Xu Xin Xia's Blog: How I Feel About Life
July 22, 2022
My Scooter
I'm gonna write about my scooter and try not to cry.
Some might think my biggest accomplishment as a writer is to write a novel or maybe a short story that I am proud of but no.
My biggest accomplishment as a writer and the biggest accomplishment in my life was to purchase a scooter.
I drive my scooter everywhere, all year round, summer and winter. It's my primary vehicle.
My scooter helped to change my life when I was released from prison.
Before purchasing my scooter, I rode the bus, public transportation, everywhere. If I was lucky, I also had a bicycle, but the distance I could travel was limited.
All of the countless jobs I have had were on the bus line.
I was a thirty-year-old washing dishes, busing tables, and mopping floors.
The better jobs were located far from the inner city, so I had no way of making life better.
And to add to this situation, I had also flunked out of college and was discharged from the army after going AWOL, but that's another story.
My parents didn't help me get a car or cared to teach me how to drive even though we had two cars as I was growing up.
How I was raised is yet another story.
I was alone when it came to going from place to place. My memories are filled with walking and waiting for the bus along with the heavy breathing and sweating from riding my bicycle. My world was no bigger than a 5-mile circle from my home. I never went to a concert, a party, or any other social gathering in my teens or twenties, outside of school events.
It makes me tear up knowing that I had lived my younger years not knowing of anything beyond my neighborhood.
So when I was released from prison in my 40s, I was living in a halfway house. I had gotten a job as a busboy in a casino, and one day, I decided to walk the three miles to work instead of taking the bus. I was finally free, and I wanted to walk in the wide open space of the outdoors.
That's when I walked by a scooter store and saw a black Chinese scooter with a sales price of $1000 in the display window.
I stared at the scooter. I couldn't believe the price was so low. I remembered scooters costing as much as cars when I was younger. I remembered seeing scooters at some of the rich suburban high schools when I went there for sporting events.
$1000. Wow! I had the money.
While living in the halfway house, I didn't pay rent. I was given food and clothes, and all I had to do was save my money and find a place to live. But I had been living in the halfway house for over a year without finding an apartment. No one would take me because I was a sex offender. So week after week, my bank account got fatter as more and more ex-cons left the halfway house and more and more ex-cons came in.
I stared at the scooter for a good ten minutes. There was no way I was going to buy a scooter without a driver's license. Then there was insurance, tags, and registration. And there was no way I could buy a scooter without a permanent address.
“You could get a better look inside,” came a voice.
A man inside the store noticed me standing in front of the display and came outside to talk to me.
He looked me over.
“You don't need a driver's license to purchase a scooter,” said the employee. “People buy scooters when they have points against their driver's license and can't drive. The police know that, so even if you drive a scooter without a license or a suspended license, they're not gonna give you a ticket.”
I looked at the man and stared again at the scooter.
“That's a 50cc scooter,” the man continued. “You can buy it and drive it without registration. No tags. No insurance. No license. Just pay and go.”
And that's what I did.
I hid my scooter behind the halfway house, underneath a highway overpass where some ex-cons parked their cars. They didn't want the halfway house officials to know they were driving for various reasons.
I hid my scooter because despite what the scooter store employee said, I knew it was illegal to drive without a driver's license.
But it was at that point in my life my world began to expand.
People take for granted their ability to travel from one place to another. But I don't.
Once I got my scooter, I signed up for a creative writing class at a community college over ten miles away from the halfway house. And that's when I finished Bang! Tick Tock Gold, written about earlier.
I was soon invited to read my poem at spoken word events, so I darted across the city on my scooter, learning the names of streets in a town I had lived in all my life for the first time.
I got my driver's license by driving my scooter to a place where I rented a test-taker for a day.
I found an apartment complex on my scooter that allowed me to move in as a registered sex offender.
I got 80 miles from a $2.00 gallon of gas.
Tear. Tear.
Once I moved into my first apartment after being released from prison, I drove to the gas station, the laundromat, and the grocery store. I drove to Target, to Walmart, and to JC Penny. I took the drive-thru at Wendy's. I found a job off the bus line that paid more than a busboy. My scooter helped to raise my self-esteem because I felt more in control of me. I could choose what I wanted without relying on others and without having a bus schedule. My circle of influence grew from 5 miles to 50.
I had that first scooter for 10 years from 2009 to 2019 and replaced damn near everything but the metal frame.
But then the metal frame broke.
I cried elephant tears when I tossed it into the trash bin.
Today, I am on my third scooter, but I could probably build one from scratch.
I always ride barefooted, all year round, summer and winter.
I love the feel of the wind against my face and the rumble of the motor between my thighs.
And sometimes, but only sometimes in the dead of night, my self-esteem will let me ride totally
naked.
Some might think my biggest accomplishment as a writer is to write a novel or maybe a short story that I am proud of but no.
