Tag Archives: personal story

How I Learned A Powerful Life Lesson From “Goldeneye” (The Video Game)

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I grew up during a strange time. I know every adult could make that claim with the benefit of hindsight, but I think I have some substance to back it up. It was a time when the internet barely existed, Saturday morning cartoons were still a thing, video games were still mostly toys, and MTV was the ultimate evil in the eyes of parents, priests, and teachers.

There were a lot of transitions that were just starting to happen. As a kid, I didn’t understand them. I barely even noticed them until years later. I still feel their influence and have learned many lessons as a result. Some lessons were more critical than others. I still remember the day I got my first email address and I made the password so easy that my little brother guessed it. That was a small, but critical lesson I had to learn.

Another one took place a few years before that and it involved a video game that is still near and dear to the hearts of many. That game is “Goldeneye” on the Nintendo 64. For some, just mentioning that game should bring back fond memories of countless hours spent in the basement, yelling at anyone who dared to pick Oddjob in multiplayer. Those were good times.

During that same time, I went to school in an era where things like the self-esteem movement and DARE were still a thing. It seems so archaic now, given how well-documented the failures of both initiatives have become in recent year, but it was a serious issue when I was a kid.

I remember seeing all sorts of platitudes and motivational messages on TV, in movies, and at school-sponsored events. They all conveyed the same sentiment.

You’re all special.

You’re all equally good at everything.

You can achieve anything if you’re determined and work hard enough.

It all sounds so nice, but there’s just one huge problem and it’s one my awesome, wonderful parents went out of their way to teach me. It’s not entirely true.

Yes, we’re all unique, which is not the same as being special.

Yes, we all have equal worth, but we’re not equally skilled.

Yes, you can achieve a lot with hard work, but you can’t achieve anything.

These all seem like rational, reasonable lessons to teach a kid. I’m certainly glad my parents made an effort to give me that perspective because it was hard to ignore the whole “you can achieve anything!” mantra that kept playing out every day. I admit I got caught up in it at certain times. I also got upset when I felt like I didn’t achieve something that I felt I’d worked hard enough for.

At some point, I had to learn that all this idealized encouragement was flawed. My parents did their part, but it took a particularly memorable experience to really hammer that point home. This is where “Goldeneye” comes in.

There was one summer in which this game basically dominated our entire day. I would wake up, meet up with my friends, and we’d start playing the game for hours at a time, much to the chagrin of our parents. These were good times. That, I cannot overstate. However, there was one issue that often came up over the course of that summer.

One of my friends, who I’ll call Shawn, was just too damn good at the game.

By that, I don’t just mean he won more multiplayer matches than most. I mean he always beat me. It didn’t matter which character I used. It didn’t matter which maps we played in. Aside from a few lucky shots, he pretty much kicked my ass every time I played him. Some of my other friends did challenge him, but he was still the best. That much, we all knew.

I thought he was good because he played more often than me. I thought I could eventually get to his level if I practiced enough. For a good two weeks in July, I essentially trained myself with match after match in “Goldeneye.” I tried to memorize every map. I tried to get a good feel for every character and weapon. I tried to hone my aim so that I made every shot count.

While I did improve, especially compared to some of my friends, it didn’t change the outcome. Shawn still beat me almost every time. It wasn’t that he played or practiced more. Shawn just had a natural talent for gaming. His reflexes were a lot quicker than most. He had a visual acuity that most couldn’t match. He could also concentrate in a way that was downright Zen-like.

To his credit, Shawn was humble about his skill. He didn’t brag or rub it in my face, although he certainly could have. He didn’t have to in order to get the point across. In certain activities, be they sports, video games, or underwater basket weaving, there are just people who are inherently more talented. It doesn’t matter how hard you work or how much you train. You just aren’t going to reach their level.

I eventually came to accept that. It was the first time it really sank in. Hard work and dedication won’t help you achieve everything. It can help, but there are going to be people who just have more talent and you can’t always work around that. It was a hard truth that I’d tried to avoid up to that point, but after that summer, I came to accept it.

Coincidentally, this is around the same time when I stopped taking those self-esteem messages at school seriously. As I got older, my perspective became a bit more realistic. In the long run, that probably served me better than just blindly believing I could do anything if I worked hard enough. I genuinely worry how much I would’ve crushed my spirit if I had to learn that lesson the hard way later in life.

