† SINISTER PUBLICATIONS†

(Relax, it’s a joke — keep reading.)

So a while back I was going through one of those tumultuous life transitions. The kind where you hit rock bottom, but not the dramatic movie kind — more like the “life kicked me in the nuts and left” kind. Compared to what other people go through, mine was tame, but still enough to scramble my brain.

Growing up in Juaritoz — the murder capital of the world — I saw messed‑up things as a kid. Not at home, but out there in the wild. So later in life, I figured maybe I should do some “inner work.” You know, the Carl Jung stuff, emotional intelligence books, and that yoga‑guru‑self‑help crap you find in Glamour magazines.

Anyway, I thought: “Let me try shadow work. Let me dive into the madness.”

Bro… I swear on everything, I almost went insane. And honestly? Maybe I did go insane. Maybe this whole illusion of life is just me coping with reality after my brain cracked open like a dropped egg.

I became so detached I felt like an uncarved pumpkin — just sitting there, collecting rainwater, doing nothing, but somehow still aesthetically pleasing. At one point I said screw it: dreams mean nothing, life is whatever, and my reactions are just reactions. Nothing divine, nothing special.

And then the nastiest plot twist hit me: Midlife Crisis at 35.

I didn’t buy a sports car, but I almost bought a bike. Instead, I bought a mamalona — a 2015 Ram 4×4 Lone Star — and went absolutely feral. Straight pipas, stage 2 cam, ECU tune, all the stupid upgrades. I off‑roaded like a maniac. There was a moment where, if I had flown off a cliff like a bootleg Duke of Hazzard, the GoPro footage would’ve shown me smiling like a dumbass right before impact.

Male midlife crisis hit me like a torpedo while I was floating on a pedal boat.

And it still haunts me sometimes — that feeling of no purpose, no lane, just a goldfish choking because it swam too close to the surface and can’t get back to the deep. Detached. Sad. Hopeless. Unforgiving. Self‑loathing. Resentful at life. So much bad, so little good.

I tried doing little trips to “find myself.” Taos. Ruidoso. Cloudcroft. Alamogordo. None of it worked. I didn’t find myself — I found overpriced gas stations and mediocre coffee.

Now I’ve got back aches, poor circulation in my left leg because the mamalona ran me over (long story), and random pains that show up like uninvited guests.

Yet somehow… I keep trucking.

It’s like I got a flat tire and said: “Fuck it. Drive it on the rim until the engine overheats. Then walk the rest.”

Shadow work didn’t save me. Life didn’t enlighten me. But I’m still here — limping, laughing, ranting, and rolling forward on whatever rim is left.

At one point I even tried dating a recently widowed woman (cutest thing you ever seen). That was the redded flag imaginable – redder than my midlife crisis itself. Redder than communist China, redder than Russia… shit redder than the check engine light that troubles the mamalona right now. That’s when I realized shadow work wasn’t all gay – my decision making was as well. It’s been 5 year sand I still can’t let her go, it’s like I get attached to emotionally unavailable women and when it all hits the fan shits and giggles, I go cry in the backyard with caguama and grill set on blaze. But just like that, you have to drown yourself in your sorrows, BE A MAN!!