Raw Dogging Life

It is time to reclaim your abandoned dreams.

Before I start writing this essay I'm going to do a little bit of dick riding. I love you all, but not in that fake influencer way where they pretend to give a damn about their "community”, while shilling a face cream that has been banned in 29 countries. I mean it in the raw, uncomfortable way where you know me better than people I've had sex with. Through Coffy Salon, you've seen my fears, my rage, and my embarrassing 3 AM existential spirals. This newsletter is my deranged love letter to womankind. Yes, most women would need smelling salts after reading half a paragraph of what I write here. That's precisely why I worship the psychos who subscribe.

Most of us exist in different corners of this joke we call existence. We'll never share a meal or know the sound of each other's laughter. Yet somehow, we've found each other on the internet. Whatever cosmic accident made that possible, I'm pathetically grateful for it.

Let’s get back to the essay.

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For months, I have been obsessed with buying my first building. Not a quint house or some sterile apartment constructed by developers looking to make a quick buck, but a whole building. And because I'm allergic to reasonable goals, I've set my sights on the most prohibitively expensive neighborhood in my city, where the buildings have witnessed more history than most countries.

My capacity for self-deception is my superpower. When wielded correctly, delusion is the highest form of self-care. While my lungs are collapsing during my pitiful morning 5K, I tell myself "I can quit tomorrow"—knowing damn well that lie will reset at dawn. It is a kind of procrastination for good.

I've found that my brain reconfigures itself when faced with laughably impossible goals. The more ridiculous the goal, the calmer I become. So I've set alerts for multi-million euro buildings I have no business looking at, ignoring frivolities like "down payments" and "closing costs." I possess the kind of delusional faith that would inspire biblical prophets.

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Running To My Dreams

Post-run, I collapsed onto my sofa like I'd just crawled through Navy SEAL training, when it hit me. When (not if) I get my building, I could use the commercial space underneath and realize one of my childhood dreams: opening a restaurant.

Here's what nobody tells you about restaurants—they're terrible businesses. A large portion of the unpredictable profits the restaurant makes goes to paying the fixed costs of rent and labor. Vampires Landlords figured out they could bleed restaurant owners dry more easily than residential ones. This is why every restaurant falls into one of two categories: an immigrant family operation where three generations work 18-hour days for poverty wages, or a vanity project for some bored heiress who needs something to preoccupy herself.