“You speak English son?”

In a country as diverse as America you may randomly get asked this question. I suppose that is to be expected, however, there are a few instances where I find it ridiculous. The main instance is when you and I have already had a conversation and THEN you ask me if I can speak English. “No Sir I can’t, I was really just nodding my head to the rhythm of your words…

It was a Saturday night and the wife and I had decided to go to Blackhawk, CO to play at the Indian casinos. We had an amazing time, namely because my wife was extremely lucky that day and hit two large jackpots on slot machines. We of course had a shot of patron for each win, but because I was driving I withheld the urge to have more beverages to celebrate. We stayed a few hours at the casino, more than enough time for me to process twice as much alcohol as I had, but we still made our way carefully down the mountain back towards Denver. The road can be remarkably dangerous and I knew this first hand having hit a deer in my brand new Eclipse a couple years earlier. Apparently deer have no regard for their own personal safety or the image of my baby car which I still mourn to this day.

As we made our way towards the one gas station located a few miles outside of Blackhawk I began to see red and blue lights ahead. I immediately thought it was either an accident or a DUI checkpoint, and sure enough the police were standing in the middle of the road conducting DUI “interviews” on passing cars. I say “interviews” here because the cops were actively talking to each driver and sending the ones they “suspected” of being under the influence to the dirt parking lot nearby. It was my lucky night.

Sir have you had anything to drink tonight?” the cop asked me.

I had a couple drinks three hours ago,” I answered honestly. I could actually feel the nervousness from my wife.

A second cop approached from the passenger side and shined his flashlight at me. The first officer placed his hand on his gun and said “I am going to need you to pull over so we can do a quick sobriety test.” He made it apparent this was not a request. “Please pull over slowly to the right and don’t allow your car to break contact from my hand” he said with what I imagine he thought was a stern demeanor.

I pulled slowly over, very slowly, and ensured his grip of authority never lost contact with my vehicle. I was a little nervous, not because of the possibility of blowing over the limit, but because both the cops were white and I have a large suspicion about law enforcement in general. Namely that I think police are worthless for the most part, at least in many of the cities I have lived in, and they seem more gauged at causing trouble for the law abiding citizens than the criminals. Once I had parked my car the cops motioned for me to get out of the vehicle.

The police explained to me that they had pulled me out because they smelled alcohol on my breath. I thought “bullshit” because I had only had two shots and after those I had eaten and drank non-alcoholic drinks. There is absolutely no way he smelled anything but my Febreze air freshener. I was very confident because I knew I was fine to drive and that these cops were just looking for a criminal if they could find one. We spoke for a few minutes in which I explained why we were in the mountains, because apparently Asians don’t travel into the mountains at night because they melt from the high altitude, and then he dropped the question on me.

Before we begin I need to ask if you speak good enough English to talk to me. Do you need a personal translator?

I had a hard time biting back my retort which would have thrown me in jail. The deciding factor was his partner who still had not taken his hand off his gun. Overaggressive policemen are not hard to find and they frequent Youtube these days on viral video after video. I wasn’t about to be the next “when police attack video” that got a million hits, it wasn’t worth sacrificing the beauty of my face just for a viral video. But seriously where does a guy get off asking me if I speak fucking English when we just spoke for several minutes and my vocabulary obviously exceeds your own?

We began the test and let me point out that giving ANYONE a DUI test on a gravel parking lot is complete bullshit. I have trouble enough walking a straight line in the street, add some rocks and I definitely wasn’t looking very coordinated. I am a part-time ninja, but I can’t do shit without my ninja outfit. The issue arose when we began the ABC test which consisted of me saying the alphabet backwards. Now I don’t know about the rest of you, maybe I am just a dumbass, but I have never practiced saying the ABCs backwards. Why would anyone learn to do that? I was about two vowels away from getting tackled before I made it through finally. It wasn’t pretty, but I suppose I could have simply said “I guess I really don’t know English…”

So what ends up happening? After all five tests, YES FIVE TESTS, were done the idiot ends up giving me a Breathalyzer test and guess what this non-English speaking Korean blew? 0.00, that is what. I refrained from giving the cops any sign language as we drove off and I am surprised they didn’t chase after me for “accelerating too fast.” What can I say? Cops love me.


