#diaryofanoutlaw

[diaryofanoutlaw]

On Sunday morning 🌞 just remember JOHNNY CASH said it best..

[diaryofanoutlaw]

EVERYONE’S AN OUTLAW ‘TIL IT’S TIME TO DO OUTLAW SHIT

There seems to be a million different versions.

You got the Wild West outlaws. Biker clubs. Music entertainers. Hollywood anti-heroes with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths pretending danger is an accessory you can buy at a clothing store.

Everybody’s got a little outlaw in them.

A little rebel.

A little troublemaker.

A little voice that wants to tell authority to go straight to hell.

Why not?

Being an outlaw seems cool.

Reality, however, is a different animal altogether.

Entertainment turned it into a cartoon. Six-shooters. Drug dealing. Gang wars. Fast money. Fast women. Loud personalities trying to convince everybody they’re dangerous while standing in VIP sections holding phones like teenage girls at a Taylor Swift concert.

That ain’t outlaw.

Criminals are criminals.

Outlaws are something else entirely.

Pop culture warped the meaning because confusion sells better than truth. Easier to market chaos than character.

Real outlaws usually don’t seek crowds.

They don’t wake up needing attention.

They don’t need matching jackets and a social media slogan every twelve minutes.

Most of them actually want peace.

Simple life.

Meaningful work.

People they love.

A little land.

A little freedom.

A quiet existence away from systems designed to turn human beings into obedient livestock with direct deposit.

But the outlaw appears the moment peace gets threatened by corruption pretending to be normal.

That’s the difference.

An outlaw stands up when the world starts forcing wrong down people’s throats and demanding everybody call it right.

That’s not trendy work.

There’s no applause in it either.

You can lose your job.

Lose your money.

Lose relationships.

Lose your reputation.

Hell, depending on the era, you can lose your freedom entirely.

Most people won’t risk that.

And honestly, I understand why.

Comfort is seductive.

People build entire lives around avoiding discomfort. Safe opinions. Safe conversations. Safe little cages decorated to look like freedom.

I speak from experience.

I’ve stood for people too afraid to stand for themselves because they had mortgages, jobs, families, fear. Fear changes people. Makes them negotiate with things they know are wrong just to keep life comfortable.

That’s why real outlaws usually end up isolated.

Not because they hate people.

Because eventually they realize most people fold the second pressure enters the room.

My own family probably thought I was the mailman’s kid half the time because I never learned how to bend the knee properly. But having a founding union man as a grandfather suddenly made a lot more sense as I got older.

Fight without blinking.

Stand when everybody else sits down.

See clearly while the world performs confusion like actors reading from the same script.

That’s outlaw shit.

And let me tell you firsthand:

Everybody wants to be an outlaw until it’s time to do outlaw shit.

Everybody loves rebellion when it’s aesthetic.

When it’s hashtags.

When it’s leather jackets and quotes under black-and-white photos.

Different story when standing up actually costs something.

That’s where the room empties.

Because real rebellion isn’t image-based.

It’s sacrifice-based.

The world right now wants the last line of resistance gone. Wants obedient people addicted to distraction, terrified of being disliked, too exhausted to question anything while media outlets, corporations, politicians, influencers, and every other salesman on Earth keep squeezing regular people dry.

And the dangerous part?

Most people don’t even notice it happening anymore.

But I’ll warn you about something.

Getting rid of people willing to stand up for truth because they make society uncomfortable is like getting rid of penicillin because newer designer drugs exist.

Funny thing about penicillin —

It still saved people from the plague.

And no matter how modern the world becomes, eventually somebody still has to be willing to stand in the fire when everybody else runs from it.

That’s the outlaw.

Not the criminal.

The last free man in the room

[diaryofanoutlaw]

ONE BIKE KINDA GUY

It’s Saturday. I wanted to write something fun, but when you are a deep-seeded SOB, it’s hard not to be passionate. Read to the end—this isn't preaching.

I am of Blackfoot Native American blood. This blood has driven most of my life subconsciously, helping me see society clearly. To state it plainly: indigenous spirituality teaches an almost Eastern, Dharmic duality between the violence and the peace throughout life.

That soul-level frequency never sits well with capitalism. I see the cool aspects of capitalism, and I see the demon.

Every single day, I thank whatever spiritual entity you believe in for the way I came up—the good, the bad, and trust me, the even fucking uglier. My life has taught me the value of money, but I have become the literal antichrist to capitalist dipshits who merely buy shit in bulk thinking they are proving their manhood. It is literal psychological dysfunction to buy a bunch of shit just to show off for other people, knowing you can’t take it with you when you die.

