I Was Just Trying to Take A Piss

I had to make an emergency trip to Walmart last night for underwear.

Yeah.

Emergency underwear.

That's apparently a thing in my life now.

I've sold so many pairs of my damn drawers lately that I looked in the dresser last night and realized I didn't have any left to wear to work this morning.

Not one pair.

I stood there looking at an empty drawer thinking, well, Joe, you've really accomplished something here.

Built decks for years. Raised a kid. Kept a roof over my head.

And somehow at 40-something years old I've managed to sell the underwear right off my own ass.

So I had two choices.

Go to Walmart at damn near bedtime or go to work commando.

And look, I'm not against letting things breathe once in a while. But I know how this works. I'd be on a job site about twenty minutes, start sweating, and spend the rest of the morning trying to peel my pecker off my thigh every time I bent over to pick something up.

Didn't sound like much of a Wednesday.

Off to Walmart I went.

Had to piss while I was there.

Walked into the bathroom, stepped up to the urinal, and there's a fella in the stall right beside me taking a shit.

Nothing unusual about that.

Until I hear:

"Baby, I love you."

I stopped for a second.

"Baby, I miss you too."

What the hell.

I'm standing there trying to take a piss and this man is three feet away taking a dump and apparently trying to save his relationship.

"I mean it, baby. I really do love you."

Sir.

Read the room.

I don't know what was happening between him and this woman.

Maybe they'd been fighting.

Maybe she'd left him.

Maybe he'd been gone all day and they just couldn't stand being apart anymore.

I don't know.

What I do know is there are certain times in a man's life when "Baby, I love you" can probably wait four minutes.

Taking a shit in the Walmart men's room is one of them.

Especially when another grown man is standing on the other side of the wall with his dick out.

But this fella didn't give a shit.

Well.

He clearly did.

But not about me being there.

He just kept going.

"Miss you too, baby."

Flush.

"Love you."

Jesus Christ.

I'm trying to finish pissing as fast as I can because now I feel like I'm intruding on something.

Which is bullshit.

I was there first as far as my dick was concerned.

He's the one having date night on the toilet.

I washed my hands and got out of there before he started telling her what he wanted to do when he got home because I didn't need that information following me around for the rest of my life.

Went back out, found my underwear, and headed for the register.

And somewhere between men's underwear and self-checkout it hit me just how fucking strange my life has gotten lately.

A month ago I had plenty of underwear.

Now strangers on the internet own most of it.

YEAH, I REALLY SELL 'EM →

I'm wandering around Walmart at night buying replacements.

And I can't even take a piss without listening to some man take a shit while reassuring the love of his life that she's still the one.

I don't know what the hell is going on anymore.

But I bought a six-pack this time.

Underwear.

Not beer.

Although looking back, I probably should've bought both.