Hoping to Die

There was a time in my life when the land was covered in darkness. It did not matter what time of the day it was, there was simply no light. I walked the world a ghost and prayed to any god that would listen that he or she would simply end it for me. I wanted to die. I wrote the below poem in remembrance of that time of weakness.

And there they lay. The tools of the day. A razor, a pile of pills, and a bottle of Tanqueray.

I have stared in the mirror for hours. All have gone to bed. With each tear has come resolve. We may as well end it all. I hate you. With a hand I gulp the pills, the bottle is already near. I gulp death’s companion. And to the left are the backup dancers.

A letter to someone… I hope… anyone?

Never there is a reply. I say this aloud now as the razor cuts once, twice, thrice… and as the ice cold water washes away my sight. I feel life fleeing from my nearing empty vessel. And suddenly a wrongness, a surrender of an opportunity? I do not know.

And as the light flees the coming darkness, all I can do is embrace the growing warmth.

People fail to realize that there is depression and there is suicidal. To me suicidal is the point you reach when you just don’t care. You could give a shit less about heaven or hell, they are one and the same because your life has become a living hell. It doesn’t matter how many “do gooders” speak soft words in your direction, you only see darkness.

I remember well that time still to this day. The feeling of that night, sitting online and telling a few “close online friends” that I just didn’t care. That it was time to see what the next page brought. I remember a feeling of finality when I shut down my mother’s computer. My steps were almost light as I walked slowly upstairs. Neither asleep, nor really awake… I walked like a man in a daze to my bathroom. I starred at myself in the mirror for what seems like hours and in those precious minutes I decided I was ready to die. I made that choice. I took those pills and I drank that bottle to the head and I remember smiling. Because finally I didn’t feel so cold anymore. The warmth of death was my friend that night and I was ready to receive him.

It changes you… that type of experience. It is nothing to brag about and many might feel ashamed of that type of weakness. To feel ashamed of being human is a shame in itself. I was human that night, but I am lucky my humanity failed to die.

-Opinionated Man

So do You know Me?

I have wondered since I “revealed” my name if any of you know me? Did anyone have an “Ah Ha!” moment and say “that was the bastard that hit my car!” Or something to that affect? If you know me and don’t want to admit it that is cool. Creepy… but cool.


Wannabe Saints and Angels

I see wannabe saints everywhere. People are so quick to say “well if I had this or that I would do this or that.” It is very easy to speculate about what we would do if we had someone else’s wealth, position in life, or abilities but for the most part that speculation is all fluff. Humans are selfish creatures and are even more so when it comes to things they have created themselves.

I wonder how many of you would share your blog if you were me. I seriously wonder that. There are so many that will say “well of course I would give back to the bloggers,” but the reality is that you become protective of your space. You like things a certain way, posts are made in a certain order, and seeing another author’s name on your website isn’t all it is hyped up to be. It truly isn’t. What if you invite a guest blogger that is a better writer than you? Oh noes! Suddenly you feel threatened by a blogger that doesn’t even know they are a threat! Sounds ridiculous right? It is a bit more complex than people think because they aren’t making the same decisions you have to make.

I personally am not threatened by or intimidated by other writers, authors, or bloggers. I know I am not the best writer and as I have repeatedly said I am still learning. I am also still at around a 6.5 out of 10 in writing skill and that is ONLY counting style, if you add in grammar and punctuation my score drops down to a 5. Thank Buddha for spellcheck!

I follow two other “powerbloggers” that fit my description. One is the publicblogger. He has a fabulous website and also has VERY strong writers on his “team.” Now I personally don’t know how he runs his website, what he does with his authors, if he has guest authors or permanent staff, if he is one person or a lot of people, but I do know that he would probably understand what I am saying. It is a hard thing to lend your space out and even harder when you feel it might “not be worth the trouble.” But then you have this small voice in the back of your head, or at least I do, that says caring about other bloggers pays back in the end. I truly believe that and that is why I do what I do. It may not be the best blogging method, but it is the best this working Dad can do…


Death of a Salesman

He sells dreams and glory, all the while living in mediocrity. Does he believe the words he spits into the wind or is he really trying to convince himself? I see them each day… their personas shine through my screen. I hit the dimmer and tone down the brightness of the world, too much light reflects off my weak constitution.

