Mario Villalobos


Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing. During those times, I feel like none of what I’m doing is worth doing anymore. That I should just quit and stop pretending I’m someone I’m not. Nobody cares about your journey, that voice in my head says. Why should anybody care? Your life is one of billions. I’m not doing it for anybody, though. I agree, nobody cares how I live my life. Nobody cares if I had a good day or a bad day, a productive day or a mediocre day. I’m going to write it down anyway because that’s what I do. I write. I have to understand my life and what it is I’m doing every day. Every little moment I live through adds up to the entirety of my life, and I want to know I lived it as best as I could.

Just like that artisan who’s spent his entire life learning how to perfect his craft , I’m learning how to perfect my life by working at living it as best as I can. Part of it is learning how to deal with the negative. Negativity, when it comes to our lives, is a relative term. What I consider negative, someone else might consider a positive. Some people might consider my ceaseless loneliness as a negative. I live alone, but I don’t feel lonely. I miss the touch of a woman, but I’m not dying over it. I’ll find someone eventually; I’m not too worried about it. Some people might think my relentless commitment to my tasks and schedules is a negative. Some might see it as a positive. I’m in the middle. I know I can’t sustain this forever. I don’t much want to, either. Whenever I find someone, I want to spend every waking minute I can with her, with limits of course. And soon I’ll be driving down to California to pick up the rest of my stuff, and to visit my family and friends. That time won’t be my time. Some people might hate my blog. Maybe hate’s a strong word. Bored by it? Annoyed by it? Either way, they might not enjoy reading my blog. That’s okay. I’m not writing it for them. I’m writing it for myself.

I started this blog sixty-three days ago because I hated who I had become. I hurt my best friend in the entire world with my raw stupidity. That raw stupidity was exacerbated by my continuous desire to drown myself in alcohol. I had gained weight and felt terrible. I wasn’t writing, reading, or doing anything I loved because I just wanted to drink and watch TV. I had quit my job because it reminded me of my best friend, and I didn’t want to work there anymore if she wasn’t going to be there. I was actually super sad when I imagined walking to work and not seeing her car parked in the parking lot. That thought alone drove me to quit. All these things added up to a life that brought me nothing but pain. So I started this blog. Partly because I wanted her to find it and read it. I wanted her to miss me and want to get back in touch with me. I gave her too much credit, though. Even if she did find this blog and read every entry, I don’t think she would appreciate the work I’ve done and am doing, even when part of it was driven by her. I’ve moved on, and I’m happy with where I am. Hell, I’m better than I’ve ever been.

One day, I’m going to look back at all these entries. I’m going to read them one by one, from the oldest one to the newest, and I’m going to read the story of my life as written by me. I hope to see progress. I hope I’m not the red queen, always running in place and getting nowhere. That’s how I feel right now, actually, like I’m running in place and getting nowhere. Part of me knows that’s not true. Progress, by its very definition, is relative. As long as I’m heading toward a destination, I’m making progress. And I’m definitely moving forward. That’s all I hope to do.