My biggest accomplishment as a writer and the biggest accomplishment in my life was to purchase a scooter.
I drive my scooter everywhere, all year round, summer and winter. It's my primary vehicle.
My scooter helped to change my life when I was released from prison.
Before purchasing my scooter, I rode the bus, public transportation, everywhere. If I was lucky, I also had a bicycle, but the distance I could travel was limited.
All of the countless jobs I have had were on the bus line.
I was a thirty-year-old washing dishes, busing tables, and mopping floors.
The better jobs were located far from the inner city, so I had no way of making life better.
And to add to this situation, I had also flunked out of college and was discharged from the army after going AWOL, but that's another story.
My parents didn't help me get a car or cared to teach me how to drive even though we had two cars as I was growing up.
How I was raised is yet another story.
I was alone when it came to going from place to place. My memories are filled with walking and waiting for the bus along with the heavy breathing and sweating from riding my bicycle. My world was no bigger than a 5-mile circle from my home. I never went to a concert, a party, or any other social gathering in my teens or twenties, outside of school events.
It makes me tear up knowing that I had lived my younger years not knowing of anything beyond my neighborhood.
So when I was released from prison in my 40s, I was living in a halfway house. I had gotten a job as a busboy in a casino, and one day, I decided to walk the three miles to work instead of taking the bus. I was finally free, and I wanted to walk in the wide open space of the outdoors.
That's when I walked by a scooter store and saw a black Chinese scooter with a sales price of $1000 in the display window.
I stared at the scooter. I couldn't believe the price was so low. I remembered scooters costing as much as cars when I was younger. I remembered seeing scooters at some of the rich suburban high schools when I went there for sporting events.
$1000. Wow! I had the money.
While living in the halfway house, I didn't pay rent. I was given food and clothes, and all I had to do was save my money and find a place to live. But I had been living in the halfway house for over a year without finding an apartment. No one would take me because I was a sex offender. So week after week, my bank account got fatter as more and more ex-cons left the halfway house and more and more ex-cons came in.
I stared at the scooter for a good ten minutes. There was no way I was going to buy a scooter without a driver's license. Then there was insurance, tags, and registration. And there was no way I could buy a scooter without a permanent address.
“You could get a better look inside,” came a voice.
A man inside the store noticed me standing in front of the display and came outside to talk to me.
He looked me over.
“You don't need a driver's license to purchase a scooter,” said the employee. “People buy scooters when they have points against their driver's license and can't drive. The police know that, so even if you drive a scooter without a license or a suspended license, they're not gonna give you a ticket.”
I looked at the man and stared again at the scooter.
“That's a 50cc scooter,” the man continued. “You can buy it and drive it without registration. No tags. No insurance. No license. Just pay and go.”
And that's what I did.
I hid my scooter behind the halfway house, underneath a highway overpass where some ex-cons parked their cars. They didn't want the halfway house officials to know they were driving for various reasons.
I hid my scooter because despite what the scooter store employee said, I knew it was illegal to drive without a driver's license.
But it was at that point in my life my world began to expand.
People take for granted their ability to travel from one place to another. But I don't.
Once I got my scooter, I signed up for a creative writing class at a community college over ten miles away from the halfway house. And that's when I finished Bang! Tick Tock Gold, written about earlier.
I was soon invited to read my poem at spoken word events, so I darted across the city on my scooter, learning the names of streets in a town I had lived in all my life for the first time.
I got my driver's license by driving my scooter to a place where I rented a test-taker for a day.
I found an apartment complex on my scooter that allowed me to move in as a registered sex offender.
I got 80 miles from a $2.00 gallon of gas.
Tear. Tear.
Once I moved into my first apartment after being released from prison, I drove to the gas station, the laundromat, and the grocery store. I drove to Target, to Walmart, and to JC Penny. I took the drive-thru at Wendy's. I found a job off the bus line that paid more than a busboy. My scooter helped to raise my self-esteem because I felt more in control of me. I could choose what I wanted without relying on others and without having a bus schedule. My circle of influence grew from 5 miles to 50.
I had that first scooter for 10 years from 2009 to 2019 and replaced damn near everything but the metal frame.
But then the metal frame broke.
I cried elephant tears when I tossed it into the trash bin.
Today, I am on my third scooter, but I could probably build one from scratch.
I always ride barefooted, all year round, summer and winter.
I love the feel of the wind against my face and the rumble of the motor between my thighs.
And sometimes, but only sometimes in the dead of night, my self-esteem will let me ride totally
naked.
July 20, 2022
My Rule of Three
I have three writing rules: Start with some action. Use the power of repetition. And don't hold back.