He writes images of strength and presents a brave face. Hiding who he truly is because that is not what is important. The big picture, the lights on the screen, that is the goal of the day. Picking free daisies from a never ending field… I love it. He smiles at the labor because it is what he enjoys. A habit or an obligation, it rolls into the routine he has come to know. What a tragedy to slay that dream and yet the pyre is built. Who has a match?

He sees failure where people view success. And in the lonely hours of the night he finds little solace in empty words of comfort. They neither feed, nor cloth, nor comfort against the stack of bills on his desk. His wife mumbles, she does not audibly complain, but sometimes the faintest noise can sound like our own failure. Where is it coming from? From within, I am the harshest critic of myself. No one will ever take that throne.

They said it couldn’t be done. When I did it, they said “what have you gained?” Christ… I can only perform one miracle at a time people. Shit.


Memories 1… 2… 3… and another

Those things we do. I have many vivid memories of obvious mistakes I have made in my life. Some were major and others minor. I suppose my project has put me in a reflective mood, so I thought I would share a few.

“You want my autograph?” – I remember hearing my name. “Jason!!! COME UPSTAIRS NOW!!!” I of course proceeded to climb those stairs as slowly as possible. You never want to rush into things you know are a bad situation and anytime you hear your mom use that high pitched, shrill sounding voice you know shit has literally hit the fan. Like any other seven year old I had a number of things I “thought” she might be angry at, but I wouldn’t know what it actually was till I saw her. “Did you write in sharpie on your brother’s window sill” my mother immediately asked upon my arrival. I did what any other boy my age would have done. I lied. “Nope, wasn’t me…” I said confidently. “THEN WHY DOES IT SAY YOUR NAME?” Oh… oops…

Betrayal At Krondor – This was my favorite PC game as a kid and it was light years ahead of other rpg games! Unfortunately at the age of 14 I did not have a PC of my own… this was back in 1995 in case you were curious. I solved this problem by formatting my mother’s hard drive so it would fit the 9 hard disks required for downloading the game. How was I to know that format meant – remove forever! I remember thinking at the time, while being yelled at, that it was a serious flaw to place a self-destruct button on a machine that was so valuable.

Dogwoods in Memphis – The first home we lived in on Stonewall had two beautiful dogwoods in the front yard. They were a kid’s dream for climbing and also beautiful to behold once their blossoms opened. I thought at the time that it was a shame that the only thing ugly on that tree was the bark. So I decided to peal it off. I was probably around the age of 8 and I was so proud to show my parents what I had done. It became apparent I had made some type of miscalculation from the look of horror on my mother’s face. My father was furious… it wasn’t like I had cut down a cherry tree or something. In my defense those trees survived and no one ever hugged those branches for dear life like I did.

“Dude Jason… I think we had a wreck…” – We were driving home from Nashville after a night of partying when I fell asleep at the wheel. It had never happened before, but fortunately this time I didn’t hit a car. What I did do was tear up five yards of guard rail, hit a bridge column, and the car ended up catching fire and being destroyed. Did I mention that it happened to be Father’ Day morning and it was possibly my dad’s car…

“Well that doesn’t fit… dammit!!!” – Recently I have discovered I suck at home repairs. I should not be allowed to do them. I decided to surprise my wife by switching out the back sliding door handle with a locking handle instead. Well it helps if you look inside and see what type of door it is. Unfortunately I tried to put a normal lock on a latch handle opening. For those that don’t know, that is kind of like the square peg in the round hole scenario. Needless to say, my wife was pretty pissed at the large hole I had drilled for the handle that didn’t fit.


I hate

There are strong connotations connected to the word “hate.” Instantly people have an opinion on it. I was brought up in a religious home where it was often said that “we should not hate anything.” My mother would scold me and tell me not to use the word because as children we quickly learned to throw extremities around to solidify our point of view. The great thing about being an adult, other than getting to eat whatever I wish, is that I am now free to hate. I hate.

I angered some readers when I wrote my mother’s day post. In it I said “To my “other mother,” I still hate you one more year.” There are technically two groups that I have found that dislike the word hate. One is the religious group, which as I have previously said I have a lot of personal experience with, and they take their lead from Jesus. They believe that hate has no place in this world and only see negative value from it. You also have the “cause” group that don’t necessarily need to be religious. Regardless they have a cause and that cause is normally against any type of negative action or emotion. Hate is thereby classified as negative to ensure there is a cause for the week.

