My Blog

James David Cohn


As of this writing, no reader has ever complained about my bloggings being dull, uninteresting, or in any way objectionable. In fact, none of my bloggings has ever received a single negative review. The primary and some might say the only reason for this is that as of this writing I do not have and have never had a blog.

Thus my advice to my fellow bloggers is this: do not start a blog. This is the only sure-fire way to keep all reviews from turning negative.

As in blogging, so too in romance. No lover will ever criticize you if you avoid taking lovers. This methodology is sound. I have confirmed it experimentally more than once. I am confirming it right now as I hunt and peck these letters. I am not a touch-typist. Nor do I touch typists.

Now, see, that is a good illustration of my thesis. The touch-typist joke in the paragraph above was idiotic and moronic but it is immune from such castigations because I am the only one who knows of its existence. Moreover: the terms idiotic and moronic are disused medical terms referring to mental retardation which is itself a disused medical term, all these terms being offensive to the modern mind, but I may employ them freely here because I am not blogging. Moreover: the word “moreover” should not be followed with a colon but a comma.

Who cares? I know I don’t. And I know you don’t. Because there is no “you.”

“There is no ‘you.’” How lonely that sounds (or I should say, how lonely that reads). There is no you. There is only me. Or more properly, there is only I. “Me” is busy elsewhere, probably busy inventing imaginary lovers and blog-critiquers.

Speaking or should I say writing and reading of lovers, it’s great to have them until you find out who you really are by seeing yourself through the lens of relationship, that Damn Dyad that reveals yourself to yourself in all your raging glory. I had not been long divorced this last go-round when someone told me that his wife was a slob. He didn’t say it in those exact words. He said, “_______ never picks up after herself, never moves a finger to clean the house, I do it all and then I get tired of doing it all but I don’t complain, I just wait for her to take action when the house gets filthy but she doesn’t and then when it’s unbearable I clean the house.” Being a clever fellow and wishing to affirm him in his existential beinghoodness I said, “Your threshold for dirt is simply lower than hers. It will never change.” He said, and again this is a direct quote (hence the quotation marks), “Yeah.”

But what I really thought was, thanks to all that is thankable I will never have to worry about that again because all my dirt is mine, to name it is to claim it and it is My Dirt, to clean or not, and I never wait for Me to have a lower dirt threshold than I have. I am agreed with Me on the matter of dirt. I am one with Me.

Wait, my writing is about to get much worse.

Back to the Damn Dyad and seeing yourself through the eyes of another. There are two basic ways to approach this phenomenon, because I say there are. Here are the two ways, in no particular order but numbered nevertheless.

1. The other is an asshole.

2. I am an asshole.

Most people prefer the first way. It is far more popular than the second way. According to a poll conducted by the Pew Research Foundation[1] in 2016, 82% of those polled said they “somewhat preferred,” “definitely preferred,” or “totally and completely preferred” the first way. Yet in the same poll[2], responding to the question “Do you secretly consider yourself an asshole?”, 91% of those polled said “not just yes but hell yes.”[3]

What I have discovered in the course of my short but long life is that eventually, sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly but always inevitably, my lovers get the dirt on me and it is My Dirt alright, the same dirt I have to live with when I’m alone and it’s up to Me to clean it up. In such cases it’s not a matter of their threshold because there’s no “their” there.

Some days I miss the Damn Dyad. I am perfectly capable of knowing I am an asshole without it. I don’t need the Damn Dyad and its lens to know that. I don’t sit here in my solitariness thinking I’m great shakes just because I’m not in a relationship that will eventually, sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly but always inevitably, reveal my flaws. And just in case I might, I have a file on my computer with numbered paragraphs, one flaw per paragraph, and I will give you one guess how many paragraphs there are in this file.

Go ahead, guess.

No, guess higher.

Forget it. The point I am failing to make is this, when I miss the Damn Dyad it’s because I know there’s a part of Me that has just stopped growing without it and won’t ever grow without it and I’m going to have to kiss that part of Me goodbye forever if there’s no dyad and I can’t have a dyad with Me, it doesn’t work that way. It has to be with you, whoever “you” might never be.

And I don’t touch typists.



[1] I made this poll up.


[2] I made this part up, too.


[3] So what’s the secret?

© 2018 James David Cohn