Again, I got lucky. On top of having two great parents who kept me anchored, I had a friend who was just naturally talented at kicking my ass in “Goldeneye.” While all those losses were annoying, they taught me a valuable lesson and one that still helps me to this day.

To Shawn, who I hope reads this one day, I sincerely thank you for that.

Also, I apologize for all those times I threw my controller at you.

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Filed under Jack Fisher's Insights, psychology, video games

Movember Memories: A Story About Sweat (And Other Manly Issues)

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Greetings and I hope everyone is in the Movember spirit. Last year, I decided to become a part of this effort. I feel it’s an objectively good cause that aims to help real people in need. I sincerely hope others join that effort over time.

For those who are unaware, Movember is a movement that started with the Movember Foundation. This foundation works to raise awareness of and donate money towards major issues that predominately impact men. Those issues include research for prostate cancer, mental health treatment, and suicide prevention. These are all wonderful causes to support and I encourage everyone to donate to the foundation.

As part of my effort to help with this cause, I shared a personal story last year about the time I grew a thick beard in college and some of the colorful lessons that taught me. This year, I’d like to do something similar and tell another story. However, this is a different kind of story and one I think offers a more relevant message to the Movember spirit.

This particular story comes from right from one of the most respectable men in my life, my father. He told me this story a few years back when he recounted the time he’d spent in the military. It’s a story that, at the time, we just thought was funny. I still think it is. I also think it has a deeper message that’s more relevant today, especially for men.

Before I continue, I want to make clear that I may not get all the details of this story correct. My father, who I know occasionally reads this site, might reach out to me and note a few corrections. If that’s the case, I’ll gladly update it. That said, I recall enough to ensure I can capture the heart of the story.

The setting of this story is fairly simple. It’s the mid-1970s on a military base in the Midwest. At the time, my dad is done with basic and is officially on active duty. However, he hasn’t been deployed so much of those duties involve basic grunt work around the base. It’s a typical, standard military life for a young man at the time.

One unique part of that life, however, involved a grizzled old officer who, out of respect for this amazing American, I’ll just call the Colonel. The Colonel is basically the senior officers of senior officers at the base. He’s been in the military all his life. He fought in World War II. He probably knows General Patton’s shoe size.

He’s also old enough and has enough seniority to not have a filter. He does not give a damn and won’t hesitate to say the things that would get a typical private punched in the jaw. As a result, he has a special kind of respect and admiration from young soldiers, like my dad. They would gladly share a beer with the Colonel and joke with him without the fear of push-ups.

While that lack of a filter made him popular with soldiers like my dad, it made the Colonel a nuisance to the other officers. Most were content to just overlook his charming personality and chalk it up to being a cantankerous old man. However, that same jaded charm sometimes caused a spectacle.

This one particular spectacle occurred on a day in which the officers and recruits had another regular meeting in the barracks. This was standard for active duty soldiers and my dad had gone through it many times before. He sat in his assigned seat with the rest of his unit. The officers, including the Colonel, sat in the back.

These meetings were often tedious, but a big part of what made them such a drag was the heat. These barracks did not have air conditioning and were not well-ventilated. It was basically an over-sized locker room, full of several dozen men in full military gear. Needless to say, it got uncomfortably sticky at times.

However, since this was the military and good soldiers were conditioned not to complain, nobody said anything about it. My dad certainly didn’t. No one in his unit did, either. They all wanted to. It was one of the most common complaints among his unit.

Finally, one day, the Colonel spoke up. His exact words were as follows.

“Hey! How come no one wants to talk about sweat?”

For other young soldiers, like my dad, who had sat through one too many sweaty meetings, it was a true Spartacus moment. This old guy who hadn’t given a fuck since the Kennedy Administration finally said what they all were thinking. It still earned him an irate look from the other officers, but he got the message across.

This was an issue. It mattered to them. It was taboo to bring up so the one guy whose filter died years ago broke it. It might not have solved the problem, but acknowledging it was a good start.

I wish I could describe the grin on my dad’s face when he first told this story. I could tell it was a fond memory from a strange time in his life, but it’s a story that still resonates with me. It’s also one I think we can learn from.

One of the chief goals of the Movember Foundation is to raise awareness of issues that affect men, but that’s tricky these days, given the current state of gender politics. When the topic of men’s issues come up, it often gets cast aside as rabid anti-feminism or cloaked misogyny. Even if there are legitimate issues, such as prostate cancer and mental health, it still carries negative connotations.

