draft of a slasher novella I’ve titled CUTTHROAT that I began in early September.

The premise is stupifyingly simple, though, like many of my works, it’s riddled with satiric malice and dark humor:

 A group of job applicants arrive at a sleek highrise for a coveted position, but find themselves trapped and fighting for their lives against a psychopathic assessor known as Cutthroat, who wields a briefcase full of nasty weapons and is out to kill all of them.

This first draft clocked in at around 31,000 words, and it proved to be both exhausting and grossly liberating at the same time. This was one of those “cutting loose” sort of writing experiments, where I didn’t feel bound by the ordinary constraints of storytelling. Though there are two character arcs, a strong mid-point shift, a late reveal, and a twisty plot with some inventive kills. Thematically, it’s centered around the tortuous difficulties attendant with job hunting, with the whole ugly process personified in the form of a psychopathic killer known as Cutthroat, who poses as a job recruiter performing interviews, only to hack his unawares applicants apart. I really tried to go for the economic malaise zeitgeist’s jugular here that mainly desperate jobseeking Millennials and Gen-Zers are suffering through or at least might relate to. Armed with briefcases filled with all kinds of nasty weapons, Cutthroat sadisticallly plays his own twisted “assessment” games with the group of twenty-somethings, and it’s up to the protagonist to figure out a way to stop him, or at least escape with his life.

Writing a slasher is brutish work, to say the least. I’ve written my share of horrors, such as The Devil’s Throne, released a few years ago, but a slasher is another beast altogether. Slashers, obviously, are less known for their elegant exploration of human themes through a lens of supernatural or psychological chills like traditional horrors, and more about delivering a certain graphic and visceral effect on the reader/viewer.

Cutthroat is sort of “Terrifier in a business suit,” as I’ve come to refer to it as a means to sum up its ethos in a pithy “elevator pitch” manner. The slasher franchise set around Art the Clown is a real phenomenon for its cult following. Walk by any Hot Topic store in a mall and you’re bound to see Art T-shirts and other merch. He’s as big as Freddy Krueger or Jason Voorhees were in their day. I’ve only seen the second film and the first half of the first one. That’s literally all I could stomach. From a writer’s perspective, I found them shockingly bereft of any “story,” even for a slasher series. The Terrifier films are more a bunch of gory vignettes strung together. A bloody highlight reel of makeup and special effects. Even Friday the 13th, with all its clumsy and meandering “plots” had a semblance of mythology what with Jason and his mommy issues. Not so for Terrifier, which seems content to just freak out audiences with new methods of bodily mutilation. Hellraiser seems tame by comparison, which seems not possible.

Honestly, I found writing my first slasher disappointingly mundane. How many ways can you really butcher human beings on paper? I found myself straining to somehow “make it more interesting.” I did this by interjecting a backstory for the villain in order to make him believable, and by adding humor wherever possible. At one point I gave up for a few days, put off by the whole thing. Only to return days later determined to finish the task.

Now that it’s done, like often happens when I’ve finished a writing project, I find myself wracked with a post-partum malaise. Though there is always the long and tedious editing process.

I remember reading about how John Carpenter, while struggling to write Halloween II (1981) hit some bad writer’s block. I wondered how in the hell could that happen. We’re talking Michael Myers here. Pehaps the most simplistic masked killer there ever was. Just set him loose in a school so he can stalk another group of dumb horny teenagers. How hard could it be, right? But after writing my first slasher, I can see where he was likely coming from, and how unfulfilled he probably felt trying his hand at the sequel. It’s no wonder he wound up throwing in the bogus development about Laurie Strode being Michael’s sister as a way to liven things up and add motivation. Something he later regretted adding to Michael’s “mythology” due to its inherent silliness. The whole point of Michael Myers is that he doesn’t need a “motivation.” That’s what makes him scary. But I can see how sheer boredom probably drove Carpenter to want to throw in anything, no matter how nonsensical, to make the writing process more palatable for him. At least The Thing had the intricate puzzlebox mysteries of “Who’s the Thing and who’s not?” “Who can you trust?” With Halloween, it’s more just about coming up with new ways Michael can kill people.

On the surface, writing a slasher is “stupidly easy,” sure. Kind of. We’re not writing a dense Cormac McCarthian Western here, even if Anton Chigurh is like a Mexican Michael Myers with a shotgun. But it takes a piece of your soul. There are also the tricky mechanics of coming up with a bigger than life villain. Something iconic. A Nightmare on Elm Street, to me, is the gold standard when it comes to slashers. It’s probably the most intelligent of them. Certainly it’s the best high-concept horror idea. A killer that stalks you in your dreams. The kind of idea that makes you go, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Overall, I enjoyed attempting the slasher genre, though it’s not one I’d quickly want to return to. Technically, it’s not actually my first stab at it. I handwrote a short story about a group of masked killers stalking a school way back when I was a teenager in high school. It was a story obviously ripped off of Halloween as I’d just seen that film on cable, though I added a “clever” twist by not having one, or two, but three killers. Genius, obviously. With this latest attempt decades later, I like to think I’ve grown and matured. I feel I made Cutthroat suitably gory and satisfied the demands of the genre with all the requisite tropes, while putting my own touch on things and bringing something new. If anything, it was a fun writing exercise that felt perfectly appropriate with Halloween right around the corner. 🙂

Links To My Recent Articles, A Quick Comment About Medium, and Other Updates

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment
Photo by Pixabay from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/black-vintage-typewriter-163084/

Here are links to a bunch of articles I’ve written on Medium but just haven’t cross-posted here on my personal site. In order of recency:

Women Are Willing To Sell Their Bodies To Pay Off Student Loans

“You Must Be This Tall To Ride This Ride”

Some Very Disturbing (And Gross) Stats About STDs, Especially When It Comes To Black Women

River Is A Solid Bitcoin-Only Exchange

Three Cold Hard As Fuck Truths For Why You’re Single

They Sang Along To Ye’s “Heil Hitler,” Now They’re Getting Doxxed, Harassed, And Threatened

She Calls A 5-Year-Old ‘N-gger,’ Now May Cash Out With A Million Dollars In Online Donations

Medium

Medium continues to be a massive disappointment this year. Due to either an algorithm change or some kind of shift in how it distributes traffic, I barely get the engagement in years prior, and substantially smaller payouts and fewer followers, consequently. Though some of my articles caught on in Google’s rankings, I see zero money for non-Medium members who read my stuff. That’s really frustrating, as some of my “stories” (as Medium likes to call them) have caught tens of thousands of views.

It’s not that I soullessly write for money. It’s just that I would like to see commensurate compensation for when I do write something that lands.

Still, I’ve kept plugging away. Either foolishly or just out of stubborn persistence and the desire to maintain stasis. Medium is a solid platform, for sure. But it has a low ceiling. Whereas a platform like YouTube will (assuming you are monetized) at least pay you for ALL the views you get, not just Medium members. As such, YT has basically uncapped potential, though it too has its issues.

YouTube

As much as I love YouTube and the idea of being a YouTuber, I don’t know that it’s the right venue for me, either. Nor do I care to contort myself into the tortuous content creation pretzel shape that YT demands if you want to have a shot at gaining traction. YT seems to favor TikTok-style shorts anymore, and such snappy, soundbite quippings are not in my wheelhouse. The few videos I’ve posted this year are long, thoughtful, and reflective, which is not really conducive to YT’s dazzling discothèque guppy-attention-span content that seems to predominate on there.

I’m a writer at the end of the day. A fiction writer, specifically. I try to be. While I like dropping spicy op-eds from time to time, Medium and this whole “content game” thing often just proves a procrastinative distraction and a futilely unfulfilling endeavor. I get so little satisfaction out of writing even a “banger” article that gets a good traffic spike it’s not funny.

Whereas, a good fiction writing session puts me on cloud nine.

I don’t care to just crank out a bunch of noise, trying to surf the trend waves. I’d rather spend the time on my books. I have a lot of them in various states of editing, and I have a lot of ideas for more.

My latest will be out soon.

Conundrum

Which brings me to the conundrum. To be a successful fiction writer, you need a platform to help market your work. But to get a platform, you have to play the mind numbing algo/traffic/pretzel twist game I just talked about. A successful writer is a successful salesman, not just a good tapper of keystrokes. Like many writers, this rustles my introvert jimmies. I hate “putting myself out there,” though I’m not a wallflower by any means.

I see many other writers, especially self-published ones, market themselves via YouTube and social media, either by book or movie reviews, or by being (usually godawful) cultural critics and posting daily ragebait commentary on whatever headline caught their ire that morning. I don’t care to waste the time being a “culture warrior.” That’s very cringy to me. And there are frankly certain audiences I just don’t care to attract.

I will never be a fucking “writing coach.” I will never sell a fucking course or some bullshit consulting like so many of those hustlers out there do. No. Just no. I will never make “writing about writing” my thing. Never going to happen. I don’t care to waste the time, and I sure as hell don’t need to do it for the money.

I could see doing long form book or movie reviews, however.

And even though some of my finance-themed articles have actually performed the best, I think I’m done with that niche. Save and invest your money. Stay out of debt. Control your spending. Slow and steady (i.e. boring) compound gains will make you wealthy, not get-rich-quick crypto/stock/real estate/side hustle schemes. Stop listening to stupid influencers and their bullshit products. There, what the hell else needs to really be said?

Conclusion

As a compromise, I’ll keep posting non-fiction stuff, but likely just focusing on books, movies, and shows. Since Medium has proven near pointless to continue with, I may just go old school and post stuff on here exclusively instead. I blogged a lot way back in the day, and I see that era of the internet returning. Content has become far too siloed on digital slave farms like Facebook and other social media. It’s time for it to decentralize like it used to be. A.I. slop has ruined a lot of content sites also. In fact, I think A.I. is part of why the algo machine has completely broken down across the web.

I’ll invest more time interacting with social media in a qualitatively productive manner. I’ll also continue to experiment with YouTube. Perhaps there are actually people out there who’d rather look at my face and hear me talk than read my stuff. Hey, it’s possible.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I’ll have more updates for you soon, including my latest book. See you in the sun. 🙂

Chuck Dixon’s ‘Levon Cade’ Series (‘A Working Man’) Is Inspiring

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Eleven books produced in one year. Holy shit balls.

Source: By Amazon MGM Studios — https://www.vitalthrills.com/a-working-man-trailer-featuring-jason-statham/, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=78846003

I’m a recovering “beat-em-up” fan. Back in the day as a teen I used to love those terrible Steven Seagal films like Above the Law and Marked For Death. Or Jean-Claude Van Damme stuff like Bloodsport and Death Warrant. They were constantly on rotation on USA and TBS and other freemium cable channels in the late ’90s. Films that were passably entertaining for immature adolescent minds, but in retrospect are ridiculously cheesy and absurd. But hey, if you haven’t seen Seagal break a Jamaican dude’s arm in half or Van Damme roundhouse kick a guy into a furnace, you haven’t lived.