Writing, for me, started with a poem about butterflies in second grade. And I stayed with personal poetry and micro stories until well after high school, but writing was hard. I didn't know how to form a story. I barely knew what a story was. I connected writing with speaking. I thought speaking was supposed to be important. I thought a person should only talk when they had something of importance to say, so my writings suffered and were only sketches of my thoughts, blueprints on how I saw the world around me.
I knew I had a problem. I was shy and introverted. I was scared of personal interaction (shy) and thought about my fear constantly (introverted). My first two years of college were the loneliest parts of my life because there was the hope of making new friends from the current people around me along with a persistent inaction, creating a pulsating conflict. I wanted friends, and I didn't know why I wasn't making any. I didn't know what college was. I didn't have a plan. I didn't have a mentor. I was totally alone, so I spent most of my time in the college library, in the stacks reading everything that could explain my dilemma. Who was I? What was life? Why was I here? How did I make a friend? I thought I could get answers from books. I thought there was some book that could tell me the secrets to being happy. I rested my soul on dusty nonfiction from the basement archives.
I, of course, never found answers to my questions. I, of course, never found the book I was searching for. I flunked out of college and went from job to job to job to prison still looking, still afraid of relating to people (shy) while examining my terror (introverted).
In prison, I went from nonfiction to fiction. I absorbed stories. I munched on them day after day, week after week, and year after year. But none of the novels gave me the answers I sought. None of those books told me why I didn't have a friend.
Some of the novels were good. Some were fair. But a great many of the narratives didn't start the story the way I felt was best: The protagonist had to wake up while the sidekick told a few jokes; the antagonist had to spend the first five pages with internal dialogue; or the author had to surround the characters with long, drawn-out living-room furnishings, which made the beginning of most stories slow, confusing, and downright awful. I didn't desire the “morning” setup. I didn't want the “internal” layout. I didn't need the “living-room” conditions.
All my life, I had sat back and waited for something to happen while wondering why good things were not happening to me in my life, so I wanted the characters in stories to be more proactive. I wanted to see the dispute in a novel. I wanted to hear the squabble in a narrative. I wanted to feel the conflict in a tale. I wanted action, action, action!
I also studied Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s speeches while in prison. Seeing how he used anaphora while saying “I have a dream” over and over at the Lincoln Memorial in 1963. I studied his alliteration, his allusion, and his ability to influence with rhythm, metaphors, and repetition. Using the same meaning with different words was powerful, and I began to see the same “meaning” with differences all around me: Different commercials for the same product. Different book covers for the same tale. Different clothes worn by the same person. The world was made up of subtle differences of the same thing, and I wanted to put that power into my stories.
After reading so many books, I, then, knew what a story was and how to write one, so I started inscribing my first fable with my two new rules for writing the last two years of my prison sentence. The story was called Bang! Tick Tock Gold about a white dove running in a race with other animals. It was a metaphor about me “running” in life. But after two years, I walked out of prison with the fable still incomplete. I had come up with at least three good endings, but the endings were tiny epilogues of the running fable after the race had finished, and I didn't want that. My goal had been to begin the allegory with the start of the race and to finish the race with the last word of the tale. I didn't want the reader to know who had won until the story was over. No epilogue. No tailpiece. No afterword. But I couldn't do it. The ending was impossible for me to write. So the piece sat around unfinished for over a year. And for a year, I began to see myself creep slowly back into some of the past habits I had before my imprisonment with those same questions arising: Who am I? What is life? Why am I here? And how do I make friends?
I wanted action, action, action! The same thing I longed for when reading novels in prison, so I signed up and took a creative writing class, and the week before I was to turn it in, I sat down and finished Bang! Tick Tock Gold. I didn't hold back. I put in everything I wanted to say about “running” and finally discovered an ending I was proud of. But I was horrified (shy) about what was going to happen (introverted) that I cried the night before. I was shaking. I was sweating, but I went to class and read my story because I had “run” up against a wall. My life wasn't going to change until I changed it myself. I had to be proactive. I had to be motivated. I had to take charge.
After reading my fable to my creative writing class, I was invited to speak at a spoken word gathering. Since then, reading my stories has become a part of my life. I am saying something important. I am showing the world what I see, giving my point of view on life.
The title, Bang! Tick Tock Gold, has changed to The Running Poem, and those interested can see me perform this piece here on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSxl9....
I have three writing rules: Start with some action. Use the power of repetition. And don't hold back. When I write, I enjoy saying the same thing more than once. My favorite word is tautology. I am an advocate of triads and tricola. And I roll my sentences in powdered synonyms.
I am the only one capable of putting meaning in my life.
Who am I?
A writer.
Why am I here?
To tell stories.
Writing, for me, started with a poem about butterflies in second grade. And I stayed with personal poetry and micro stories until well after high school, but writing was hard. I didn't know how to form a story. I barely knew what a story was. I connected writing with speaking. I thought speaking was supposed to be important. I thought a person should only talk when they had something of importance to say, so my writings suffered and were only sketches of my thoughts, blueprints on how I saw the world around me.