I get the sense that has changed somewhat in recent years. I think there has been somewhat of a backlash to the more extreme elements of gender politics. Issues that effect men are being taken more seriously and I think the Movember Foundation is helping with that. The challenge is being the one to stand up in a hot, crowded room and asking the questions that others are afraid to ask.

How come no one wants to talk about sweat?

You could just as easily apply that to other issues involving men.

How come no one wants to talk about the disparity in cancer research between prostate cancer and breast cancer?

How come no one wants to talk about men committing suicide at higher rates?

How come no one wants to talk about men falling behind in pursuing higher education?

How come no one wants to talk about male victims of domestic abuse?

These are all real issues that effect real people. At the end of the day, regardless of what our gender is, we’re still human. Even issues that effect only part of us ultimately impact all of us. I hope we can all channel the spirit of the Colonel and ask why we’re not talking about these issues. While that old man might not be with us, his message still is. It started with sweat, but it can apply to much more.

Again, in the spirit of Movember, please consider donating to the Movember Foundation and supporting the meaningful work it does.

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Filed under gender issues, Jack Fisher's Insights, men's issues, sex in society, sexuality

How I Lost And Regained My Self-Esteem

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Self-esteem is one of those concepts that has gained a mixed reputation in recent years. To some extent, that reputation is well-earned. We’ve all dealt with people with an inflated ego. Being around them for extended periods can range from frustrating to intolerable. Some have even called the glut of self-esteem and its narcissistic byproducts an epidemic.

Personally, I think that claim is overly hyperbolic. However, I understand the popular sentiment. I was a kid around the time the cracks in the the self-esteem movement really started to show. I sat through many of those classes that espoused the value of self-esteem. I saw all those PSA’s after popular kids shows encouraging kids to believe in themselves no matter what. Even by kid standards, I thought they were cheesy.

At the same time, I was dealing with a lot of personal issues and my self-esteem was often a big part of those issues. I went through periods of my young life when I thought I could do anything. I went through other periods where I thought was a worthless waste of flesh. Going through the rigors of puberty, enduring high school, and dealing with some less-than-ideal health situations certainly didn’t help.

It was worse than this.

In short, I had a lot of self-esteem as a kid. I really believed in myself and I fought hard to affirm that belief. Then, as I became a teenager, I lost my self-esteem. I became a miserable, self-loathing hunk of living misery. I don’t know how I could’ve felt worse about myself. Then, as an adult, I got my self-esteem back and I haven’t let go over it since.

It was a roller coaster ride, to say the least. It wasn’t always a smooth ride and I found many ways to make it harder for myself. The older I get, the more I realize how misguided I was and how much of it was my own doing. I like to think I’ve learned form it. I also think the experience is worth sharing. Hopefully, others can relate. Perhaps, those who struggled like I did can glean lessons I wish I’d learned earlier.

Before I get into the details of this story, I want to make one thing clear. I don’t blame the self-esteem movement that has become so popular to bash.

I don’t blame the schools, either. I grew up in an area where the schools were great, for the most part. By almost any measure, I was lucky. I got an education that many kids in America would envy.

I sure as hell won’t blame my parents and family. In fact, they’re the heroes of this story. They put up with me at times when I was downright insufferable. My mother, my father, and my siblings did all the right things for a kid like me. I’m lucky they were there because things could’ve turned out way worse for me and I have nobody to blame but myself.

To understand where my self-esteem issues began, it’s necessary to understand the kind of kid I was growing up. For the most part, I was pretty normal. However, if there was one trait that set me apart from the other kids, it was how uptight I was.

By that, I don’t just mean I was stressed out by tests and homework. I was the kind of kid who would get anxious and upset if a school bus was late. I always had to be on time. I always had to get things done early. I didn’t procrastinate on anything. That may sound like a useful trait, but the way I went about it made it a liability.

Between being so uptight with timing, I was just as uptight when it came to grades. Anything less than a perfect score was disappointing. I had this mentality where there were only A’s and F’s and nothing in between. Again, this is not something my parents, teachers, or counselors imposed on me. This is something I did to myself.

I held myself to a high standard. I bought into the idea that just believing in yourself was enough to achieve anything. I’d read it in superhero comics. I’d seen it in cartoons. I genuinely believed I was smart and capable at a level that grossly exceeded my actual abilities. Call it inflated self-esteem, if you want. The end result was the same. When you set impossible standards, you set yourself up for inevitable failure.

My parents warned me, as did my siblings and friends. Everybody warned me that I was being too hard on myself. In hindsight, I should’ve listened. I really wish I had because it set me up for some very difficult teen years.