— Joe

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

```

I'm Still Trying to Figure This Shit Out

If you're reading this, it's probably because you enjoy my blog.

Some of you probably don't even know much about the social media side of all this. I don't talk about it much over here.

But some strange shit has been happening lately, so I figured I'd tell you about it.

I started posting on Facebook not all that long ago.

There wasn't a plan. I wasn't trying to build an audience. I wasn't trying to become anybody.

I'm a contractor. I'm a dad. I'm a pretty simple guy.

I was bullshitting on the internet.

That's really about it.

I'd have a thought and post it. Take a picture and post that. Say something stupid that made me laugh.

Then people started following me.

And then more people started following me.

I'm over 4,000 now.

I know that ain't shit on the internet. I'm small potatoes. There are people with hundreds of thousands of followers. Millions.

Good for them.

I ain't trying to become an influencer.

Hell, I don't even really know what all that means.

I imagine those folks have to put some thought into what they're doing. The picture. The lighting. What they're wearing. What they're gonna say.

Maybe they don't. I don't know.

I know I don't.

I'm not checking my hair and the lighting before I take a picture.

I got a thought, I fucking post it.

Most of the pictures I put up, I'm filthy looking.

That's because I usually am.

I've been working.

I've had people tell me I need to take a bath. Wash my clothes. I've even been called a scrub.

That one pissed me off the first time.

Then I thought about it.

Somebody was scrolling through Facebook, saw a picture of me looking like a scrub, stopped scrolling, looked at it long enough to decide I looked like a scrub, then took the time to tell me.

Well, shit.

Maybe they're into scrubs.

I don't know.

Something made them stop.

That's one of the funny things about all this.

I didn't go looking for these people.

They found me.

Something made them stop scrolling. Something made them click. Then apparently something made them decide they wanted to see more of whatever the hell I was doing.

I'm not trying to win anybody over.

I'm just putting myself out there.

Take me or leave me.

Somehow a whole bunch of people have decided to stick around.

I've also figured out there are basically two kinds of people following me.

There are people who actually seem interested in what I have to say.

Then there are people who just enjoy looking at me.

At least that's what I can figure.

I'm alright with both.

And I ain't gonna sit here and pretend I don't enjoy some of the attention.

I'm a divorced man in my 40s. A few hundred people tell you that you look good, you're gonna notice.

Hell, I'm human.

But the part of all this I've probably enjoyed the most is this blog.

I didn't know I liked writing.

Turns out I do.

Sometimes I sit down knowing exactly what I want to say. Sometimes I don't figure out what the hell I'm trying to say until I'm halfway through writing it.

I like that.

And people started emailing me because of it.

Actual emails.

Somebody will go find my email address and sit down and write me.

Some just check in to see how I'm doing. Some tell me what's going on in their lives. Some tell me about something I wrote.

I've gotten some pretty damn thoughtful ones.

One of my favorite things that's happened through all of this came from one of those emails.

A woman who'd been reading the blog wrote me and said she'd been thinking about starting one herself.

I wrote her back and told her to do it.

Basically told her to quit worrying about whether anybody would read the damn thing. If she had something she wanted to say, sit her ass down and write it.

Wouldn't you know it?

She did.

She emailed me again after she published her first post and sent me the link.

I read it.

Now I follow her blog.

I'm damn proud of her.

Not because I did anything. She did that herself.

I'm just proud she did it.

And I'm humbled that she trusted some contractor she found on the internet enough to tell him about it.

That's the kind of shit I never expected when I started doing this.

But there's another side of it I'm still trying to figure out.

A month or so ago, when I had maybe 1,500 followers, I'd make a post and go back later that day and answer the comments.

Sometimes I'd answer damn near everybody.

I'd start replying and look up two hours later.

But I enjoyed it.

And if I'm telling the truth, I felt like if somebody took the time to leave me a comment, the least I could do was say something back.

So I did.

Maybe I created a problem for myself doing that.

Because I can't do it anymore.

Last night a woman left a comment on Facebook wanting to know why I don't respond to her comments.

She said if I didn't start answering her, she was going to unfollow me.

Well, hell.

That pissed me off.

My first thought was, then unfollow me.

I didn't say it.

But I damn sure thought it.

Later I started thinking about it.

Maybe some of that was my fault.

Maybe she'd been around when I answered everybody. Maybe I'd made people think that's how this worked.

So I went back and looked at the last seven days.

More than 4,300 comments.

Four thousand three hundred.

I did the math.

If I spent three minutes reading and answering every one of them, that's 215 hours.

There's only 168 hours in a week.

Well, shit.

I work full time. I'm a single dad. I've got shit to do. Occasionally I need to sleep.

I can't do it.

That's when I think it finally hit me how much this thing has changed.

When there were a thousand people around, it felt like I was bullshitting with the same group most days.

Now it feels like folks are walking out of the woods.

Most of them are good people.

I want to make that clear because I don't want this to sound like I'm bitching.

I'm not.

Most of this has been fun as hell.

People make me laugh. They're kind to me. They tell me stories. They check in on me.

Hell, people take time out of their day to come over here and read whatever I've got rolling around in my head.

That's pretty damn cool.

But every once in a while somebody walks out of those woods already pissed off.

That's the part I don't understand.

Somebody I've never seen before will show up and tell me what kind of person I am.

Or what I should be doing.

Or what I shouldn't be doing.

Sometimes they'll make some accusation that makes even my mouth drop.

And I find myself thinking, who the hell are you really mad at?

Because it can't possibly be me.

We just met.

Maybe that's just the internet.

I don't know.

Maybe people see enough pictures and read enough shit somebody writes and start feeling like they know them.

Hell, maybe I've done the same thing and never thought about it.

That's what I'm trying to figure out.

I guess I have decided one thing though.

I ain't gonna spend a bunch of time trying to explain myself every time somebody doesn't like something I said or did.

Hell, maybe this is my apology tour.

One stop.

Right here.

I'll probably just save the link.

I'm kidding.

Mostly.

Because I ain't gonna pretend I'm some victim in all this either.

Nobody made me post anything.

I chose to do it.

And I like doing it.

I like making people laugh. I like hearing from people. I like the attention sometimes.

I really fucking like writing this blog.

If all of it disappeared tomorrow, I'd probably miss it.

I'm just trying to figure out what to do with all of it now.

I started out posting whatever shit rolled out of my mouth.

I'm gonna keep doing that.

I'm not gonna start cleaning myself up for pictures because somebody thinks I should.

I'm not gonna figure out which version of me people like best and start pretending to be that guy.

I ain't doing it.

I'm the same guy I was when 200 people were following me.

If this stops at 4,000, fine.

If it ever gets to 100,000, God help us all.

I'll probably still be sitting somewhere in a dirty shirt saying something I probably should've kept to myself.

There's plenty about all this I still need to figure out.

But I know one thing.

I ain't changing.

Take me or leave me.

I'm alright with that.

— Joe

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

A NOTE FROM ME

LET'S KEEP IN TOUCH.

Social media don't always show everybody what I post.

Leave me your email and I'll send you a little note now and then. What I'm thinking, what I'm working on, and probably something I shouldn't say out loud.

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ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I enjoy writing this shit for y'all. If I made you laugh or something I said hit home, throw a few bucks in my beer fund. Helps keep me writing, and I sure as hell appreciate it.

If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

``` ```

I Ain't Everybody's Cup of Coffee

I ain't everybody's cup of coffee.