I knew I had a problem. I was shy and introverted. I was scared of personal interaction (shy) and thought about my fear constantly (introverted). My first two years of college were the loneliest parts of my life because there was the hope of making new friends from the current people around me along with a persistent inaction, creating a pulsating conflict. I wanted friends, and I didn't know why I wasn't making any. I didn't know what college was. I didn't have a plan. I didn't have a mentor. I was totally alone, so I spent most of my time in the college library, in the stacks reading everything that could explain my dilemma. Who was I? What was life? Why was I here? How did I make a friend? I thought I could get answers from books. I thought there was some book that could tell me the secrets to being happy. I rested my soul on dusty nonfiction from the basement archives.
I, of course, never found answers to my questions. I, of course, never found the book I was searching for. I flunked out of college and went from job to job to job to prison still looking, still afraid of relating to people (shy) while examining my terror (introverted).
In prison, I went from nonfiction to fiction. I absorbed stories. I munched on them day after day, week after week, and year after year. But none of the novels gave me the answers I sought. None of those books told me why I didn't have a friend.
Some of the novels were good. Some were fair. But a great many of the narratives didn't start the story the way I felt was best: The protagonist had to wake up while the sidekick told a few jokes; the antagonist had to spend the first five pages with internal dialogue; or the author had to surround the characters with long, drawn-out living-room furnishings, which made the beginning of most stories slow, confusing, and downright awful. I didn't desire the “morning” setup. I didn't want the “internal” layout. I didn't need the “living-room” conditions.
All my life, I had sat back and waited for something to happen while wondering why good things were not happening to me in my life, so I wanted the characters in stories to be more proactive. I wanted to see the dispute in a novel. I wanted to hear the squabble in a narrative. I wanted to feel the conflict in a tale. I wanted action, action, action!
I also studied Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s speeches while in prison. Seeing how he used anaphora while saying “I have a dream” over and over at the Lincoln Memorial in 1963. I studied his alliteration, his allusion, and his ability to influence with rhythm, metaphors, and repetition. Using the same meaning with different words was powerful, and I began to see the same “meaning” with differences all around me: Different commercials for the same product. Different book covers for the same tale. Different clothes worn by the same person. The world was made up of subtle differences of the same thing, and I wanted to put that power into my stories.
After reading so many books, I, then, knew what a story was and how to write one, so I started inscribing my first fable with my two new rules for writing the last two years of my prison sentence. The story was called Bang! Tick Tock Gold about a white dove running in a race with other animals. It was a metaphor about me “running” in life. But after two years, I walked out of prison with the fable still incomplete. I had come up with at least three good endings, but the endings were tiny epilogues of the running fable after the race had finished, and I didn't want that. My goal had been to begin the allegory with the start of the race and to finish the race with the last word of the tale. I didn't want the reader to know who had won until the story was over. No epilogue. No tailpiece. No afterword. But I couldn't do it. The ending was impossible for me to write. So the piece sat around unfinished for over a year. And for a year, I began to see myself creep slowly back into some of the past habits I had before my imprisonment with those same questions arising: Who am I? What is life? Why am I here? And how do I make friends?
I wanted action, action, action! The same thing I longed for when reading novels in prison, so I signed up and took a creative writing class, and the week before I was to turn it in, I sat down and finished Bang! Tick Tock Gold. I didn't hold back. I put in everything I wanted to say about “running” and finally discovered an ending I was proud of. But I was horrified (shy) about what was going to happen (introverted) that I cried the night before. I was shaking. I was sweating, but I went to class and read my story because I had “run” up against a wall. My life wasn't going to change until I changed it myself. I had to be proactive. I had to be motivated. I had to take charge.
After reading my fable to my creative writing class, I was invited to speak at a spoken word gathering. Since then, reading my stories has become a part of my life. I am saying something important. I am showing the world what I see, giving my point of view on life.
The title, Bang! Tick Tock Gold, has changed to The Running Poem, and those interested can see me perform this piece here on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSxl9....
I have three writing rules: Start with some action. Use the power of repetition. And don't hold back. When I write, I enjoy saying the same thing more than once. My favorite word is tautology. I am an advocate of triads and tricola. And I roll my sentences in powdered synonyms.
I am the only one capable of putting meaning in my life.
Who am I?
A writer.
Why am I here?
To tell stories.
July 9, 2022
The Small Pleasure of My Bare Feet
I have found a small pleasure in living. For the last two years, when I go outside, I don't wear shoes. I stride in the grass, stroll down the sidewalk, march along the street feeling the pavement against my soles. And it is at that moment, I enjoy living. I wish I had discovered barefoot pleasure a long time ago. I wish I had been more of an outcast in my teens, more courageous, more daring, more me. Because having no shoes matches my personality. Something about my naked soles touching the earth makes me feel more human. I am more aware. I don't just go about my day with blind obedience. I soak in and absorb the feeling of the ground. I am connected with the universe.