On top of that, this is around the same time I developed a terrible acne problem that plagued me into my 20s. I also developed asthma that made basic exercise or just a typical gym class feel like prolonged torture so on top of having an acne-ridden face, I was also out of shape. It made me extremely self-conscious of my looks and when you’re ready uptight, that’s a bad combination.

Altogether, this hit my self-esteem the same way a flame-thrower hit a wounded fly. I didn’t just lose my confidence. For a while, my sense of self-worth was hanging by the thinnest of threads. It got to a point where I just started randomly insulting myself. It wasn’t a funny kind of self-deprecation, either. My parents and siblings got downright angry with me whenever I did it, but that rarely dissuaded me.

It got bad. For a while, I had a hard time believing it would get much better. I honestly thought my self-esteem was gone and I was destined to be a walking ball of misery. Then, something remarkable happened.

It wasn’t some incredible epiphany, either. As soon as I graduated high school and entered the adult world, I found a new kind of confidence. It didn’t happen overnight, but there was definitely a transition. It started in college, but it only blossomed as I got older and gained more life experience.

I think the catalyst for that change came when I got my first taste of independence. In college, my life wasn’t so micromanaged. I could actually set my own schedule, plan my own day, and make my own choices. Granted, it wasn’t total freedom. I was going to college on my parents’ dollar. However, compared to high school, it was like getting paroled.

In this environment, I learned something critical that I hadn’t learned in high school or from cheesy after school specials. To have self-esteem, it’s not enough to just believe in yourself. You have to work for it. You have to earn that feeling of accomplishment. It’s not easy, but it’s worth doing and by achieving it, you’re going to feel better about yourself, by default.

It also helped that I became much less uptight in college. To some extent, I do blame some of the messages I got in high school. I had been under the impression that if I didn’t get perfect grades in high school, then I would never go to college and I would die poor and lonely. Even if that impression was misguided, it was such a relief to find out my failures in high school did not define me.

That Spanish test I failed in my sophomore year did not ruin my future.

That assignment I botched in my physics class during my Junior year did not decide my fate.

That may not sound like a big deal to most people, but for someone who was as uptight as me, it was eye-opening. It caused me to re-evaluate my approach to personal standards, real achievement, and how I graded myself.

Suddenly, my personal world didn’t seem so dire. There was some room for error. I could make mistakes, learn from them, and be better for it. To my younger self, that concept might as well have been an alien language. I didn’t care about the process. I cared only for the result. I had to learn that appreciating the process helped me work towards those results.

This didn’t just extend to college. It also helped with my personal life and my health. In college, I got my first girlfriend. I actually developed a social life where I made friends, went to parties, and hung out with people. I was still socially awkward. To this day, I’m still behind the curve in that respect. However, I’m light-years ahead of where I was in my youth.

Things really picked up when I started taking care of myself. Instead of just laying around, feeling sorry for myself, I started exercising. I got serious about treating my acne. I sank most of my savings into fixing my eyesight so that I didn’t have to wear thick glasses anymore. In short, I invested in myself. Like any good investment, it didn’t pay off immediately. Over time, though, the results compounded.

Bit by bit, my self-esteem returned. I had to work for it. Whether it was developing better study skills or getting into shape, I actually had to get up in the morning and make a concerted effort. I know it sounds like common sense, but to my younger self, it seemed so hopeless. If I couldn’t achieve everything all at once, then why bother? It was a terrible mindset and one that held me back.

Today, I have the confidence and self-esteem to share this story. I can even look back on those difficult times and laugh at how I acted. Some close family members will even laugh with me, even though I did not make things easy for them. They definitely did their part. They helped keep me from falling too deep into despair. It just took me a while to do my part, as well.

It would be easy for me to make excuses for my struggles. I could’ve blamed the self-esteem movement, misguided teachers, and after school specials that aired in between my favorite cartoon. In the end, they would still be empty. I still made the choices that made me miserable.

I set myself for disappointment and frustration. Nobody was going to come along and fix everything for me. Nothing was going to resolve itself, just by hoping for the best. In the end, my self-esteem was like any other skill or challenge. I had to apply myself. I had to work hard to earn the results I sought. They were hard lessons to learn, but they were worth learning.

I just wished I’d learned them sooner.