Hell, some mornings I ain't even my own.

I've been thinking about that lately.

Seems like the older I get, the more I realize people have a pretty good idea of who they think you oughta be.

And they're not always real pleased when you turn out to be somebody else.

I build decks. I fish. I drink coffee. I like sitting outside when the weather's decent and being left the hell alone when it ain't.

I'm a pretty simple man in a lot of ways.

But simple don't mean there's only one damn thing going on in my head.

Although Tucker might disagree with that.

Smartass kid.

SOME FOLKS LIKE THEIR COFFEE SWEET.

Now, I don't have anything against a little sugar.

You want cream in your coffee? Put cream in it.

You want one of them fancy drinks with whipped cream, caramel, and a name that takes longer to say than it does to drink?

Knock yourself out.

But don't hand me a cup of that shit and tell me it's what I oughta like.

That's how I feel about people.

Some folks like everything sweet and predictable.

They want a man who says the right things, wears the right clothes, doesn't cuss, and never says anything that might make somebody uncomfortable.

Nothing wrong with wanting that.

But you're probably gonna have a rough time with me.

I've got a mouth on me.

Sometimes I say something and realize about three seconds too late that I probably oughta kept it to myself.

Sometimes I realize it before I say it.

And say it anyway.

I'm working on that.

Sort of.

I GOT A FEW DIFFERENT SIDES TO ME.

There's the fella who gets up and goes to work.

There's the dad who spends half his time wondering how his teenage son got so damn smart and the other half wondering how the same kid can walk past a full trash can without noticing it.

There's the guy who likes fishing and could sit on a porch for two hours without saying much of anything.

There's the one who'll stop what he's doing to help somebody if he can.

And then there's the other one.

Y'all know the one.

The one who probably shouldn't be allowed to name construction equipment.

The one who can turn an innocent conversation about lumber into something that'd make a grown man spit out his coffee.

The one who apparently thought selling his underwear on the internet was a reasonable business decision.

Still trying to figure out how the hell I got here with that last one.

But here we are.

And the funny thing is, none of those fellas are pretending.

They're all me.

I don't stop giving a damn about people just because I tell a dirty joke.

And I don't stop having a dirty mind just because I write something that makes somebody cry.

Life's a little more complicated than that.

I AIN'T GONNA BE EVERYBODY'S KIND OF MAN.

Took me a while to get comfortable with that.

When you're younger, you spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to fit in.

You worry about what people think.

Whether they like you.

Whether you said the wrong thing.

Whether somebody's talking about you when you ain't around.

Then you get a little older.

And one morning you realize you've got bills to pay, work to do, coffee getting cold, and about twelve things around the house that need fixing.

Suddenly somebody else's opinion of your personality drops pretty far down the list.

Don't get me wrong.

I still care about how I treat people.

I don't think getting older gives you a free pass to be an asshole.

There's a difference between being yourself and using that as an excuse to treat everybody around you like shit.

But I also don't think a man oughta spend his whole life sanding down every rough edge until there's nothing left of him.

I'm a contractor.

I know what happens when you sand something too damn much.

You ruin it.

And then you've gotta go buy another board.

Which is getting expensive as hell, by the way.

YOU AIN'T GOTTA LIKE EVERYTHING ABOUT ME.

Here's something I wish more people understood.

You can enjoy somebody without needing to approve of every damn thing they do.

Maybe you like my stories.

Maybe you like the construction stuff.

Maybe you just come around because you enjoy watching me make a fool of myself.

That's fine too.

I've been providing that particular service free of charge for years.

Maybe you like the quiet side of me.

The coffee. The porch. The fishing. The stories about people who've meant something to me.

And maybe some of the other shit I get into ain't your thing.

That's all right.

There's plenty of room on my porch.

You don't have to come inside and inspect every room in the damn house.

Although some of y'all apparently can't resist opening a door after I put a warning on it.

I'm not naming names.

But you know who you are.

And I hope you washed your hands when you came back out.

ANYWAY, HERE'S MY TWO CENTS.

Find people who make you laugh.

Find people you can sit quietly with without feeling like somebody's gotta fill every damn second with conversation.

Find people who don't need you to put on a show every time you walk into the room.

And if you find somebody who can appreciate the decent parts of you while laughing at the ridiculous parts?

Keep 'em around.

Those are good people.

I'm not everybody's cup of coffee.

Never will be.

Some folks will take one sip and decide I'm a little too strong.

Some will want to water me down.

And some of y'all will come back for a second cup knowing damn well you probably shouldn't.

That's your business.

I'm just glad you stopped by.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got coffee to finish and a website that apparently requires adult supervision.

Which is unfortunate.

Because I'm the adult.

— Joe

A LITTLE MORE THAN MY TWO CENTS

YOU BEEN WARNED.

I got a side of my website that ain't exactly fit for polite company.

If you're grown, curious, and don't mind a little trouble, come have a look.

FIND MY ROWDY SIDE →

18+ ONLY • ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

A NOTE FROM ME

LET'S KEEP IN TOUCH.