Nowadays, Jason Statham is your go-to macho man face puncher and bad guy beater downer. Strangely, actors even higher up the talent totem pole have had a go at their own fistacuffs franchises. Bob Odenkirk is Nobody. A-lister Denzel Washington is The Equalizer. And of course Internet Jesus Keanu Reeves is John Wick.

Everyone wants to kick ass these days! Who can blame them? Have you seen the prices of things lately? Going to the grocery store anymore is like going to a Fuck Me in the Ass Parade.

The latest is A Working Man, where Statham plays a former blacks ops soldier turned construction guy who has to return to his face-stomping roots when his boss’s daughter gets kidnapped or something. I’ve not seen it, nor will I ever. Just like I didn’t see Statham’s last flick The Beekeeper, which had pretty much the same plot. The latest edition of Statham Beats Up Some Guys interests me about as much as hanging around a bunch of backwards hat-wearing dude bros talking about their fantasy football picks.

(No man should have a hobby with the word “fantasy” in it. Like, are there sparkles involved? Pink glitter? GTFO of here with that.)

Anyway…

What is pretty cool (and surprising), is that A Working Man is based on a book. Which is part of a book series, actually. By a real author. Not some A.I. trained on Seagal and Van Damme flicks. Chuck Dixon is a prolific author known mostly for his work in the comic book industry. He co-created Bane, aka the villain who broke Batman’s back. So, this guy is well-experienced in creating characters that know how to kick the crap out of people.

Dixon’s series is called Levon Cade, and features the vigilante going on various quests involving revenge and likely crushing a few throats. There are twelve books in total. The first, titled simply Levon’s Trade, premiered in December, 2021. The others came in rapid succession, sometimes as little as three weeks apart, over the course of 2022. The eleventh published in August, after which Dixon took a sabbatical before dropping the twelfth and final (?) in February, 2024. Not bad. Guy banged it all out in roughly a calendar year.

Look, these are not labyrinthine literary feasts like A Game of Thrones. These stories are Fisher-Price simple and Neanderthal stupid. No shit. But when you get down to it, there are really only two genres — “Man with Gun” and “Girl Bangs Guy.” That’s about it. James Bond, for all his British sophistication, is just another “Man with Gun” story. Titanic is the ultimate “Girl Bangs Guy.” The classics usually combine the two in interesting ways. Double Indemnity, for instance. There are some exceptions, often seen in experimental or prestige award stuff, but nobody cares. People only pay attention when someone’s fucking or getting murdered. Can you name the book that won the Nobel Prize for Literature four years ago? No? Have you ever heard of Fifty Shades of Grey? My point exactly.

I am not a fan of simple vigilante series, in either book or movie versions. I read Killing Floor once, the first Jack Reacher book, a long time ago, and the experience was akin to tattoo gunning my eyeballs. I am a fan of writers, however. Especially ones who put in the effort to carve out their own success, in whatever genre they choose. A Working Man has likely done well enough at the box office to merit a sequel. Who knows. It could even be a franchise like John Wick. I have no idea. I’ll never see the films anyway. I outgrew the need for them a long time ago. But I do appreciate them and the writers who make them.

Women Are Abandoning Marriage Because Men Suck So Hard Evidently

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

How do you find your missing half when you’re already perfect as is?

Made with Midjourney.

There’s this hilarious scene in Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry is over a friend’s house eating dinner and he notices that the glass of water he’s drinking is unfiltered from the tap. This petty but not unimportant observation leads to his host being offended, and Larry (surprise, surprise) getting kicked out.

You just can’t win with people like Larry. You serve them a nice dinner in a nice apartment with good friends and fun conversation, and they’ll still find some unforgivable flaw in your presentation that crumbles the whole affair.

What does this have to do with the point of this article? Well, it would seem many women have essentially become a bunch of Larry Davids, while men are that distasteful unfiltered tap water. Except while Larry David remains cuddly and lovable despite his eccentricities and obsessions with behaviorial minutiae, this whole “men ain’t up to snuff” refrain we keep hearing is getting old and ugly and obnoxious, not to mention making women actually come off looking worse.

According to the Wall Street Journal, “American Women Are Giving Up On Marriage.” A title written as if it should be blasted by a bullhorn atop a castle wall and met with wailing and gnashing of teeth by sackcloth-wearing commoners in the streets below.

However, I think a more honest title would be what I wrote in the sub-title section above: “How do you find your missing half when you’re already perfect as is?”

These types of rah-rah-women articles pop up now and again like herpes sores, and like that STI, they ain’t ever going away. Nor should they. It’s good to be reminded that women are surpassing men and that men are falling woefully behind and that women are so clearly better and have tons of options and that men suck and blah, blah, blah. Afterall, women’s clear superiority may not be readily evident to us boorish and ignorant men with our thick skulls. We must be constantly reminded of women’s superiority and our unfiltered tap waterness lest our puny male brains forget. Frankly, I’d be disappointed if I didn’t see these articles constantly.

I’ll spare you the details of this latest update on the state of the Überfem. It’s your standard, “women are making more money and graduating with more degrees while the pool of men in similar economic positions is shrinking” celebrat — or, lament. Basically, we’re suffering from an epidemic of unworthy, unmarriagable male losers! Meanwhile, the number of elite world-beating boss babes has never been higher.

A 29-year-old woman says of house hunting and having kids:

“I’m financially self-sufficient enough to do these things myself,” said Vorlicek, a Boston-based accountant. “I’m willing to accept being single versus settling for someone who isn’t the right fit.”