I have hated, I hate, and I will hate in the future. Hate is a human characteristic and can have self-serving qualities that if used properly can be anything but negative. Side stepping the notion that “hate” is a disease that will eventually destroy your soul, I can list several uses for hate as a motivator and inspiration for action. Those results are only a bad thing if you want them to be. I currently use hate to block off personal pain and anguish I have towards my birth mother. Countless people have told me and will still tell me that hate is a useless thing. That I should let it go so I can move forward. I tend to disagree because my “life” has progressed with hate as a companion.

He comforts me in the night and warms my body when I am cold.


I am a bit strange

My wife calls me an introvert. I think I am the popular guy. Somewhere in the middle is Jason. But that is ok, but that is life right? People love to say trendy things like “I am bi-polar” woohhooo for you! I have so many “polars” I couldn’t even count them. Much of that has to do with stress level, anger issues, some addictions, and an obvious need to examine why I am feeling a certain way. To understand yourself is the most important thing. Yep, I said that.

I am a bit strange. But it helps if you understand that. I am not ugly, nor am I Korean actor hot, although on a funny note my wife’s cousins sometimes call me that because I am tall and Korean. And hot. So yea, I think I am a normal person. But I suppose if you were a normal person yourself… I am a bit strange.

I did get some meds, which would explain the change in attitude…

Note: To other depressives out there. Depressives shouldn’t congregate. I wish you the best should you stop reading and I fully understand.


A Little White Lie

So I may have inadvertently told my daughter I was friends with Peyton Manning. And while we are revealing truths I may as well admit that when my youngest daughter asked “Daddy what is that symbol on your shirt?” I promptly informed her it was the symbol of the star command where her daddy was an officer. It may or may have not been described in resemblance of the Death Star and I might have been a Jedi. It is funny how you just get lost in a story and you end up having no idea what you are talking about or reading. I learned that buying premade beef paddies for burgers works a whole lot better and is easier than making them yourself. That was good to know.

I have come to the conclusion that there is one thing in this world I absolutely hate. That is balloons. What in the world is the point of a balloon? It will pop eventually… and you never know what is in it. What if it is a balloon like the ones in IT and blood splatters out. That is some scary, possibly traumatizing stuff. I really think that people that love to be “scared” a lot and that live around balloons live shorter lives. I believe that they are literally scaring years off their possible life force and if they enjoy that type of entertainment then they deserve it. Maybe they’ll fall off the ladder as well… that would indeed be scary I hear.


Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter


She comes into your life and brings nature’s blessing. And with her entrance comes a curse of wanton passion. The grass is still alive as it blazes in the sun. The chorus of our laughter floats gently in the Spring breeze. We are the definition of love and our hands are linked as we dance amongst the growing and the grown alike. We enjoy timeless sunsets on picturesque settings creating canvases waiting to be painted at each moment. We love.

Time works wonders and bonds grow firm. We resolve to walk quietly into the night together. Hands held tightly against the shadows we once faced alone. We pick each other up in the heat of the Summer, against the blazing sun and humanity’s punishment. We turn as one, in unison with one another’s needs. I am your need and you are mine. And like an oak tree we grow together.

The rain has come and we have weathered storms. We still touch… but sometimes our hands Fall like leaves from our tired limbs. The chatter of children running around our base keeps us united, we are still united with finger painted signs and chalk figures. But some nights are cold and the moon shines two shadows upon the ground.

It snows here in Denver. The Winter seems to be most of the year… at least lately. But even with the constant ice, it does melt with the strength of will. A will we share each morning and return to each night. The seasons form a timeless ring that hardens into a golden promise. They touch each time our hands unite with infused emotion. Regardless of what emotion that is the presence of feelings means that we still care.

Jason Cushman

-Opinionated Man


A Writer’s Contemplation

I am the last person that should preach on self-doubt. I have enough of it to share with the world and then some. Perhaps that is why I should speak on self-doubt because of my own experiences with it. I have finished very few things of meaning in my life. Some of that is due to motivation and attention disorders, but mainly I chalk it up to the fact that I haven’t really involved myself in anything worthy of note. I have experiences as does anyone, but that isn’t necessarily what I am speaking of. How many of you are currently working on something that you will consider an “accomplishment” upon completion?