Social media don't always show everybody what I post.

Leave me your email and I'll send you a little note now and then. What I'm thinking, what I'm working on, and probably something I shouldn't say out loud.

GET A NOTE FROM JOE →

No spam. Get out whenever you want.

ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I enjoy writing this shit for y'all. If I made you laugh or something I said hit home, throw a few bucks in my beer fund. Helps keep me writing, and I sure as hell appreciate it.

If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

BUY JOE A BEER →

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

Apparently, Real Men Don't Use Paragraphs

Well, I'll be damned.

Found out this week I'm apparently not a real person.

And here I was thinking I was doing a pretty good job of being one.

Had a woman wander onto my Facebook page the other day. Sunday morning, I believe it was. I'd posted a picture of myself sitting there in my underwear, drinking coffee, enjoying a little peace and quiet.

Nothing unusual around here.

Apparently, she didn't care much for it. Or maybe she cared a little too much. Hell, I don't know.

But instead of scrolling on past, she decided to let me know that I must be fake.

Her evidence?

I write in paragraphs.

Yep. You read that right.

Apparently, the fact that I separate my thoughts when I write something is proof that I'm not a real person.

She said something about how "the rest of US" don't do that.

Now, who in the hell is US?

Is there a club?

Did y'all have a meeting and forget to invite me?

Was there a vote on how many times a man is allowed to hit the Enter key before somebody questions his existence?

Because I missed that shit entirely.

SO I GOT CURIOUS.

I'll admit it. I clicked on her profile.

Wanted to see who this woman was that had apparently been put in charge of deciding how real people are supposed to write.

And right there in her description, she proudly announced that she's a gun-toting, Bible-thumping, right-wing, anti-feminist truth crusader.

Well, hell.

That's a lot to fit into one sentence.

I don't have a problem with a woman knowing what she believes. More power to her.

But I did get a little tickled thinking about somebody calling themselves a truth crusader while investigating a stranger's paragraph breaks.

Ma'am, it's Facebook.

I ain't running a counterfeit money operation over here.

I'm drinking coffee in my damn underwear.

BUT HERE'S WHAT'S REALLY GOT ME WONDERING.

Now, some of y'all who've been following me for a while know I've got a line I like to throw out there every now and then.

"You know you wanna sit on my deck."

And I'll be damned if I ain't sitting here wondering whether that was the problem all along.

Maybe she saw the underwear and got offended.

Maybe she saw the underwear and got interested.

Maybe she got interested, got offended that she was interested, and decided to take it out on my punctuation.

I don't know.

I ain't a psychologist.

I'm a contractor.

But I've been around long enough to know there's a mighty fine line between somebody being offended by what they're looking at and somebody looking a little longer than they intended to.

Either way, she stopped scrolling.

Looked at the picture.

Read what I wrote.

And took time out of her Sunday to let me know I wasn't real.

That's a hell of a lot of attention to give a man you don't believe exists.

I RECKON I OUGHT TO EXPLAIN MYSELF.

I grew up knowing how to read and write.

I know. Shocking.

I work with my hands. I get dirty. I cuss. I've got tools scattered around that I probably ought to put away, and there's usually something on my truck that needs fixing.

But I also know how to put a thought into a sentence.

Sometimes I even have two thoughts.

And when that happens, I start another paragraph.

Didn't realize that made me suspicious.

Hell, I figured it just made things easier to read.

I suppose I could write everything in one big long sentence with no punctuation and no spaces and just keep going until everybody's eyes cross and nobody knows what the hell I'm talking about but apparently that's what real people do now so maybe I'll give it a try sometime.

There.

Feel better?

AND ANOTHER DAMN THING.

I don't understand why folks have such a hard time believing a man can be more than one thing.

I can build a deck and write a story.

I can spend the day covered in sawdust and still have something worth saying when I get home.

I can joke about my underwear one minute and talk about something that matters to me the next.

I can be a smartass and still give a damn about people.

None of those things cancel each other out.

And I sure as hell don't need to misspell something or forget how punctuation works to prove I'm a regular guy.

If you don't like what I post, that's fine.

If you think I ought to wear more clothes, well, you ain't the first.

If you think I'm full of shit, you're entitled to that opinion too.

But accusing somebody of being fake because they write differently than you do?

That's a new one on me.

ANYWAY.

I ain't mad at the woman.

Truth be told, she gave me something to write about, so I reckon I ought to thank her.

And I'm sure she'll be pleased to know I wrote the whole damn thing in paragraphs.

Several of 'em.

Even threw in a few headings just to really piss her off.

But before I go, there's one thing I can't quite get out of my head.

She described herself as a Bible-thumping truth crusader.

Now, I ain't here to question anybody's faith.

But somebody might want to tell her that the Bible's got a whole hell of a lot of paragraphs in it.

Chapters, too.

And some of those fellas even wrote in verses.

Guess they weren't real either.

Anyway, y'all have a good day.

I'm gonna finish my coffee.

And if that woman happens to wander back over here, she's welcome to pull up a chair.

Got a perfectly good deck.