Well, given the absurdly low-barrier to qualify for mortgage loans, virtually anyone is financially self-sufficient enough to “buy” a home if they have a job and a pulse, so I’m not sure how much of a flex that really is anymore.

But let’s examine the glaring contradiction in her statement. This lady is NOT okay with settling with a full-grown man who “isn’t the right fit.” Okay, fair enough. However, she IS okay with giving birth to a child, who could end up being any random personality, good or bad, and to whom she’ll be legally and physically responsible for, and unable to extricate herself from without severe difficulty.

I mean, at least with the man you can dump or divorce him and make him go away (eventually). A kid is kind of stuck in your life FOREVER. Or at least for 18 years.

I could be wrong, but what I’m picking up subtextually from this almost-thirty-lady is a pathological need for control. What kind of a person is incapable of managing the vagaries of an adult relationship, but feels they are finely suited for taking on the rearing of a child? Children as we know never present any difficulties whatsoever. They are houseplants, really. Stick them in the corner and just forget about them.

No, seriously, you’d have to be some kind of anti-social asshole control freak to actually think that.

This next lady was confronted with a simple directive from her mama bear: Get a boyfriend by Christmas. But she ran into complications:

Katie spent the first half of 2024 going on three or four dates a week with men she met on apps, such as Hinge and Bumble, in the hopes of finding a husband before turning 30. By the end of the year, she had ramped down the search, calling it “the only thing you can put 10,000 hours into and end up right where you started.”

[Bold-face above mine]

Three or four dates a week? For the first half of the year? Hmmm…let me break out the abacus for this one. Thirteen weeks…three or four a week. That adds up to anywhere between 39 to 52 dates in total.

Mind you, these are NOT just random men. These are the men that SHE chose from the vast sea of spermatozoa via the apps. These are the cream of the crop, no pun intended. Yet none measured up after a real-life meeting in the flesh? Seriously? None?

NOTE: If you can’t find an acceptable partner amongst a pool of prescreened applicants that YOU chose for fifty dates, most likely YOU are the problem, not them.

But no, let’s hear the cope:

Many of the men Katie met, she said, either seemed turned off by her ambition or weren’t career-oriented enough for her. She felt discouraged by just how many of her male friends similarly said they expect their future wives to prioritize their families over their jobs.

By the way, Katie’s big professional ambition is running Lume, a “leadership coaching startup” in NYC. I tried looking it up and the only companies I found with the name Lume were a cannabis dispensary in Michigan and some site that sells women’s deodorant. Since I’m sure Katie’s Lume is a highly lucrative elite consulting empire and surely not just a couple gals gabbing away in a rent-by-the-hour office somewhere, I’ll just assume this glaring oversight on Google’s part in not ranking it on the front page is due to sexism and misogyny.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-in-black-tank-top-holding-white-ceramic-cup-3779760/

This next young, er, middle-aged rather, lady, laments a failed relationship, saying:

“He wanted the white picket fence and me at home with the kids,” Jones said. This despite the fact that her salary was nearly 50% higher than his.

Jones is 38, and from her picture, bordering on obese. In other words, she likely has a narrow chance of becoming pregnant and carrying a child fully to term without luck or expensive IVF treatments anyway. So, I’m not sure where her former BF got off thinking she was going to be having kids anytime soon. I’d say that ship has sailed. And since we don’t know her salary, we don’t know how much more she makes than her ex-beau. But it’s not like she’d have to become a dreaded stay at home mom forever. Likely just for a few years until the kid is old enough to go to school on their own. Then she can return to work. Millions of women do this every year. It sounds like her former BF was just concerned that his child would have a committed parent there for him or her for the first few critical years of their life. I say good on him and hope he found someone better.

This next lady is 33 and has a five-year-old from an ex, but she frets she won’t be able to find anyone because:

She has yet to date anyone else in part because she worries about living in a red state with a six-week abortion ban. “I have a child that I can’t leave behind to drive to Virginia if I had a pregnancy scare, and I definitely can’t afford another child as a single mom,” she said.

LOL. Fucking LMAO.

In addition to the litany of criteria men must worry about qualifying for in a relationship, now we must contend with being rejected solely because some lady can’t run to the nearest kill-a-kiddo center in the offchance our rigorous premarital boning results in an unexpected pregnancy?

“Hey Bob, why’d your last girlfriend dump you?”

“Because Planned Parenthood was two states away!”

Imagine hearing that.

What kind of low lifes is this lady fucking? No, let me put it another way. Why would you be okay with fucking a guy but not okay with him babysitting your kid for a few hours while you dash across state lines for the ol’ vag vacu-suck? That’s essentially what she’s saying here. If he’s not responsible enough to babysit your kid, then maybe you shouldn’t be fucking him. Just a thought.

Here’s the deal. When you’re consistently presented with dozens of partner options; when you’re in your late 30s and you’ve sampled a buffet of male suitors for two decades; when you’ve been through college and had one opportunity after another to partner up; when you live in a fucking major city and you still can’t find a guy who “measures up,” it’s not because there aren’t quality guys. It’s because you’re a picky, unsatisfiable asshole. You’re a female Larry David. That is who you are. Only not funny. Not cuddly. And not lovable.

And to quote the hostess from that Curb scene, “I think you should leave.” Thank you.

You Don’t Need To Write A Lot To Write A Lot

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Consistent effort pays off with cumulative results.

Photo by Leah Newhouse from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/close-up-photo-of-gray-typewriter-952594/

I’ll often see people post on book review sites or forums marveling over an author who churns out multiple novels every year. Popular authors like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Danielle Steel, and others who are well known for spinning doorstops with apparent ease.