I don’t struggle with writer’s block, but I do have the same battle as many writers in deciding what to work on. Sometimes I don’t even know what I will type until I press the first key and that to me is the beauty of writing on a blog. The freedom. It is also why I have struggled with just the idea of writing a book. The consistency of hashing out the same topic is really boring to me to be honest. I find even the tedious nature of book writing to be frustrating, annoying, and often times boring. It is not frustrating because I struggle with writing (although it could be debated upon whether I write well or not) because I write every day. I probably type 10,000 words a day just in posts, comments, emails, work emails, personal emails, work projects, coding, and everything else you can think of that I can use as an excuse to hear the tap, tap, tap I so love to listen to. It beats hearing the sound of a human voice on any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

As I pen each word of my current project I have felt great, until yesterday. I ran out of meds and because of that I stopped writing. That is going to be an issue. Without “trees” I can’t see a word three dimensionally. It stays in a boring two dimensional state and no amount of mental concentration will make that fucking word turn. Turn dammit. I refilled today so I will be good for a few days. I will try to press on and take my time with it all.

Sometimes I sit on my ledge of solitude and I observe the chaos that is the world below. Above the atmosphere of stress and human concern I am able to breath. Gone is the demand of response, gone is the doubt of a loving wife, gone is the self-doubt of writing a book, gone is the constant chatter that I love and yet need to separate from, it is all gone up here. Up here there are only words and they are fucking turning.

-Opinionated Man

Broken Promises

Winter night of stars and light. An empty glass stands as the past. I see myself in the reflection staring back. Sharded image colored like ice… it is me. Each image a perfect imagination and yet they have reality’s eyes. I slay them slowly to remember the pain. It is not a demon, it is me. And with that acceptance I look not to the sky. I look to myself.


Chinese Food

The girls and I just ordered Orange Chicken and Sweet and Sour Chicken. I of course got hot and sour soup and they are eating egg drop soup. This is your informative post of the day on my eating habits. Judge away, but I am about to grub out.


I am a Freelance Writer

I have never declared myself a freelancer, but that is what I am. I now accept the label. After writing for an audience for free for over a year and a half I will finally accept the title of writer.

I am a writer.

Jason Cushman

-Opinionated Man


This post is going to be about some of my major choices in life. And what choice is more important to an adult than their career choices.

You there in the back, why did you just groan? Don’t you know in every great novel there is this long section called character building… tada author building.

Anyhow, my captivated audience, this really isn’t some informative post, a recalling if you will. More along the lines of, I hated that job or how did I last that long? Start for instance as a waiter, oh I would say for five years at ten different places, I was pretty good when sober. The Japanese steakhouse I worked at, owned by Vietnamese people, had me running twelve top tables. Three at a time. That is no joke considering Americans somehow consume ten glasses of water a dinner.

I remember one day I was waiting tables in a Mexican restaurant and this lady complained about me taking too long with their drinks. I said, “lady do you see how busy it is on free hot taco night if you don’t understand then pick up a tray and find out!” My smoke break lasted till termination.

Then there was the help desk job. Ah yes, help desk the communism of America. Millions of minions with electronic leashes around their heads talking in set phrases with minimal bathroom breaks. I think I even heard a “bahhh” once.

And lastly the IT department. Have any of you ever been around a group of IT workers? It is an experience, everyone walks around like they are the next Einstein, self important to the fullest. And everyone wants to battle wits, knowledge and challenge you on everything, as if the world were one large chess board. It really can be exhausting to get along in those atmospheres.

That’s a small author blurb for now.

-Opinionated Man

Dear You

I do not write for You, I write for Me. My words sing a single tune, a melody of my creation. It is not a duet. These words are not yours; your presence does not affect them. Gladly will I allow you to hear them, you may even bring them into your heart, but do not forget they are not your words. Like a person given the wrong blood type, just because wisdom may come from my sea of emotion, do not search this sea for salvation. This sea is polluted already, in its depths loom skeletons that have been overthrown, but not defeated. Take care that they do not find your pond to nest in. They are tricky beasts, perhaps you have a similar type in your abode, you do not want mine – they are angry. My demons are angry in defeat, they are raving mad in neglect; I have not fed them in a while.