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Filed under human nature, Jack Fisher's Insights, psychology

A Personal Story About Mother’s Day And My (Awesome) Mom

Mother And Her Son Having Fun On The Beach

For many people, Mother’s Day is only a holiday for greeting card companies and florists. I understand that, to some extent. It can feel contrived, needing a holiday and an assortment of commercial products to celebrate the heroics of motherhood. It’s still worth celebrating, especially when you happen to have an awesome mother like mine.

I’ve gone out of my way to brag about how great my mom is on this site. I don’t just do that because she’s a regular reader. She really is that awesome. She was my first superhero. She brought me into this world, cared for me, nurtured me, and taught me the value of channeling your passions. It’s not an exaggeration to say that her love helped me become the man I am now.

I haven’t always made it easy on her, but she has always gone the extra mile. She always shows me love, even when I’m being difficult. She always tells me what I need to hear, even when I don’t want to hear it. I could be having a terrible day, lashing out at anyone and everyone around me for no reason. My mother would still show me love, no matter what.

I could tell story upon story that demonstrate why my mother is so wonderful, but in the spirit of Mother’s Day, I’d like to share one in particular that I feel gets the point across better than any card or flower. It’s a memory that she knows very well and one I know she also cherishes. In many ways, it reflects how difficult and how meaningful mothers can be.

This particular moment occurred on Mother’s Day years ago. I was still a kid in Elementary School, but I was at an age where I could do more for my mother than just give her a card. We’d made plans a week earlier about how we were going to spend Mother’s Day. I made her many promises. I was going to be the one to take care of her for once.

Then, on that fateful Sunday, I woke up feeling horribly sick. I’m not talking about a headache or one too many bowls of ice cream sick. I was running a 101-degree fever and throwing up. It was bad and on the worst possible day. Instead of me taking care of her on Mother’s Day, she ended up having to go the extra mile again, caring for a sick child.

By any measure, it’s not how a mother wants to spend Mother’s Day. Instead of cards and breakfast in bed, she had to take me to the doctors and clean up after me when I threw up. It could’ve been the worst Mother’s Day either of us had ever experienced. Instead, it ended up being one of the best.

That’s because, on that day, I gained a new appreciation for everything my mother did for me. This was supposed to be her day, but here she was, caring for me as any loving mother would. At no point did she ever show any frustration, anger, or resentment. She still tended to me with unconditional love, never hesitating to smile or do whatever she could to make me feel better.

It says a lot about her and about motherhood, in general. There are times when a mother has to step up, throw away her plans, and focus all her energy on her ailing child. It’s rarely convenient. It can even happen during the times when you most need a reprieve. Between me and my siblings, my mom certainly needed plenty. She still never hesitated to do right by her kids.

That fateful Mother’s Day was a disappointment on every level. In time, though, it became an oddly fond memory for both of us. I remember it because my mom was at her best during that day. The holiday didn’t matter. Caring for me when I was sick became her top priority and she did it as well as any grateful son could ask.

Even when she brings it up, she often smiles at the memory. I think she understands why that Mother’s Day stands out among the many that came before it. Instead of a celebration, she got a chance to vindicate the value of loving moms and she did so masterfully. She has every right to be proud of how she handled that day and I’m sure she is, even after all these years.

I don’t remember how long it took me to recover from whatever illness I had that day. What I do remember, though, is how important Mother’s Day became in the years that followed. Before, it had been a formality, of sorts. After that, I felt like I had to go the extra mile as well to show my mother how much I loved her and how much I appreciated her.

This year is no different. She knows I have plans to make this Mother’s Day as special as it should be. She also knows that I’ll always treasure that fateful Mother’s Day from years ago when everything went so wrong, but ultimately revealed just how much lover a mother can give to her child. It’s a beautiful thing and something for which I’m eternally grateful.

I hope this personal story inspires others out there to show their moms some extra love tomorrow. To my own mother, who I hope reads this at some point, you deserve all the love a son can give and then some.

Thank you for being so awesome.

Thank you for being the best mom a guy like me can hope for.

To all you other mother’s out there, thank you for filling this world with your love.

Happy Mother’s Day!

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Imagining My Idea Of A Perfect Christmas

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I’d like to do something different today and not just because it’s Christmas Eve. First off, I hope everyone reading this has some festive plans for today and tomorrow. To everyone out there who has been following my work and this website, I sincerely thank you and I hope you have a wonderful Christmas holiday. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

What constitutes a successful Christmas holiday means many things for many people. For some, it means getting together with family, opening presents, and sharing a quiet holiday dinner full of love, cheer, and ugly Christmas sweaters. For some, there are more elaborate traditions, from going to the movies to attending a big party that winds up with some feeling less merry the next day. For some, it’s just another day off work.