How do these writers do it? It seems impossible.

Some cast doubt that the authors actually wrote their novels on their own. Often they accuse them of using ghostwriters. For sure, some brand name authors, like James Patterson infamously, employ an army of co-writers for their many projects. But many actually do it all by themselves, braving the blank white screen every morning. As David Baldacci says on his X account:

I live to write and write to live.

I recently finished my 11th novel. A book I started on March 23rd of this year — after almost 18 months of false starts — finally completing the first draft on August 27th. That’s a little over five months, or 157 days. The first draft is about 90,700 words.

That comes out to only 577 words a day. Some days I only managed a few hundred. Those were usually the days I worked. Toward the end of the novel, I picked up the pace (as I usually do nearing the exciting conclusion of a book). I probably wrote about 5,000 words in just the last three days before finishing.

Still, my average daily output comes out to a mere 577 words. A simple email might be 500 words. The average person probably texts their friends more than 500 words a day. It’s about the length of a two minute Medium article. A few tweets. Five hundred words is not a lot. Yet 500 words a day comes out to two 90,000 word novels a year. One thousand words a day equals four adult novels. Writing a “little” can really add up fast.

Of course, there’s the editing process. It’s not like once you finish typing that 90,000th word you’re all done. Editing is sometimes a lengthy, complicated process with its own messy timeline.

Then there’s outlining and idea generation. This last novel of mine was a struggle, unlike others in the past. But I found that by sticking to my daily writing regimen, I was able to push through a lot of supposed blockages. It’s usually best just to keep ploughing ahead anyway, even if you think you’re “stuck.”

If you are a prolific writer, sometimes it’s not enough for fans. Baldacci recently had this exchange with a reader:

Baldacci publishes multiple books a year, some of which are well over 400 pages. He certainly writes thousands of words a day. But you don’t have to write that much to write a lot. Even “just” 250 words a day is 90,000 words. That’s an adult novel a year. Or two novellas a year. Which is not bad at all.

Five Bizarre And Hauntingly Disturbing Deaths

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

We’ve all got to go sometime. Just hopefully not like this.

Made with Midjourney

With Halloween just passed, death has been on my mind lately. It might be due to the changing fall season. Or it could be due to recently watching horror flicks Barbarian and the latest Scream films.

How in the world does the Scream franchise keep chugging along? I thought it ran out of gas 15 years ago. Guess audiences will never tire of watching a dude in a mask stab people in the face.

Of course, if I have the choice on how to die, it’s definitely NOT going to be via some psycho going stabby stabby with my vital organs. I’d much rather die peacefully and in my sleep, with loved ones gathered around.

But sadly, not everyone gets to go out that way. Some people have died in freakishly weird and distubing ways. Ways that keep me up at night. Here are a few of them.

Guy Dies Accidentally Stabbing Himself To Death Trying to Separate Frozen Hamburgers

Made with Midjourney

This story is why our moms warned us to always cut away from our bodies when using a knife or a pair of scissors.

Barry Griffiths, age 57, lived alone, and apparently was in the process of making himself hamburgers for dinner. His freezer door was left open. Thawed meat left on the counter. Police say it was an “unexplained” death, but that while separating the burgers, he inadvertantly stabbed himself. He was found on his bed several days later. Griffiths lived alone, and by all accounts was a “private” man. He also had limited use of one arm.

This death disturbs me because it’s so mundane and random. All the guy wanted to do was eat his dinner. You could easily imagine this poor fellow eager to make himself a meal, only to wind up slowly bleeding to death from the stomach. Blood was found throughout the kitchen and hallway. Making matters worse, he died alone. Who knows if he could have been saved. Many times people who are injured are in shock. If someone had been there, he might still be alive.

Guy Gets Himself Trapped Upside Down In A Cave And Dies 27 Hours Later

Source: 

Why people go cave exploring where it involves squeezing themselves into VERY narrow crevices without knowing if there’s even an exit will never ever fucking make sense to me whatsoever. Why do that? Just why? Seriously, why?! I know there’s nothing good on Netflix to watch anymore, but that’s no excuse.

I say this as someone who liked doing bike tricks off ramps as a kid and has gone skydiving. I’m okay with some unnecessary risks. But not that.

John Jones was all of 26 when he and a few friends decided to go cave exploring at Nutty Putty Cave in central Utah back in 2009. They were in search of a passageway called “The Birth Canal.” Only Jones mistook an unmapped passageway for the correct one, and wound up becoming permanently stuck. Rescuers tried to pull him out, but the angle in which he was trapped made it almost impossible. At least not without breaking his legs in the process. Just look at the above diagram to see what I mean.

Actually, don’t look at it. That shit is pure nightmare fuel.

Still, rescuers were able to get Jones partially pulled up, before their rope and pulley system collapsed. Joned eventually died later. They were forced to leave his body there. The cave was sealed to prevent anyone else from accessing it in the future.

Man, what a way to go.

Danish Astronomer (And Guy) Dies Due To A Burst Bladder After Refusing To Leave A Banquet

Made with Midjourney

Look, we’ve all been in social situations where suddenly nature came calling, forcing us to quickly find a place to do our business. When I was a little kid I once went number two at a hardware store when I found a row of display toilets that I evidently thought were working models. They were not. No, were not.

Tycho Brahe, aside from having probably the coolest-sounding name ever, was a prominent scientist in his day. He also famously lost part of his nose in a drunken duel with a fellow academic over who was the superior mathematician. Nerd fights were hardcore back then.