There is no professional title in front of my name. I do not wear a white jacket to work; I do not conduct physicals or daily checkups. My name is not doctor this or teacher of that. The soap box I stand on is borrowed; it is missing from one of my fellow blogger’s sites. I figured I might as well start somewhere, a blog or a street corner the risk is the same and the rewards are just as sweet. I blog to blog, I do not blog to write. I do not hope some rare gem or master piece will be given birth here, this land looks pretty barren to me. Thus is the harsh reality, the reality that we are all finding ourselves and are not readily fit to try and help anyone else. I do not strive to do that. If I were to try to lead it would be a magnificent circular adventure, starting from the bar and ending gloriously at the bar. If I led you down the same path as I what would occur is a mass pile up of arms, legs, and confusion on where it all went wrong. There would be no epic ending here I am sorry to say.

Dear You, I just wanted to say be You and be strong. Come not through these doors looking for answers, but if companions are what you seek, companions are what you shall find.

-Opinionated Man

We are not the same and never will be

We are not the same and never will be. There are things about my life you will never comprehend and I in turn may not be able to relate to much of your journey. I am ok with that; I can live with that can you? I will never change my ways simply because one person or a hundred people tell me my views are wrong. Why would I? Should I just stop living and instead take my prompts from you and you? What type of life would that be and who could ever respect the puppet that lives that life? Embracing our differences is what makes the mural of society beautiful. I challenge anyone that wishes to paint us all the same color to come and try.

I hate the color you picked.

-Opinionated Man

Dear Adoptee

Dear Adoptee, you do not know me and I do not know you. Our stories are as different as genres placed on opposite ends of a book store, and yet we strive to relate. Why is that? Do we yearn for the companionship only found from those that share the knowledge of loss? I do not know the answer.

Never allow someone to force you to consider the alternative to your life as being the path to abortion. Those are sad, desperate people that attempt to make that connection. Do we not deserve the same life as others? Must we forever carry the burden of “what if” and have stones added by strangers at a glance? When did it become right to tell an adoptee that they should be happy they weren’t “aborted?” Is that the argument one should use to force a heart away from hate?

I marvel at the things that commenters can say. If you will say it to “Opinionated Man” what will you say to the random blogger who does not have a heart of steel? Will you attempt to stab at their soul as well simply to prove a point, a point that does not even mean that much to you in the first place? How low must a person be to beat at the will of one already beaten?

So I say to you fellow adoptee to be strong. Know you aren’t alone, even if you are alone in the particular path you walk. There are footsteps to your right and left that echo your hardships. We may not walk the same stones, but I can see and understand your journey more than others can.



I walk past them all. Smiling, laughing, showing me what I have missed in life. What I am still missing now. They avoid my presence like a plague and do not even have the courtesy to acknowledge their disdain for me. What could be worse than to not matter to the world? Perhaps if that world makes it clear you do not belong.

The shuffle of my steps on the boardwalk sounds cacophonous to my ears. I shed a tear as I realize I am the only one that is aware. My trail of human raindrops is the only sympathy found for my still beating heart. Can it still be beating? Do I not feel it failing as my destination draws near?

I glance at the moon and ask the question again. He smiles down upon me and shines with radiance. My resentment mounts because I know the same smile is being given to those that are happy and content in life. It is not fair. Resentment turns to resolve.

I step off the pier and I am forgotten, as waves of other people’s happiness washes over me.

-Opinionated Man


It crossed my mind while driving today that everyone on this blog still calls me Jason. My friends actually don’t call me Jason, they call me Cush and always have. I love my last name and it provides endless scenarios of amusement. For instance I once sat and watched a job recruiter walk past me three times while muttering my name under his breath. “Jason Cushman… Jason Cushman… where the fuck is this Cushman???” Obviously not the Korean guy sitting in front of you right.

My family name is old and my father’s line is directed related to David Cushman who helped organize the Mayflower. Yea… I am bragging a bit. I am NOT related to the Cushman that owns Cushman and Wakefield that I know of. I hinted in a post months ago that I was reminded at how unsuccessful I was by a sign with my name on it… yea that was a Cushman and Wakefield sign. Mystery solved!