I walk into Price Chopper, Target, and CVS barefooted. The eye doctor, the dentist, and any other hospital checkup will greet me without shoes.
I drive a 150cc scooter, so I cruise the road placing my toes on the hot or cold asphalt all year round. The bottoms of my bare feet blacker than the road.
My toes have grown stronger. My soles have bloomed thicker. I am now more used to the hard unforgiving concrete, the unyielding rocks, the inflexible pebbles, the shocking thorns. I have stepped in dog shit, stumbled upon nails, wondered thru broken glass, threaded across scorching sand and slippery ice. And I loved every second of it.
I soak, wash, and scrub my feet daily, and I walk with more confidence because I know I am not doing what everyone else is doing. I sometimes go out in public with a large butt plug vibrating in my anus. In the summer, I wear gym shorts that hug my ass and show a lot of leg. People will pretend not to stare at my legs and tootsies, but women seem to like my bare feet the most. They ogle, smile, and sometimes comment. And I feel proud of myself. But occasionally, I run into those that do not agree with the new way I go about pursuing my day. Walmart has a “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy that is only enforced when I run into someone that doesn't like the way I look. But honestly, most people and places do not even know I am barefooted. No one is looking down at what I am wearing on my feet unless they are sizing me up out of attraction or disgust.
The last ten years of my life have been an eye-opening experience after being released from prison. I have found daily pleasure in being brave enough to be myself, that is, doing something that comes naturally. I have bought a dozen gym shorts. I love the way the shorts hug my buttocks, and I like the way I look in them. I have purchased an extra-large vibrating butt plug to give me the sensation of being “full of shit”. And I drive my scooter all year round, in the snow and in the rain. I enjoy the wind as it blows back against me.
These are small pleasures, but pleasures I didn't have ten years ago. And now I have discovered the experience of being barefooted, the biggest small pleasure of all.
I walk into Price Chopper, Target, and CVS barefooted. The eye doctor, the dentist, and any other hospital checkup will greet me without shoes.
I drive a 150cc scooter, so I cruise the road placing my toes on the hot or cold asphalt all year round. The bottoms of my bare feet blacker than the road.
My toes have grown stronger. My soles have bloomed thicker. I am now more used to the hard unforgiving concrete, the unyielding rocks, the inflexible pebbles, the shocking thorns. I have stepped in dog shit, stumbled upon nails, wondered thru broken glass, threaded across scorching sand and slippery ice. And I loved every second of it.
I soak, wash, and scrub my feet daily, and I walk with more confidence because I know I am not doing what everyone else is doing. I sometimes go out in public with a large butt plug vibrating in my anus. In the summer, I wear gym shorts that hug my ass and show a lot of leg. People will pretend not to stare at my legs and tootsies, but women seem to like my bare feet the most. They ogle, smile, and sometimes comment. And I feel proud of myself. But occasionally, I run into those that do not agree with the new way I go about pursuing my day. Walmart has a “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy that is only enforced when I run into someone that doesn't like the way I look. But honestly, most people and places do not even know I am barefooted. No one is looking down at what I am wearing on my feet unless they are sizing me up out of attraction or disgust.
The last ten years of my life have been an eye-opening experience after being released from prison. I have found daily pleasure in being brave enough to be myself, that is, doing something that comes naturally. I have bought a dozen gym shorts. I love the way the shorts hug my buttocks, and I like the way I look in them. I have purchased an extra-large vibrating butt plug to give me the sensation of being “full of shit”. And I drive my scooter all year round, in the snow and in the rain. I enjoy the wind as it blows back against me.
These are small pleasures, but pleasures I didn't have ten years ago. And now I have discovered the experience of being barefooted, the biggest small pleasure of all.
July 8, 2022
Thinking About Success as a Failure
I have failed at everything, and now that I am fifty-five, I have to ask, how many times do I have to fail before I succeed?
To many, and even to myself, my life is halfway over. I am now on the slide downward to death, and I haven't accomplished any life goal.
I wanted to fall in love with a beautiful woman. I wanted to be world-famous for some ability I have, and I wanted to be admired for that ability.
Am I asking for too much?
I want to be liked for something. I want to accomplish something and leave behind that accomplishment as a gift to the world. I don't think my life goals are much different than anyone else's. Many people want to have children and leave behind that legacy. Others want to start a business. While some want to break long-standing records.
All of those life goals are wonderful, but I think my problem in accomplishing my life goals is I don't know what talents I have. I have spent my life searching. Going from one endeavor to another, attempting this then that, undertaking one task only to pursue another. I have had countless jobs and hobbies from a busboy to a projectionist, from a painter to a writer, from a runner to a porn model. And yet, I have succeeded at nothing.