— Joe

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I enjoy writing this shit for y'all. If I made you laugh or something I said hit home, throw a few bucks in my beer fund. Helps keep me writing, and I sure as hell appreciate it.

If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

BUY JOE A BEER →

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

How the Hell Did I End Up Selling Scentsy?

I build decks.

That's what I do.

I work with lumber, concrete, screws, nails, and whatever other shit somebody needs put together or torn apart.

Most days I come home smelling like sawdust, sweat, and whatever I stepped in on the job site.

And somehow, I've ended up selling Scentsy.

Don't ask me how the hell that happened.

Well, actually, I guess I can tell ya.

It started with me thinking maybe I oughta find something to make the house smell a little better.

Simple enough, right?

Next thing I know, I'm looking at warmers, wax bars, laundry shit, body wash, and about 400 different things that smell like somebody's grandma just baked a pie.

And apparently, I'm now a Scentsy consultant.

Jesus Christ.

GRANDMA WOULD'VE GOTTEN A KICK OUTTA THIS

My grandma Arlene used to go to them home parties years ago.

You remember those?

Somebody would invite a bunch of women over to their house. There'd be coffee, cookies, maybe some little sandwiches with the crust cut off.

Then somebody would start pulling shit out of a bag.

Candles. Kitchen stuff. Makeup. Plastic containers that cost more than the food you were gonna put in 'em.

Grandma would come home with a bag full of stuff, and I'd ask her what she bought.

"Oh, just a few things."

A few things, my ass.

She'd spend the next 20 minutes showing me every damn thing in that bag.

And half the time, she didn't even need any of it.

But she had a good time. Got out of the house. Saw her friends. Had some coffee. Bought herself something.

Nothing wrong with that.

I never thought much about those parties back then.

Sure as hell never thought I'd be the one selling anything at one.

APPARENTLY, YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO PUT ON PANTS ANYMORE

So I've been poking around this Scentsy business, trying to figure out what the hell I've gotten myself into.

And I discovered something.

People can apparently throw these parties online now.

Nobody's gotta clean their house.

Nobody's gotta make sandwiches.

Nobody's gotta invite 15 people into their living room and pretend they aren't wondering when everybody's gonna leave.

From what I understand, somebody hosts a little online shopping party, shares a link with their friends, and everybody can look around and order whatever they want.

The stuff gets shipped directly to the people who ordered it.

And depending on how much everybody buys, the person hosting can earn free products or discounts.

Hell, that doesn't sound too bad.

I can sit here in my underwear drinking coffee while somebody else has a party.

That's the kind of business arrangement I can get behind.

Now, I ain't saying I've got all this figured out yet.

I'm still learning.

But I am starting to understand why Grandma liked this shit.

HERE'S WHERE I NEED SOME HELP

I'm gonna tell y'all something.

I don't know what half these damn scents are supposed to smell like.

I know what coffee smells like.

I know what fresh-cut lumber smells like.

I know what a campfire smells like.

And I know what a man smells like after working outside all day in August.

Some of these other ones?

Hell if I know.

I was looking through the catalog and realized there are more choices in there than I know what to do with.

So I'm gonna ask y'all a favor.

If you're one of them Scentsy people who knows what they're doing, go look through my shop and tell me what you'd recommend.

What do you use in your house?

What smells good without making the whole damn place smell like somebody dumped a bottle of perfume in the air conditioner?

And if you've ever hosted one of these online parties, I'd be interested in hearing how it went.

I'm curious whether it's something I oughta start doing with some of y'all.

Here's my shop if you wanna poke around:

Smell Like a Man — Joe's Scentsy Shop

You don't gotta buy anything. I'm just trying to learn what people like.

And if you see something in there that smells like a fishing cabin, fresh lumber, and a pot of coffee, let me know.

I'll take six.

— Joe

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

The Door She Left Unlocked

I lost somebody today.

Her name was Gwen.

Most of y'all won't know who she was. She wasn't famous. Didn't have a bunch of money. Didn't do anything that would've gotten her name in the newspaper.

She was just a woman who lived a few houses down from me when I was a kid.

And she changed my life.

I grew up in a house where things weren't always easy. My folks were young, divorced, and busy living their own lives. I spent a hell of a lot of time by myself.

Gwen had a daughter around my age. We became friends when we were little, and somewhere along the way I started spending more and more time at their house.

I couldn't tell you exactly when it happened.

One day I was the kid from down the street.

Next thing I knew, I was eating dinner at their table, hanging around half the night, and sleeping on their couch.

By the time I was a teenager, I was a pretty angry kid.

Mad at my parents. Mad at the world. Mad about things I didn't have the words to explain yet.

Gwen let me be mad.

She'd listen to me bitch about whatever was going on. Sometimes she'd give me her opinion. Sometimes she'd tell me I was full of shit. Sometimes she'd just sit there and let me get it out.

And she kept feeding me.

I don't know how many dinners I ate in that woman's house over the years. Couldn't begin to count 'em.

She never made a big production out of any of it.

I was just there.

And that was that.