I could buy a million things, but having one special thing carries the absolute meaning of God over having fifty things that mean nothing.

No offense, but I was raised a soldier. The typical golf tard country club mentality of getting drunk with your friends, buying twelve cars so they think you’re great, and cheating on your wife with promo models just never struck me as cool. Granted, I got to be a rockstar, so I have nothing left to prove. But pre-dating all of that, that lifestyle never sat right with me. On social media, people are certifiable, screaming for validation while others commend them for having fifty motorcycles and twelve cars. No skin off my dick. But for me, garages are temples of dirt where you earn shit. Streets are places you use to get somewhere. Stuff is only accumulated when it does the job.

Look at my history with bikes. Around the pandemic, I had an old '74 Ironhead. She was a beautiful old pain in the ass. You could pretend you were riding around like Jason Momoa putting on a show—except I actually worked on her myself. I didn’t pay someone. She was a beautiful piece of shit, singular, and badass. I bought her when I had nothing and kept her when I had nothing.

Not too long after my wife passed away, it felt like time to let go of the past. Simple as that.

Then I came across the modified 1585cc Fat Boy in the picture. I could run down the specs at the bar to be the big dick in the room, but truth be told, that bitch of a bike just fit me. My native spirit values the experience. When a tool never lets you down, you don't devalue it just for your ego. This bike went on to save my life.

I took her out to wash her this morning and thought about the golf tards and their fifty of everything. Nope. I’m not gonna dazzle you with my shit. I’m not gonna post my acreage, my barn, or all the excessive capitalistic bullshit the Joneses chase each other over. My native soul taught me something from birth that you have to hunt for on social media:

I am a one-motorcycle kind of guy. I am a one-woman kind of guy.

Having a bunch of shit doesn’t define the man. Having that one thing you’ve actually worked for, earned, and that shows you love and respect back? That makes you the richest human being on earth. Social media doesn’t have the nuts to tell you that, because if they did, they couldn’t sell you fifty more of them.

Good luck chasing what you’ll never find. I’ll always be happy with my one. The one I not only call mine, but the one I call home.

Ps: Yes, my actual license plate says DOA.

[diaryofanoutlaw]

Dear President Trump

Gotcha. You probably thought this was going to be some clickbait rant about Trump and politics. You’d be wrong. But if you’re brave enough, please read on.

First, let me state that I despise the ridiculousness of entertainers and athletes talking politics. (Rolls eyes).

I’ve watched this country scrape and claw while the people who built it get pennies on the dollar. They grind through life, pay their taxes, and yet the system hoards cash like a junkyard king. Bills pile up, programs teeter on collapse, and the old folks staring down 2030 wonder if their SSDI will even be there.

I first realized how serious this was while working union issues. I spoke to a Social Security worker, and I’ll admit—I was young and ignorant, thinking SSDI and SSI were just living off the system. But she explained it’s not a handout—it’s insurance. It’s what you earn from decades of work, based on the taxes you’ve already paid. That hit me. It’s about honoring labor, not charity.

In the middle of all this chaos, the truth hits like a hammer:

Hey Mr. President, instead of letting a billion dollars sit from tariffs and cutbacks, why not use it to protect grandma’s SSI/SSDI before 2030?

Simple. Brutal. Human.

Not a political fancy. Not a lobbyist’s wet dream. Just a question the people should be shouting. Not for clicks, not for followers, not for vanity—because that’s cheap. This is about honor. Doing the right thing when no one’s watching.

Because here’s the reality: Bureaucracy grinds on with spreadsheets and memos treated like sacred texts while the people who deserve it most juggle prescriptions, rent, and pride.

The system is a mess, but clarity isn’t complicated. You’ve got the cash. You’ve got the mandate. You’ve got the tools. Use them.

Keep the promises made decades ago. Honor work, sweat, and years of struggle.

Not tomorrow.

Not next election cycle.

Today.

#presidenttrump #ssi #ssdi #life #tariffs

[diaryofanoutlaw]

THE NOISE IS WHO YOU ARE

Modern life has people more connected than ever, yet somehow everyone feels mentally fried all the time. This isn’t because humans suddenly became weak. It is because the average person now absorbs more noise in a single day than previous generations dealt with in months.

Notifications. Opinions. Arguments. Bad news. Endless comparison.

People wake up and immediately hand their nervous system over to the internet before their feet even touch the floor. Then they wonder why they feel completely broken by noon.

Your brain was never designed to process the chaotic emotions of thousands of strangers every single day. But modern culture consumes outrage like entertainment. Everybody is reacting. Nobody is thinking. Nobody is resting. Silence has become uncomfortable because people forgot how to exist without constant distraction.