I envy those who knew what they wanted to do early in life. Start that business in college. Break that world record in high school. Have that first child at eighteen.
It is no surprise I am still single at fifty-five. No woman wants to marry a man who doesn't know who he is.
Without knowing my talents, without knowing what I do well, my life hasn't started. I am still a child discovering the world around me and what it has to offer.
But I am also afraid I will die having yet to figure myself out.
Who the fuck am I?
I started writing this blog a few weeks ago, and yet, no one has read it.
I post videos of myself masturbating, but I do not feel fulfilled.
I went skydiving and NO! That wasn't for me.
I spent sixteen years as a prisoner, and I am currently a registered sex offender, but I hope I am remembered for more than being a criminal.
I have failed at everything, but I thought maybe I could be remembered simply as a man who tried, simply as a person who put his best foot forward, simply as a human being, but that would mean someone would have to know my story, that would mean I would have to succeed at making a friend.
To many, and even to myself, my life is halfway over. I am now on the slide downward to death, and I haven't accomplished any life goal.
I wanted to fall in love with a beautiful woman. I wanted to be world-famous for some ability I have, and I wanted to be admired for that ability.
Am I asking for too much?
I want to be liked for something. I want to accomplish something and leave behind that accomplishment as a gift to the world. I don't think my life goals are much different than anyone else's. Many people want to have children and leave behind that legacy. Others want to start a business. While some want to break long-standing records.
All of those life goals are wonderful, but I think my problem in accomplishing my life goals is I don't know what talents I have. I have spent my life searching. Going from one endeavor to another, attempting this then that, undertaking one task only to pursue another. I have had countless jobs and hobbies from a busboy to a projectionist, from a painter to a writer, from a runner to a porn model. And yet, I have succeeded at nothing.
I envy those who knew what they wanted to do early in life. Start that business in college. Break that world record in high school. Have that first child at eighteen.
It is no surprise I am still single at fifty-five. No woman wants to marry a man who doesn't know who he is.
Without knowing my talents, without knowing what I do well, my life hasn't started. I am still a child discovering the world around me and what it has to offer.
But I am also afraid I will die having yet to figure myself out.
Who the fuck am I?
I started writing this blog a few weeks ago, and yet, no one has read it.
I post videos of myself masturbating, but I do not feel fulfilled.
I went skydiving and NO! That wasn't for me.
I spent sixteen years as a prisoner, and I am currently a registered sex offender, but I hope I am remembered for more than being a criminal.
I have failed at everything, but I thought maybe I could be remembered simply as a man who tried, simply as a person who put his best foot forward, simply as a human being, but that would mean someone would have to know my story, that would mean I would have to succeed at making a friend.
July 2, 2022
My Precognitive Dreams
Thirty-five years ago, I had a dream I was standing in a darkened room in front of an older bald gentleman. I didn't know him. I had never seen him before, but we were standing quite close, The old man didn't introduce himself or say anything, but I leaned into him to get a better look at his face in the darkness.
I mention this dream because all of my life I have had precognitive dreams. Dreams about my future come true.
I do not believe in clairvoyance, tarot cards, zodiac signs, numerology, palmistry, phrenology, or any other future telling ability.
I don't believe in God, Jesus, Christianity, or any other religious doctrine.
Demons, ghosts, and spirits do not exist.
I do not know my future. But I have seen my destiny taken out of context, stripped of its meaning, and scrubbed of any background, setting, and condition.
Year after year, I walk into a room either familiar or one I have never been in before, and my point of view is filled with the matching view I had in a dream twenty or thirty years earlier. Sometimes the dream comes back so vividly, I know what's going to happen before it happens. I know how people are going to move. I know what people are going to say.
Once I had a dream recall about a restaurant I worked in. I had walked to the bar to get drinks for customers when I saw the dream scene match with the drinks and heard someone yelling my name. But no one yelled my name the same way it was yelled in the dream. The shouting of my name was so crystal clear, I knew it was going to come true. But I waited and waited, day after day, week after week, month after month, but no one howled my name. I worked for the restaurant a year, and on my last day, I said bye to the crew and walked out. I strolled a block before hearing someone scream my name. It was shouted the same way it had been shouted in my dream years earlier. The voice came from a fellow employee from across the street on his way to the restaurant I had just left.
My last dream recall came a few weeks ago. I had finished redesigning my bedroom with new black sheets, black curtains, and a black carpet. I had just turned off the light when the dream scene hit me. I saw a bald middle-aged man standing against the wall, and I stepped closer out of curiosity. Was this the dream I had thirty-five years ago? The dream I had when I lived on campus at Wichita State University? Was this the scene of the strange old man I remembered seeing? I stepped closer to the shadowy, bald, middle-aged man and leaned in to get a closer look. And I realized I had been gazing at myself years ago in my dream. Staring at myself in a mirror thirty-five years before it actually happened.