Whatever way you or your family celebrate, we all have a different vision for what makes for a perfect Christmas. More often than not, this vision changes considerably as we get older. As kids, a perfect Christmas usually means getting all the toys we asked for. As adults, it’s more about the experience than the gifts. The key is maximizing both.

My idea of a perfect Christmas certainly has changed. When I was in high school, just having a week off made it perfect. When I was in college, being able to spend a few nights in my old room without hearing my roommate snore like a broken chainsaw was good enough. These days, I’ve dared to envision a more ambitious Christmas.

Talk to any of my relatives and they’ll attest to that ambition. I tend to go overboard with the gift-giving. I often buy more than one gift for someone and I go out of my way to make it extra special. I’ve been known to drop a lot more money than most on Christmas presents. It’s almost a running joke among my family. They’ll say I’m thrifty for 11 months out of the year, just so I can splurge on the last.

I take pride in my ability to invest in making Christmas special for those I love and cherish. I’m not married yet, but if I ever do find that special someone, I’ll make it a point to invest even more. Every year, however, I often find myself wondering how great it could be if I had more money and more resources at my disposal.

With that in mind, I’d like to present my vision for the perfect Christmas celebration for me, my family, and those I care about. In this vision, I have an unlimited bank account. Perhaps one of my novels became a best seller or I won the lottery. Whatever the case, money is no object and I can create as festive a spectacle as I please. Given such resources, this is how my perfect Christmas would play out.

On November 1st, I send everyone close to me a request for a list of their most desired presents. Each item can cost no more than $1,000 and must be something that can be wrapped. I tell them they must provide me this list by Thanksgiving or December 1st, at the latest.

With this information, I proceed to buy every gift on this list and even a few extras from me, just to mix things up. Then, I have every one of these gifts professionally gift-wrapped and stored until Christmas Eve.

Then, a week before Christmas Eve, I reserve an entire floor of a fancy hotel. Each room has a fully-lit Christmas tree and whatever comforts my friends and family desire. Along with those rooms, I rent a penthouse suite and have it decorated to the greatest extent possible, complete with lights along every well and a Christmas tree no shorter than nine feet in height.

In addition to the decorations, the penthouse would have a large fireplace and big-screen TVs with everything necessary to watch whatever sports or Christmas specials are on. Everything would be set up with the intent of everyone arriving early on Christmas Eve.

By then, all the presents I had bought and wrapped earlier would be delivered and put under the tree. As soon as friends and family start arriving, I have a team of professional cooks prepare a special lunch buffet. Then, we spend the afternoon together, catching up and enjoying whatever festivities we desire. We cap it all off with a traditional Christmas feast that includes turkey, ham, and cake.

Then, at nine o’clock we all gather around the tree, pick one present, and open it together. After sharing in that moment and enjoying a few late deserts, we all retire to our bedrooms and go to sleep.

The next morning, we sleep in and gather around the tree again to open up the rest of our presents. When all is said and done, we gather around a big dining room table for a Christmas breakfast. From there, we spend the rest of the day enjoying our new presents, watching Christmas specials, and playing games.

It all ends with one last holiday feast, consisting of pasta and meatballs, just like my grandmother used to make. After enjoying this meal, we gather around the tree one last time for desert and just enjoy each other’s company for the rest of the night.

That may seem needlessly elaborate for some, even if they had unlimited money to work with. For me, the key is creating an extra-special experience to share with the people I love. Whether that includes the cost of renting an entire hotel floor or just a few extra bucks on Christmas presents, I believe that investing in that experience helps make the holidays more special.

I may never get rich enough to make this happen. By this time next year, my idea of the perfect Christmas might change considerably, depending on where life takes me. For now, though, this is my little holiday fantasy and I’m happy to share it with those who have helped make this website as successful as it is.

If you have your own idea of a perfect Christmas, please share it in the comments. Once again, I wish everyone reading this a safe and happy holidays.

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A Personal Story About Puberty, Thongs, And High School

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It has been a while since I shared some personal insights. In my defense, this past year has been rough. Back in the summer, two very close family members of mine passed away. It has not been easy getting personal under those circumstances. I’d like to change that and in a way that isn’t entirely depressing.

With that in mind, I’d like to tell a story about puberty. I’ll give everyone a moment to stop laughing and/or cringing. Take all the time you need. If you’re like John Oliver, you may need more time than most.