THE UNLOCKED DOOR

There were nights I'd show up at Gwen's house at one or two in the morning.

Sometimes later.

Everybody would be asleep. I'd open the front door, walk inside, and settle down on the couch.

I'd hear her call from the bedroom.

"Joseph, is that you?"

"Yeah. I'm just gonna lay down and sleep."

"Okay."

And she'd go back to sleep.

That was the whole conversation.

Now, I should probably tell y'all something.

My name's Joseph, but I've gone by Joe for as long as I can remember. Never much cared for anybody calling me Joseph.

Except Gwen.

She always called me Joseph.

I might've rolled my eyes or acted like it bothered me, but the truth is, I loved hearing her say it.

I don't know that I ever told her that.

Somehow, when she said my name, it sounded different.

Like I belonged there.

I always figured they were just the kind of people who didn't lock their doors.

Years later, her daughter told me something I never knew.

"Mom left that door unlocked for you."

I've thought about that more times than I can count.

She went to bed knowing I might show up.

She didn't know what kind of night I'd had. Didn't know whether I'd been fighting with somebody, whether I was upset, or whether I just didn't feel like being alone.

Didn't matter.

She left the door unlocked.

For me.

I wish I could go back and tell that angry teenage kid what that meant.

I don't think he understood it at the time.

SHE LET ME BE ONE OF HERS

Every Mother's Day, I'd get Gwen a card.

I'd drop it off at her house, and she'd put it up with the cards from her own kids.

Not off to the side somewhere.

Right there with the rest of 'em.

Looking back, I don't know that I ever asked whether it was okay to think of her as another mother.

I just did.

And she let me.

That's something I appreciate more now than I ever could've appreciated back then.

She didn't owe me a damn thing.

She had her own family. Her own problems. Her own life.

She could've been nice to me when I visited and sent me home at dinnertime.

Nobody would've thought anything of it.

Instead, she made room.

At the table.

On the couch.

In her day.

In her family.

And she did it so naturally that I never really stopped to think about how much she was giving me.

COFFEE AND CIGARETTES

Some of my favorite memories of Gwen are probably the ones that'd sound the least interesting to anybody else.

Sitting outside with her late at night.

Drinking coffee.

Smoking cigarettes.

Talking about whatever the hell came into our heads.

Sometimes we'd laugh until we couldn't breathe.

Sometimes I'd be carrying something around that I needed to get off my chest.

And sometimes we didn't have much to say at all.

I can still picture those nights.

I can still hear her voice.

Funny how you can forget a hundred things you did last week but remember the sound of somebody laughing thirty years ago.

I'd give just about anything to sit out there and have one more cup of coffee with her.

THE NUMBER ON THE REFRIGERATOR

Years went by.

I grew up, moved around, got busy with work, and did what people do.

But I never forgot Gwen.

About ten years ago, I heard she was starting to get forgetful, so I called her.

She was happy to hear from me.

We talked for a while, and before we hung up, I gave her my phone number.

I told her if she ever needed anything, she could call me.

And I told her I loved her.

I meant every word.

A little while back, her daughter told me something else I didn't know.

Gwen had written down my number and put it on the refrigerator beside the phone.

She never took it down.

All those years later, I was still there in her kitchen.

I don't know why that gets to me as much as it does.

Maybe because she spent so much of my childhood making sure I knew where to find her.

And when she got older, I wanted her to know where to find me.

THANK YOU, GWEN

Her daughter got in touch with me today to tell me she'd passed away.

I tried to go back to work.

Got a few things done, too.

But Gwen kept finding her way into my thoughts.

Eventually, I stopped to have some coffee and a cigarette.

And there she was again.

Sitting outside with me.

Laughing.

Listening.

Letting me be that angry kid who didn't always know what to do with himself.

I've been trying to figure out what I want to say about her.

And I keep coming back to two words.

Thank you.

Thank you for feeding me when you didn't have to.

Thank you for listening to me bitch.

Thank you for putting my Mother's Day cards up with the rest.

Thank you for letting me sleep on your couch.

Thank you for letting me love you.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for calling me Joseph.

Everybody else knew me as Joe. That's what I wanted 'em to call me.

But I loved being Joseph to you.

I always did.

And thank you for leaving that damn door unlocked.

I hope you knew what you meant to me.

I think you did.

I hope you knew that you made a difference in my life.

A big one.

And I hope you knew that even when I wasn't sitting at your kitchen table anymore, I still carried a little piece of that house around with me.

I always will.

I don't know what happens when we die. I'd like to think the people we've loved can somehow hear us for a little while afterward.

So if you're listening, Gwen, I've got one more thing to tell you.

You did good.

You took in a kid who wasn't yours and made him feel like he was.

You gave him somewhere to go when he didn't know where else to be.

And you showed him a kind of love he didn't have to earn.

I never forgot it.

I never will.

Love you, Gwen.

— Joseph

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

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ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I enjoy writing this shit for y'all. If I made you laugh or something I said hit home, throw a few bucks in my beer fund. Helps keep me writing, and I sure as hell appreciate it.

If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

I Believe in God. Not Sure He Approves of Everything I Do.