While at a banquet in 1601, Brahe felt the need to urinate. But he refused to leave, as he thought it would be seen as improper. So he wound up staying. But later, when he did try to pee, he could only go a little, and only very painfully. He languished in his bed for eleven days, before eventually dying from what many modern medical experts deem a burst bladder.

This death freaks me out because it demonstrates how social pressure (real or imagined) can compel people into doing self-destructive acts just to be “polite.” It also shows how even geniuses can be catastrophically stupid.

Teenaged Guy Eats Slug On A Dare, Goes Into A Coma, Becomes Paralyzed, And Dies

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Speaking of social pressure, this next freaky death happened because of a stupid dare amongst teenaged boys. In 2010, 19-year-old Sam Ballard, an Australian who liked playing rugby, was hanging out at home on his patio with a couple friends when a slimy snail happened to come crawling by. Prompted by a dare to eat it, Ballard scooped the creature up and swallowed it. Yes, alcohol was involved in this decision.

Almost right away, Ballard began to feel negative physical effects. Before long he was in a coma for over a year. When he finally awoke, he was paralyzed, and required a feeding tube and 24/7 medical care.

It wasn’t actually the snail itself that did Ballard in, however. It was due to a parasitic worm in the snail called rat lungworm disease. This worm is particularly harmful to humans because its larvae can spread to the brain, causing eosinophilic meningitis. This causes the membranes of the brain and spinal cord to swell. Ballard eventually died in 2018.

What makes this death especially haunting is the fact that Ballard retained his mental faculties until his death. He was fully aware of his surroundings. Making matters worse, his friends had to live with the fact that they had all played a hand in his demise. We’ve all done dumb things on dares. Or done stupid stuff while young. Ballard paid the ultimate price for doing something that probably seemed silly and harmless in the moment.

Guy Is Pushed By Jealous Friend Down A Manhole Into Boiling Water, Dies Later From Scalding Burns

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This one is so bad it even gave a New York medical examiner nightmares.

In 2002, Sean Doyle, a NYC bartender, went out drinking with his friend Michael Wright and Wright’s girlfriend. At some point during the night, Wright accused Doyle of flirting with his girlfriend. While details aren’t clear, Wright wound up throwing his friend down an 18-foot manhole. Unfortunately, there was a broken main at the bottom leaking out boiling hot water, and essentially turning the narrow confine into a pressure cooker. Trapped down below, Doyle was, according Dr. Judy Melinek, “steamed like a lobster.”

Making this even more horrific, steam burns don’t kill nerve endings the way regular burns do. This meant that Doyle likely suffered all the way until his death. Emergency services arrived to help, but they were unable to retrieve him due to the 300 degree temperatures down below. By the time his body was brought up, his skin was completely peeled off, and his internal organs were cooked.

Undoubtedly, this ranks pretty high on the list of worst ways to go. It disturbs me not just because of the graphic and painful death, but that it started over an argument. Some men can become stupidly jealous and violently possessive when it comes to their girlfriends. Wright was later charged with second-degree murder. But there are conflicting reports about what really happened. His girlfriend maintains that the two men were just roughhousing, and that Doyle only accidentally fell in the manhole. I don’t know about that. If the girlfriend is covering for her boyfriend, that makes the whole thing even more tragic.

Well, that’s enough dwelling on death. I may never leave my house again. From now on, I’ll be staying indoors 24/7 wrapped in bubble wrap and seated on a nice plush sofa.

Observing Two Recent Writing Milestones

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment
Photo by rovenimages.com from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/low-angle-photo-of-fireworks-949592/

On August 26th I completed my 100th article on Medium. It’s not the biggest writing milestone ever. There are accounts on there with hundreds, even thousands.

I had a goal of reaching the century mark by the end of this year, only to end up blowing right past it. This one is №118. A pleasant surprise, especially given how I was consumed with another writing project of mine for most of the past year and a half.

My experience with Medium has been decent. I’ve found some success with a handful of articles that got thousands of claps, and earned me some money. I’ve survived not one, but two account suspensions. One just recently, and another back in 2022. Both occurring without any real reason other than somehow my account became caught in the “spam filter.” Okay, whatever. Never had that issue with Blogspot back in the day or WordPress now.

On the positive side, I have over 900 followers. The majority of whom I’d say subscribed due to my finance-related articles. My highest earning month so far was this past July with $291. I’ve had multiple $100+ months over the last few years. I don’t know that Medium will ever be, or even could be, a full-time gig. Not without insane commitment and a willingness to plunge into primarily the most lucrative subjects (personal development and finance). I have too many other writing projects going on and other interests to go that far with Medium. As I’ve stated previously, I have no desire to try to build a “brand” there. I sure as hell don’t do coaching. I don’t do freelance work. I will never sell a stupid course or membership of some kind. I realize that’s how a lot of top writers on here make their full-time income, but it’s just not me. There are enough “gurus” out there peddling their snake oil. I just write novels and on occasion scribble out a usually sarcastic editorial. And a finance article here and there.

Writing on Medium for money is not a primary concern for me. My earnings have paid for the Friend of Medium badge for a few years though. Which is nice. At the least, the site is a net positive.

Overall, I see Medium as a good place to practice daily writing and gradually build a platform.

Source: Photo by Pixabay from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/burning-tree-270815/

The other milestone happened to take place the following day on August 27th. That is the completion of my 11th novel. A horror story with a dark and twisted romance at its core. This was a tough one to get through. I struggled with it for years. A sharp contrast to previous novels I’ve written, which largely flowed. The inception of the idea actually came way back in 1999, which makes it the oldest concept I’ve ever maintained and seen through to a completed work. It was just a tiny undeveloped spark of a thing. I didn’t know what to do with it then, so I wound up putting it on the backburner for a few decades.