I feel like it’s worth bringing up because, for better or for worse, how we go through puberty plays a big part in how we grow into adults. I can’t claim with a straight face that I handled puberty as well as I could’ve. If I were to grade myself, I would probably get a C-minus, at best. This story that I’m about to share should help explain why.

To understand why this moment in my life sticks out, there’s a particular context I need to establish, especially for my female audience. When it comes to changing from a child to an adult, there’s no one moment that marks the transition. One single strand of pubic hair doesn’t make you a man any more than one juice box makes you a kid.

More often than not, at least for men, there are a series of moments that effectively signal that you are not a kid anymore. You’re not an adult, either. You’re a teenager, steadily transforming into an adult body and doing your best to handle all these weird and overwhelming changes.

I can’t speak to the female experience, but I can say that as a male, those moments can be pretty powerful. They’re like way-points on the journey to adulthood. This story marks one of those way-points. It involves one of my least favorite classes in high school and cute girls wearing revealing thongs.

I’m being dead serious, here. Again, take all the time you need to stop laughing and/or cringing.

The setting was innocent enough. It’s my freshman year of high school. I’m an awkward 15-year-old with a terrible acne problem, an underwhelming stature, and low self-confidence. I’m also at an age where I’m really starting to feel my hormones and not just in terms of awkward boners. While I’d always enjoyed the company of girls, my teenage brain was starting to complicate those feelings.

I could manage that, for the most part. Then, I walk in my Introduction to Spanish class. Now, I’m already dreading this class because, at the time, I sucked at memorizing things not associated with comic books or NFL stats. It didn’t help that my teacher was awful so I was rarely in a good mood when I walked in.

That mood changed, somewhat, when my teacher gave us assigned seating in a new classroom. As it just so happened, I ended up sitting right behind a beautiful young woman with brown hair, tan skin, and nails she always painted purple. Why do I remember that while I forgot pretty much everything else in that class? That’s where thongs enter the story.

This girl, in addition to being beautiful and sweet, loved to wear thong underwear. I knew because from where I was sitting, I could see it clearly. It didn’t matter what kind of pants she wore or what the weather was like. Whenever she leaned forward on her desk, I got a perfect view of the top part of her thong.

I don’t know if it was intentional. This girl was not shy about her body, but not in a trashy sort of way. She was very sweet and kind to everyone, regardless of what she wore. She was that way with me, even though I had lousy social skills and bad acne. Whatever her reason, she didn’t seem to care that her thong showed every time she leaned forward. I never pointed it out to her and neither did anyone else.

I freely admit that I was very distracted by this, but not in a way I minded. If it weren’t a beautiful girl wearing a thong, it would’ve been something else. That’s how disinterested I was in this class. It led to more than a few awkward boners, but I’d been getting those for years. I’d never gotten them in a way that felt like a direct response to someone else’s presence.

It wasn’t just a sign that my body was changing. It signaled that my mind was changing too. How I felt and how I thought about girls was different than before. It was never going to be the same again and I feel like it started with that one thong-loving girl.

I acknowledge that there will be some people out there who think less of me for gawking at the sight of a young woman’s underwear, especially while at school. I’m won’t make excuse and I won’t apologize for it, either.

I was a 15-year-old boy going through puberty. I hadn’t yet mastered the art of hiding porn in my bedroom and the concept of sexy underwear on beautiful women was just starting to appeal to me. It’s for that very reason, however perverse some may find it, that this memory is so vivid for me.

It was at this moment, sitting in Spanish class and covertly admiring the cute girl’s thong, that I realized I was not a kid anymore. I was becoming an adult. That was a critical revelation for me because, up until that point, I still thought of myself as a kid. Even at 15, I hadn’t quite shed that part of my identity. This experience changed that.

I couldn’t keep clinging to childhood. Moreover, I didn’t want to anymore. I felt like an adult. I wanted to grow up. I know that sounds like a lot of revelation from just seeing a cute girl’s thong, but make no mistake. The impact was that profound. It remains a defining moment for my adolescence.

In addition to the thong, I also remember the girl’s name. For the sake of her privacy, I won’t share it. However, after I finished that class, I never had a class with her again. I didn’t see much of her for the rest of high school. I doubt I’ll ever see her again. Even if I don’t, her impact on my teenage life is etched in bedrock. For that, I thank her and her tastes in underwear.