I believe in God.

Figured I'd get that out of the way before somebody asks how a man who sells his dirty underwear on the internet can believe in the Lord.

I don't know. I just do.

Never said I was a damn preacher.

Grandma Arlene used to drag my ass to church every Sunday. Didn't matter if I wanted to go or not. Didn't matter if I was tired. Didn't matter if I had something else I wanted to do.

Sunday morning meant church.

And if you were living under her roof, you were going.

That woman could hear me trying to sneak back into bed from three rooms away.

"Joseph, get your ass up."

"I'm up."

"Then why ain't I hearing you moving?"

Couldn't get away with a damn thing.

She'd make me put on decent clothes, comb my hair, and sit there through the whole service.

I remember one Sunday I asked her why we had to go every week if God was everywhere.

Seemed like a reasonable question to me.

She told me God might be everywhere, but apparently my ass needed to be in church.

End of discussion.

I spent most of those Sundays thinking about fishing.

And lunch.

Mostly lunch.

I haven't been to church in a while.

Not against it. Just haven't gone.

I work all week, and by the time Sunday rolls around, sometimes the last thing I want to do is put on a decent shirt and sit somewhere for an hour.

Half the time I'm lucky if I've got pants on before noon.

But I still talk to God.

Usually when I'm driving.

Sometimes when I'm fishing.

Sometimes when I'm sitting outside with my coffee, wondering how the hell I ended up with a teenage son who thinks he knows everything.

I don't get down on my knees or make a big production out of it.

I just talk.

"Lord, if You could help me get through this day without telling somebody to go fuck themselves, I'd appreciate it."

Some days He helps.

Some days I don't give Him much to work with.

Now, I'm sure there's somebody reading this thinking I ought to clean up my act if I'm gonna talk about believing in God.

Maybe.

I've done some stupid shit.

Still do.

I drink beer. I swear. I tell dirty jokes.

I've got a shirt for sale that says "Ask Me About My Wood."

And apparently there are people willing to pay good money for underwear I've already had my ass in.

I don't know what to tell you.

It's a strange world.

I don't remember Grandma covering that particular business opportunity in Sunday school.

I can just picture her finding out.

"Joseph, what are you selling?"

"My underwear."

"Your WHAT?"

"My underwear, Grandma."

"Well, why don't those people go buy their own?"

Fair question.

I don't have a good answer for that one.

She'd probably tell me to wash them first, which would pretty much defeat the whole purpose.

Then she'd ask if I'd eaten.

That's how she was.

Here's the thing, though.

I've known people who went to church every Sunday and treated everybody around them like shit the other six days.

I've also known people who couldn't tell you the last time they walked into a church but would stop on the side of the road in the pouring rain to help somebody change a tire.

I ain't saying one cancels out the other.

I'm saying I notice that stuff.

Grandma didn't have much money. She sure as hell didn't have an easy life. But if somebody needed something and she could help, she generally did.

She'd complain about it the whole damn time.

But she'd do it.

I remember her making food for people who were sick. Helping neighbors. Giving somebody vegetables out of her garden.

She wasn't standing there telling everybody what a good Christian woman she was.

She was just doing what needed done.

And then she'd come home and holler at me for leaving the damn door open.

That was my religious education.

I've been thinking about this more since I wrote about Grandma the other day.

Maybe because I'm getting older.

Maybe because Tucker's getting older.

Maybe because I spent half the night writing an article about jerking off and now feel like I ought to balance things out a little.

Don't know.

I do know I want Tucker to be a decent man.

I don't particularly care if he grows up to wear the same clothes I wear, vote the same way I vote, or like the same things I like.

I'd appreciate it if he'd quit telling me my shirts look like shit, but that's another conversation.

I want him to keep his word.

I want him to help people when he can.

I want him to know when he's screwed up and have enough balls to admit it.

And I want him to know he can come to me when life goes sideways.

Even if he's done something stupid.

Hell, especially then.

I've got plenty of experience with stupid.

I don't know what happens when we die.

I believe there's something after this. I hope there is.

I'd like to see Grandma again.

I'd like to sit down with her and tell her about Tucker. Tell her about the construction business. Tell her some of the things I've gotten into since she's been gone.

Well.

Most of them.

Might leave the underwear business out until we've had a chance to catch up.

I figure when my time comes, me and the Lord are gonna have a few things to discuss.

I'm hoping He starts with the construction work.

Maybe the times I helped somebody. Maybe the times I did right by my boy.

I'd appreciate it if He saved the internet stuff for last.

And if Grandma Arlene's standing there waiting for me, I'm turning my ass around.

Because I already know what she's gonna say.

"Joseph Durst. What in the HELL have you been doing?"

And for once in my life, I might not have a smartass answer.

— Joe

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I enjoy writing this shit for y'all. If I made you laugh or something I said hit home, throw a few bucks in my beer fund. Helps keep me writing, and I sure as hell appreciate it.

If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

BUY JOE A BEER →

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

Advice From a Stranger: I Need to Respect Myself More

Got an email this morning from a fella who stumbled across my website.