I have a Korean name… but I was told it was a girl’s name. An older Korean lady told me the name is actually the type that was once used for males or females. I am not sure what my “birth mother” was thinking when she named me Soojin. Maybe a Korean can explain it to me? I do know the last name Ahn is pretty common, you could throw a rock in a Korean market and hit four or five Ahns at a time. They probably will kung-fu your ass though, so I wouldn’t recommend it.


“I Hope You Die”

Recently I was called a narcissist again. I would normally agree with this assessment, but in this case I was called a narcissist and a troll for commenting on a post in which the blogger stated she “hoped I would die.” The irony is that this is a person I accepted as a guest blogger and whom I therefore helped to promote their website. It is sad when bloggers can’t just say “thank you” and will instead actually find ways to make you look bad after you have done them a favor. It is even more annoying when people make claims about how “I should do this or that” for other bloggers and how I am selfish. I think most of you are just whiny little brats.

Yes, let me bend over backwards for all of you. Let me put my own dreams on hold and drop everything to make other bloggers happy. Here, allow me to use my platform that I built by myself to help promote your website. Because I am obligated to do so since you followed me right? How about “Fuck That!”

See here is the thing about these attack posts. After a time they get on your nerves and when you read one condescending remark after another you really begin to feel like you just don’t give a damn. Because if people are going to constantly bitch about you why spend the time and energy trying to help people?

Bloggers are such shady creatures. They feel slighted when they find out how I blog and in turn make wild claims that I owe them things. They will even alter posts AFTER I have visited and commented on it, making it seem like I never visit their website. What is with this quest to make me into a villain? Are people that bored?

Wishing someone would die is pretty strong, but I accept that people in this world might think that. I find it amusing when people call me a narcissist and THEY are the ones writing post after post about me. I have had several bloggers openly attack me in articles and then act “SHOCKED AND APPALLED” that I actually re-blogged them to share their stupidity. Why must I feel like I am the bully simply because I have a larger audience?

There was a blogger last year who claimed I made him feel “suicidal” once he realized my follow wasn’t “sincere.” I even visited his blog after he wrote about me several times. Honestly if I push any of you to feel suicidal just stop visiting. Nothing is worth that, I know I have been depressed before, and frankly if you are too weak in character to read my words without them affecting you then you don’t belong here. Just stay gone.

Bloggers take a warning here. If you talk about another blogger in a post they very well might see it. It is then their right to re-blog that post and you should be prepared for that. Don’t write or say what you aren’t prepared to back up on social media. It is really that damn simple.

To my haters out there a big shout out! I love you all!

-Opinionated Man

Addiction – I was never on Breaking Bad

It is a hard thing to struggle with addiction. I have most of my life. Right now I see so clearly and I hate it. It makes me want to rip my eyeballs out and flush them down the toilet. I hear all toilets flush to China… so maybe I would get to see that country!

I am a walking tornado clothed in a hoody and pajama pants. Most of the time I look like I just rolled out of bed. My blog, if you actually view it as a whole, shows a clear cycle of my moods and emotions. It shows my anxiety issues and also my bouts with addiction. Before you get an idea of a meth head, manic depressive Korean in your brain kill it. I am not that type of guy. You can be an addict and not be on Breaking Bad.

Anxiety is a physical weight that many deal with. Where that anxiety rests depends a lot on a person’s body, mine sits on my neck and weighs down my soul. I hate it. I know it. It will never go away.

As I struggle with writing what I don’t want to write in this book I have found many old doorways opening. These doorways lead to a hall of depression that I thought I had left a long time ago. Depression is not a single road… there are many and they all have their own bumps. Relating to another person’s struggles is fine, but we should be careful to not try and project our definitions on others. I never attempt to do that. I am my own devil, no one needs me adding to their pot.

And so I sit here for a couple hours while my daughter are at school and I close my eyes. I allow the waves of pressure, anxiety, frustration, ….want, and need to roll through my body. It hurts, it sucks, and at the same time the struggle amuses the shit out of me. How weak must my body be to react in such a way? I would say pretty weak, but I already knew that. I am a bad person.