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Filed under gender issues, human nature, Jack Fisher's Insights, psychology, sex in society, sexuality

A (Sexy) Personal Story About My Ex-Girlfriend

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Every now and then, I take a moment to get personal on this site by recounting a particular moment in my life. I enjoy sharing those parts of myself. I even find them therapeutic at times. Most of the time, I do that to help make a larger point about a more serious issue or to celebrate a holiday, such as Mother’s Day.

However, this is not one of those times.

Today, I’d like to share a story of a far sexier variety. Don’t drive your heads too deep into the gutter. It’s not one of those stories that will get as graphic as my novels or my sexy short stories. This is just a little tidbit of my life that should help explain why I have such a lurid mind and such eclectic passions.

This particular story involves an ex-girlfriend of mine. Don’t worry, it doesn’t involve bitterness, broken hearts, or revenge. There are enough stories like that on the internet. Instead, I want to share a story that is both uplifting and influential. To date, I think it has heavily influenced my desire to write and share sexy stories.

To understand why this moment is so influential, I need to provide some context. This particular moment occurred during my freshman year of college. I had met my girlfriend online through a comic book message board. We’d been chatting back and forth for over a year before we actually met. When we finally did meet in person, it was the opposite of one of those catfishing stories.

What we had was a beautiful thing. We were very comfortable talking to each other about things that were nerdy or embarrassing to discuss with others. That didn’t just pertain to comics, though. We also talked about sexy stuff. In our defense, were a couple of horny college students. That’s not an excuse. That’s a valid reason. There’s a difference, as I’ve noted before.

It’s that comfort that helped us forge what might have been one of the sexiest parts of our relationship. During the Thanksgiving holiday that year, my girlfriend came over the visit for a few days. As part of the festivities, we both went shopping on Black Friday. That may not sound romantic, but seeing as how we both love shopping on the holidays, it might as well have been a day in Paris.

I took her to one of the big malls in my area. We spent most of the afternoon there, eating lunch and navigating chaotic crowds. The fact she insisted on wearing heels just showed how dedicated she was to sharing the holiday spirit with me. That dedication showed in the last store we visited that day, which happened to be Victoria’s Secret.

Now, if you’re a healthy heterosexual man like me, you tend to have mixed feelings about that store. You love sexy lingerie and the sexy models who wear them, but when you’re single, spending too much time around a Victoria’s Secret can send all the wrong messages. When you’re with your girlfriend, though, it can be the sexiest kinds of fun.

My ex-girlfriend understood this so she didn’t hesitate to lead me inside, putting me in close proximity with all the sexy attire I love describing in my stories. From there, she demonstrated the energy of a kid in a candy factory, browsing some extra intimate apparel that included a nighty and a thong.

It’s worth noting at this point that my ex was abnormally comfortable with this sort of thing. She wasn’t just the kind of girl who didn’t mind talking about sex. She had a pretty dirty mind and an even dirtier mouth. In public and around people, she was very sweet and polite. In private, though, she said things that would make a hardened sailor gasp. That should help make clear why I was so attracted to her.

She knew this too because we spent more time in that Victoria’s Secret store than we did any other store at the mall. We didn’t mind, though. Personally, I wish we could’ve stayed longer. When we did leave, it wasn’t empty-handed. My ex bought a little something that day, as well. It made for a damn productive day, especially for two indebted college students.

The story doesn’t end there, though. In fact, it gets even sexier because early that next morning, my ex decided to put that new lingerie to good use. Just before the sun came up, she snuck over to my bed and slipped out of the pajamas she’d worn, revealing that she was wearing that same sexy nighty and revealing thong we saw in the store. Needless to say, that woke me up in the best possible way.

What happened after that is something I prefer to keep private. I promise it didn’t get too lurid. Remember, I was at my parents’ house and they weren’t going to let us get too reckless. That said, there were some intimate moments that were pretty intense, probably the most intense we shared during our relationship.

That’s as much detail I’m willing to share about that moment, for now. I hope it offers some insight into where some of my kinky musings come from. Out of respect and appreciation for that moment, I won’t share anything else about my ex-girlfriend. I doubt she’ll ever read this, but I still sincerely thank her for the time we had together.

A while back, I found out my ex-girlfriend actually got married. By all accounts, she’s as happy as she’s ever been and I’m happy for her. I think the man she married is lucky to have her. I sincerely hope that I can build something like it with a future lover. Until that day comes, sexy memories like this one will keep inspiring me.

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Filed under Jack Fisher's Insights, romance