Said he pushed a few buttons, found some pictures of me that weren't exactly suitable for church, and thought I oughta make them harder to find.

Told me I needed to respect myself.

Then complimented my dick, my eyes, and said fishing sounded fun.

Well hell.

That was a lot to unpack before I'd even finished my coffee.

Now I appreciate somebody looking out for me. I really do.

But here's the thing.

I got plenty of respect for myself.

I work. I take care of my boy. I try to treat people right. I pay my bills and mind my own damn business.

And every now and then I apparently show more of my business than some folks think I ought to.

I'm 43 years old.

I ain't sitting around waiting for somebody to tell me what I'm allowed to do with my own body.

Some people go to church on Sunday. Some people drink beer and watch football. Some people spend their evenings posting pictures of their supper.

I sell my underwear.

We all got hobbies.

And I ain't saying everybody's gotta approve of mine.

You don't have to look at anything you don't wanna look at. That's the beauty of having your own two eyes and a finger that knows how to hit the back button.

But I do find it funny when somebody goes looking through your stuff, finds exactly what they're looking for, and then tells you that you shouldn't have put it there.

He is a good example of what I was talkin about when I wrote about not liking people all of the time.

Buddy, you pushed the buttons.

I didn't come over to your house and hang a picture of my ass on your refrigerator.

Anyway, I wrote the fella back and thanked him for looking out for me.

No hard feelings.

He seemed like a decent enough guy.

And he was right about one thing.

Ain't nothin like fishing.

— Joe

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I enjoy writing this shit for y'all. If I made you laugh or something I said hit home, throw a few bucks in my beer fund. Helps keep me writing, and I sure as hell appreciate it.

If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

BUY JOE A BEER →

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.

What Jerking Off Has Taught Me About Self-Control

Well here's something I never thought I'd be writing about.

Jerking off.

But considering I've already told half the damn internet I sell my used underwear, I guess we're past the point of pretending I'm some respectable member of society.

Anyway.

I've been thinking about something.

When I was a younger man, jerking off was pretty straightforward.

Get the job done and get on with whatever the hell I was doing.

Didn't see much reason to complicate things.

I wasn't trying to discover myself. I wasn't looking for some great life lesson.

I was just horny.

Pretty simple.

But somewhere along the way I figured out that being in such a damn hurry to get what you want sometimes takes half the fun out of it.

That's how I discovered edging.

And before somebody asks, no, it doesn't involve a lawn mower.

It's basically learning to slow your ass down instead of always rushing straight to the finish line.

Turns out I've got a pretty impressive amount of patience when I've got the right motivation.

Wish I could say the same thing when I'm standing behind somebody at Walmart trying to figure out how to use the self-checkout.

But I got to thinking about it.

I've spent most of my adult life working construction.

When I was younger, I wanted to get everything done as fast as possible.

Finish the job. Get paid. Move on.

Took me a while to figure out that rushing through shit usually means you're gonna end up doing some of it twice.

Same thing with fishing.

You can sit there getting pissed off because nothing's biting or you can enjoy having a few hours where nobody's bothering the hell out of you.

Sometimes the waiting is part of it.

Apparently that's true for more than fishing.

Who knew?

Now I'm not saying everybody needs to start jerking off for personal development.

Although I suppose there are worse hobbies.

I'm just saying I've learned there's something to be said for not being in such a goddamn hurry all the time.

Sometimes you gotta slow down.

Enjoy yourself.

Quit worrying about getting to the end of everything.

And if you happen to learn a little self-control while you've got your dick in your hand, well hell.

At least you accomplished something today.

Don't know if any of this makes sense.

Started writing about masturbation and somehow ended up talking about construction and fishing.

Probably tells you everything you need to know about me.

Anyway.

That's what jerking off has taught me about self-control.

Grandma Arlene would probably knock me upside the head if she knew I was writing this shit.

And Tucker better not read it.

I've embarrassed that kid enough this week.

— Joe

SINCE WE'RE ALREADY TALKING ABOUT IT...

WELCOME TO JOE DURST AFTER DARK.

Well, since apparently some of y'all are just as interested in this subject as I am, I went ahead and made a little corner of my website called Joe Durst After Dark.

There's some reading material, a few things for grown men who enjoy their alone time, and yes, you can even find out about buying my damn underwear.

Don't ask me how all this became a business. I'm still trying to figure that out myself.

COME SEE JOE DURST AFTER DARK →

For grown folks only. Don't say I didn't warn you.

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT JOE DURST

COME ON OVER. MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME.

This here's where I come to run my mouth. Everything else I've gotten myself into is over at JoeDurst.com.

VISIT JOEDURST.COM →

ENJOY READING MY SHIT?

BUY ME A DAMN BEER.

I enjoy writing this shit for y'all. If I made you laugh or something I said hit home, throw a few bucks in my beer fund. Helps keep me writing, and I sure as hell appreciate it.

If not, that's all right too. I'm glad you're here.

BUY JOE A BEER →

FIND ME SOMEWHERE ELSE

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JOE'S TWO CENTS

Work. Life. And whatever the hell's on my mind.