I mention this dream because all of my life I have had precognitive dreams. Dreams about my future come true.
I do not believe in clairvoyance, tarot cards, zodiac signs, numerology, palmistry, phrenology, or any other future telling ability.
I don't believe in God, Jesus, Christianity, or any other religious doctrine.
Demons, ghosts, and spirits do not exist.
I do not know my future. But I have seen my destiny taken out of context, stripped of its meaning, and scrubbed of any background, setting, and condition.
Year after year, I walk into a room either familiar or one I have never been in before, and my point of view is filled with the matching view I had in a dream twenty or thirty years earlier. Sometimes the dream comes back so vividly, I know what's going to happen before it happens. I know how people are going to move. I know what people are going to say.
Once I had a dream recall about a restaurant I worked in. I had walked to the bar to get drinks for customers when I saw the dream scene match with the drinks and heard someone yelling my name. But no one yelled my name the same way it was yelled in the dream. The shouting of my name was so crystal clear, I knew it was going to come true. But I waited and waited, day after day, week after week, month after month, but no one howled my name. I worked for the restaurant a year, and on my last day, I said bye to the crew and walked out. I strolled a block before hearing someone scream my name. It was shouted the same way it had been shouted in my dream years earlier. The voice came from a fellow employee from across the street on his way to the restaurant I had just left.
My last dream recall came a few weeks ago. I had finished redesigning my bedroom with new black sheets, black curtains, and a black carpet. I had just turned off the light when the dream scene hit me. I saw a bald middle-aged man standing against the wall, and I stepped closer out of curiosity. Was this the dream I had thirty-five years ago? The dream I had when I lived on campus at Wichita State University? Was this the scene of the strange old man I remembered seeing? I stepped closer to the shadowy, bald, middle-aged man and leaned in to get a closer look. And I realized I had been gazing at myself years ago in my dream. Staring at myself in a mirror thirty-five years before it actually happened.
June 30, 2022
How Many Times Have I Tried to Kill Myself
I washed clothes today. I don't have a washing machine, so I packed up my dirties and sped off to the laundromat. After the wash, I stood and watched my clothes roll around in the dryer, and I realized the rolling of my clothes resembled my life. A constant and consistent turning. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. I wake up and do the same things day after day, week after week, and year after year. I wish I could stop my life for a moment and gather my thoughts. I wish I could have been able to plan out my life and life choices before those choices were needing a decision.
How many times have I tried to kill myself? Five. I believe the answer is five. But I am fifty-five, so I'm sure that I may have forgotten one or two. And I am pretty much just sitting and waiting for the next time I will feel the need to end my life. It's a part of my cycle like my clothes rolling around and around in the dryer. Killing myself has been something that has permeated, saturated, and impregnated my life. Of course, I have thought about killing myself more than I have tried.
The first time I tried to kill myself, I was seven years old. I tried to get hit by a car. I was at school, so I walked off and into the street at recess. The cars drove around me, honking. A teacher caught me, and we sat on the curb watching the cars drive by while she asked me why I wanted to get hit. I told her I was sad because I didn't have any friends. We continued to sit on the curb when recess was over until my mother showed up and took me home.
The next time I tried to kill myself, I was in the county jail. I'm an insulin-dependent diabetic, so I refused to take my daily dose of insulin; after a week, I passed out and woke up in the hospital, shackled to the bed.
The third time I tried to kill myself, I cut my wrist with a razor. It didn't work. I didn't bleed long enough, but I still have the scar.
The fourth time I tried to kill myself, I was in a maximum security prison in Missouri. The prison was surrounded by an electrified fence, so one morning, I put on all my prison clothes and climbed over two razor wire fences to get to the electrified fence, but those motherfuckers turned off the juice.
The last time I tried to kill myself was only a few years ago. I had broken my arm and needed surgery for internal fixation with plates. I was given opioids when I left the hospital. Those pills were so strong, that I refused to take them and just suffered, but I had the prescription refilled, and one day I took them all. Those pills had me down and out for several days until the effects faded.
Like my clothes in the dryer, my life goes around and around and around. And I wonder why am I still here? There is nothing about me that's special. I have failed at everything. I have no power or influence. I am not married. I don't have children. And I don't have family or friends. If I died today, I would be put in a pauper grave.
At times, life, to me, is a prison I would like to be free of. I don't believe in God. I have no religious affiliation, so death would simply be the end. There is nothing that connects me with living, but yet, around and around I go. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. I wake up and do the same shitty things day after day, week after week, and year after year.
Next up, Why I have had déjà vu most of my life. Or Why I don't wear shoes.