It wasn’t until 2020 that the idea ignited further. Then in 2022 it started to really kindle. At times it felt like trying to hammer cooling iron into shape. I went down two blind alleys, and almost 50,000 words, before having to start over twice. Daunting and dismaying, for sure. But when I have an idea I’m passionate about, I like to stick with it.

This past March, after revising the outline, I began the third attempt. Six months later the first draft is finally finished, and stands at over 90,000 words. My first drafts tend to be strong. I don’t believe in doing “vomit drafts.” I try to get most of what is needed down on the page in a structured and coherent (more or less) fashion in the first go. Even still, it’s perhaps only 65% where it needs to be. As I typically do when finishing a novel, I let the first draft rest for a bit before returning for revisions.

Even though I’ve written 11 novels so far, I’ve only self-published three of them. This is largely because, while I love writing, I have no effing idea how to market or sell my work. Simultaneously, I have little faith in or concern to play the lottery with the traditional publishing side. I’ve read a lot of articles on here about publishing, and let’s just say it’s a sad state of affairs. Even if you land an agent or a publishing deal, the problem of selling your work remains the same. You have to do all of that yourself.

Few, if any, publishing houses, big or small, will put any money into some no-name like myself. I don’t begrudge the industry. It’s the way it is. Most publishing companies make money on their back catalogue of hits, or on “bread and butter” sales like the dictionary or something. Most authors only sell a few hundred copies of their work at best. Publishing in general is a boutique-style business driven by hits. Hits are random. Even celebrity books have totally bombed. So, until I can solve the marketing side of things and learn how to sell myself, I don’t see much of a purpose in putting my eight finished books out there. Perhaps that’s extreme and self-defeating, but I think it’s important to have a plan of execution and not just go out on a wing and a prayer. My books are like my children. I want to treat them right.

I do love my latest book a lot. I think if there’s one that will finally get me to solve the riddle of the Sphinx of Marketing, it’ll be this one. It’s tough to be a writer these days. You can’t just scribble away in a room and submit to publishing shops. You have to learn to do everything yourself. You have to build your own platform. I suppose that‘s part of why I stick around here on Medium. I probably should make YouTube more of a thing, too. That’s a fantastic digital ecosystem, and potentially, a money-making one.

I’ve also thought about posting some of my fiction on here, though I do like keeping the worlds apart. It’s strange. Even though I enjoy writing articles on Medium, non-fiction never makes me feel like I’m really “writing.” Only when I’m writing my novels do I feel like I’m actually really producing something. Fiction enables me to get into a flow state the best, which is my favorite head space. Nothing else comes close.

Anyway, since I don’t like to spend too much time navel-gazing about writing “successes,” I’ll just leave it at that for now. Two good milestones in the rear view mirror. Onto the next.

I’ll Still Be Buying Physical Books Even When They Can Be Downloaded Directly Into Your Brain Via Laser Beams

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Digital doesn’t get it done. OG readers know.

Source: Midjourney

The Bookstore Owner

It’s 11 p.m. Dark, no stars. Soft rain patters against the windows of the small town corner bookstore. The proprietor, a graying, middle-aged man, old and weary before his time, starts locking up.

Another bad day. Only one sale. To a little old lady who was looking for that “cute sparkly vampire” book for her granddaughter. He sold her Dracula instead. Maybe he could save just one Zoomer.

No else even came inside. All too busy staring down at their phones as they walked past. Doomscrolling TikTok, cat memes, and God knows what else. These glowing screens might as well be crack pipes, he thinks, wiping a distressed brow.

The proprietor lifts his tired eyes to the black abyss of a sky as he closes the shades. He used to be filled with optimism. He was going to change the world. He was going to be somebody. A bookseller. A real bookseller. He was going to nourish the world with the printed word. With physical books. Sure, they were dusty, old, and smelled funny. But they were real. Imprinted with human touch and ownership. A physical book is something that says, “I exist, I matter!”

Except nobody wants real books anymore. They just want their glowing screens. They want their Kindles with their “e-paper.” Ha! As if paper could be mimicked on a screen. What next? E-food? E-water?

Now the bills are piling up. Rent’s overdue. A utility company is howling at the door. Bankruptcy looms. It’s over, he thinks. Time to admit defeat once and for all. The glowing screens won. Damn them. Damn them all to hell.

Then he hears footsteps. A shadowy figure suddenly appears. It sort of reminds him of how Nick Fury came in at the end of the first Iron Man movie in the post-credits scene.

In fact, that’s exactly what it reminds him of.

“You think you’re the only bookseller struggling to keep the lights on? You’re part of a much bigger universe. You just don’t know it yet.”

“No, I’m fully aware bookstores are a failing business model,” he says. “My ex-wife reminded me everyday.”

I step fully into the light. A stack of books under my arm. An eye patch placed crookedly on my face.

“Is that eye patch real, or did you just put it on for effect?” he asks.

“Never mind that. I’m putting a team together. I mean, I’m putting a library together.”

The proprietor glances at my books. Lost Horizon. The Caine Mutiny. Is that really Fahrenheit 451? A single tear forms in his eye.

A small smile cracks his cynical, grim visage. His first one in ages.

Maybe there is hope, afterall.

My books. Author’s photo.

Buying physical books may not be as dramatic as saving the world, but there’s nothing like actual “flesh and blood” print over e-books or words off a glowing screen.