How many times have I tried to kill myself? Five. I believe the answer is five. But I am fifty-five, so I'm sure that I may have forgotten one or two. And I am pretty much just sitting and waiting for the next time I will feel the need to end my life. It's a part of my cycle like my clothes rolling around and around in the dryer. Killing myself has been something that has permeated, saturated, and impregnated my life. Of course, I have thought about killing myself more than I have tried.
The first time I tried to kill myself, I was seven years old. I tried to get hit by a car. I was at school, so I walked off and into the street at recess. The cars drove around me, honking. A teacher caught me, and we sat on the curb watching the cars drive by while she asked me why I wanted to get hit. I told her I was sad because I didn't have any friends. We continued to sit on the curb when recess was over until my mother showed up and took me home.
The next time I tried to kill myself, I was in the county jail. I'm an insulin-dependent diabetic, so I refused to take my daily dose of insulin; after a week, I passed out and woke up in the hospital, shackled to the bed.
The third time I tried to kill myself, I cut my wrist with a razor. It didn't work. I didn't bleed long enough, but I still have the scar.
The fourth time I tried to kill myself, I was in a maximum security prison in Missouri. The prison was surrounded by an electrified fence, so one morning, I put on all my prison clothes and climbed over two razor wire fences to get to the electrified fence, but those motherfuckers turned off the juice.
The last time I tried to kill myself was only a few years ago. I had broken my arm and needed surgery for internal fixation with plates. I was given opioids when I left the hospital. Those pills were so strong, that I refused to take them and just suffered, but I had the prescription refilled, and one day I took them all. Those pills had me down and out for several days until the effects faded.
Like my clothes in the dryer, my life goes around and around and around. And I wonder why am I still here? There is nothing about me that's special. I have failed at everything. I have no power or influence. I am not married. I don't have children. And I don't have family or friends. If I died today, I would be put in a pauper grave.
At times, life, to me, is a prison I would like to be free of. I don't believe in God. I have no religious affiliation, so death would simply be the end. There is nothing that connects me with living, but yet, around and around I go. The sun comes up. The sun goes down. I wake up and do the same shitty things day after day, week after week, and year after year.
Next up, Why I have had déjà vu most of my life. Or Why I don't wear shoes.
June 29, 2022
Numero Uno!
Well, let me begin by saying I don't know much about blogging. This is my first blog. Whenever I hear the word blog, it makes me think of a bugger, a-crusty-hard-to-scrape-from-the-nostrils bugger. One of those buggers that embeds itself? No. A bugger that implants? No. One of those buggers that sinks its fucking bugger roots into the hidden crevices of my hairy nose. A bugger that latches onto a hair and won't let go. A son-of-a-bitch bugger that I have to scrape with my manly fingernails from my nose while tearing out a hair and bursting a capillary just to flick the fucker across the room. Yes, that's what I think of when I hear the word 'blog'—a lodged bugger.
So, why am I writing a blog? I don't know, actually. The reason is there, but I haven't communicated the rationale, the motive, the cause of typing this shit. The need to write has always been with me. I write out grocery lists. I write out my plans for the day. I have written my life goals. My bucket list. The attributes of a perfect life partner. I write, and I write, and I write. So why not write a bugger, I mean blog?
My only worry is in getting myself in trouble. Because I always get myself into trouble when I write. People will read this shit and think that the words are me. I wrote about rape in a creative writing class, and I was asked to leave. I was put on suicide watch when my doctor found me writing about killing myself. My writings were on full display at both of my criminal trials for burglary in two different states.
What? Have I said too much?
I write because ... I have no choice in the matter. I eat because I get hungry, and I write because it is a natural ramification? No. Inbred development? No. Instinctive consequence? Maybe. I write because it's me.
So I will begin writing this bugger, and I hope to inspire some of you to read it until a moderator turns off the spigot.
Next up, how many times have I tried to kill myself? Or Why am I a PornHub model?
So, why am I writing a blog? I don't know, actually. The reason is there, but I haven't communicated the rationale, the motive, the cause of typing this shit. The need to write has always been with me. I write out grocery lists. I write out my plans for the day. I have written my life goals. My bucket list. The attributes of a perfect life partner. I write, and I write, and I write. So why not write a bugger, I mean blog?
My only worry is in getting myself in trouble. Because I always get myself into trouble when I write. People will read this shit and think that the words are me. I wrote about rape in a creative writing class, and I was asked to leave. I was put on suicide watch when my doctor found me writing about killing myself. My writings were on full display at both of my criminal trials for burglary in two different states.
What? Have I said too much?
I write because ... I have no choice in the matter. I eat because I get hungry, and I write because it is a natural ramification? No. Inbred development? No. Instinctive consequence? Maybe. I write because it's me.
So I will begin writing this bugger, and I hope to inspire some of you to read it until a moderator turns off the spigot.
Next up, how many times have I tried to kill myself? Or Why am I a PornHub model?
How I Feel About Life
This blog is about me, Xu Xin Xia, and how I became who I am.
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