Reading words off a screen feels more like scanning than actual reading. Though that’s probably just a generational bias. If you grew up staring into the pixelated prism of an iPad, you might prefer the digital version over the real thing.

I have a Kindle. It mainly sits there and collects dust. I only used it for a few digital books I bought. But the experience is not the same. Even if it is more convenient to hold a thin piece of plastic instead of a heavy, awkward book. Perhaps one I’ll finally get used to scanning the fake paper of an e-reader into my brain like a self-checkout machine.

I keep most of my books in storage these days. I like to keep things simple for the time being. Someday I’ll have a house to put them in. Someday I’ll have them properly displayed in my own library.

Jerry Seinfeld once joked that everything we own is just on an eventual jouney to the dumpster. Maybe having boxes and boxes of books like I do will one day prove a burden to family members. I have new books and old books from childhood. I’ve never thrown a book out. I’ve saved everyone I’ve ever had. One day after I’m gone they’ll be sitting on a plastic table at a garage sale. Donated to a library. Or just thrown in the dumpster. But they’ll have served their purpose, at least for me.

When Will You Disappear From Memory?

On By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Calculating my “Moment of Oblivion.”

Source: Midjourney

They say you aren’t totally dead until your name is spoken for the last time.

For some it will take longer than others. Much, much longer. I can’t imagine we’ll stop saying Julius Caesar’s name anytime soon. He did pay a high price of admission into Club Immortality, though, what with all those knife wounds in the back.

Or Genghis Khan. Especially when he was such a prolific baby daddy that even today 1 in 200 men in the former Mongol Empire share a common male ancestor — which was almost certainly him. Guy must have had a hell of a Tinder profile.

Adolf Hitler will be hanging around for a bit. History is filled with noteworthy murderers. In fact, that seems to be your best bet for a ticket into the remembrance afterlife. We won’t soon forget Joseph Stalin or Mao Zedong either.

Most of your prominent dictators, kings, barbarians, and major leaders down through history, good or evil, beloved or reviled, will likely live on in the collective consciousness. Ozymandias’ statue may have crumbled in the desert, but hey, we’re still talking about him, aren’t we?

After that, the list starts to really narrow. It’s mainly inventors and scientists like Isaac Newton or Albert Einstein. Influential artists and thinkers like Shakespeare, Socrates, or Leonardo da Vinci. Explorers such as Christopher Columbus or Neil Armstrong. Religious figures like Jesus Christ or Muhammad. Then a smattering of other human highlights. Your Typhoid Marys (Mary Mallon), Rube Goldbergs, and Roland the Farters.

Yes, Roland the Farter was a real person, and apparently, he was gastronomically quite skilled.

Sadly, I don’t think many Medium writers will make the recall cut past even 100 years from now, except maybe Barack Obama and other big names who happen to have accounts here. Sure, some server in a cave somewhere will probably have all of us stored away. But how desperate will those of 2124 be to read through hot takes from the 2020s? How many bestselling books or films do you know of from the 1920s? I can think of one off the top of my head — The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

It’s a sobering thought experiment calculating your “moment of oblivion.” Mine is probably around the year 2135. I was born in 1982. The average male life span in the United States is 80. I’m currently childless. If I were to have two children in the next ten years, my kids might be in their 30s by the time I die.

Everyone remembers their parents and talks often about them. So, at the least, I’d be remembered by my own kids until they pass away, possibly sometime early next century.

If my kids have children of their own, my grandkids would certainly remember me, assuming I live long enough to get to know them. Everyone loves their grandparents. If my future grandkids are born while my kids are in their late 20s or early 30s, they would live until around 2135.

After that, it starts to get real murky. Very few people ever know their great grandparents personally. Often you just know their name and some basic biographical information. Maybe a few family members have stories about them. I have no idea who my great great grandparents even are.

So, that’s it then. 2135. My Moment of Oblivion.

I could improve on my date with nothingness by living longer. Maybe I add ten more years then. Or I could have more kids than just two. Working against me there is the fact that I’m starting late. But if I were to live to my 90s and have five kids, and my kids have a bunch of kids, then perhaps I could stretch my remembered self to the mid-2100s. I’d have to be a real prodigious procreater like Genghis Khan to make it past the next century via genetic legacy alone.

If I don’t have any kids, then I’d be reliant on my nieces and nephews to remember their favorite uncle. That would get me no farther past sometime early next century. Aunts and uncles are rarely remembered past one generation.

Aside from being remembered by family, I’m left with having to do something extraordinary to make a big enough impact. I’m not a king, scientist, or explorer. I’m just a writer. Even if I were to write a huge bestselling book — like the next Jaws or Gone Girl — that probably only buys me notoriety for a few decades. The only two authors living today that I could see still being remembered in 100+ years solely due to their writing and not counting their offspring are Stephen King and J. K. Rowling. I don’t see myself getting that lucky.

Of course, if I were to somehow manage to kill millions of people, that’d be sure to keep me in everyone’s thoughts for centuries to come. But I’d have to really raise the bar there. I’m competing with some heavy hitters. Hitler killed around 17 million. Stalin whacked 23 million. Mao had a whopping 49–78 million extinguished.

How many would I need to kill to ensure I stick around forever? 80 million? 100 million? I think I’d better shoot for 100 million just to be sure. That’s a nice round number.

No, I think I’m okay with 2135 being my final goodbye year. That’s still 153 years of being thought about and talked about. Not a bad run for an average person.

When do you think your Moment of Oblivion will be?