And the scary part? Most people don’t even realize how overstimulated they are anymore. They think exhaustion is normal. They think chronic burnout is adulthood. They think feeling emotionally numb is just part of life now.

It’s not.

Humans need stillness. Real stillness. Not scrolling in bed, not watching three screens at once, and not pretending to relax while your brain is still overloaded. You need actual peace—the kind where your mind can finally breathe again.

That’s why simple things feel revolutionary now. Going outside. Turning your phone off. Having a real, face-to-face conversation. Sitting in silence. Sleeping properly. Being present. Those things shouldn’t feel like an act of defiance, but in modern culture, they do.

People became addicted to stimulation without realizing the ultimate cost. And the cost is your attention. Once your attention is destroyed, everything else slowly follows: your focus, your discipline, your relationships, your emotional stability, and your very identity.

A distracted population becomes incredibly easy to manipulate because exhausted people stop questioning things. They just consume.

Protecting your peace is more important now than ever before. Not because you’re antisocial, but because your mind is your entire reality. If you don’t learn how to disconnect from the noise... eventually the noise becomes who you are.

- A.

[diaryofanoutlaw]

Don’t spend another year doing the same shit.

It sounds simple. Almost aggressive in its honesty. The kind of sentence you’d expect on a T-shirt, not in a confession. Not in a life.

But the older I get, the more I realize how rare real change actually is.

Most people don’t lack intelligence.

They don’t lack awareness.

They don’t even lack dreams.

They lack momentum.

They live inside quiet repetitions.

Same conversations.

Same fears.

Same excuses dressed up as responsibilities.

Same survival patterns that once protected them, now slowly imprison them.

And I don’t say that from a pedestal. I say it from the floor.

I don’t like talking about my life. I never have. But I came back to writing for one reason only: if pain can’t be transformed into something useful, then it’s just damage. And damage alone is pointless.

So here’s the truth, without poetry, without guru language, without selling you a fantasy.

When my wife died, there were two moments.

The moment before.

And the moment after.

They sit next to each other in time.

They exist in different universes.

Before her death, I had a life.

After it, that life was over.

People summarize that space with one word: hopelessness.

That’s accurate.

But here’s what no one tells you: when you have children, bills, people who depend on you, hopelessness becomes a luxury you cannot afford.

Not believing.

Not dreaming.

Not healing.

Affording.

Culture loves to romanticize survival. Turn it into quotes. Turn it into aesthetic suffering. Turn it into motivational noise.

None of that helps at 3 a.m. when the house is silent and your mind becomes a courtroom that never adjourns.

In those moments, God can feel distant.

People feel abstract.

Hope feels like a language you used to speak fluently but no longer recognize.

All you have is yourself.

And the next day.

That’s it.

So here’s the only thing I learned that actually matters:

Your darkest moment and your most ordinary year have one thing in common.

They both dare you to stay the same.

My grandparents called the solution “one foot in front of the other.”

I call it something simpler:

Do something different.

Not heroic.

Not cinematic.

Not impressive.

Different.

Wake up earlier.

Walk longer than you usually do.

Write one page.

Make one call you’ve been avoiding.

Sit in silence instead of reaching for noise.

Tell the truth once where you usually lie for peace.

Small actions don’t feel spiritual.

But they rewire the nervous system.

They teach the body that motion still exists.

They remind the mind that tomorrow is not required to look like yesterday.

And then you do it again.

Not because you’re healed.

Not because you’re strong.

But because stagnation is a slow form of surrender.

Most people don’t ruin their lives dramatically.

They repeat them quietly.

A year becomes five.

Five becomes ten.

And one day they wake up older, tired, and confused about when their own story stopped moving.

So when you see that skeleton leaning on a motorcycle, staring at time like an old enemy, understand what it’s really saying:

You don’t need a new personality.

You don’t need a new identity.

You don’t need a new face.

You need a new direction.

Even if it’s only one degree off from where you’re standing now.

Especially then.

Because hell doesn’t always announce itself with fire.

Sometimes it looks like comfort.

Sometimes it looks like routine.

Sometimes it looks like “I’ll do it next year.”

I’m not here to save you.

I’m not here to sell enlightenment.

I’m here to tell you something simple and earned:

If you’ve survived hell once, you already know the way out.

It starts the same way every time.

One step.

Then another.

Then another.

Not into perfection.

But away from the life that’s quietly killing you.

[diaryofanoutlaw]

OLD SCHOOL WAY

There’s something strange happening.

The world keeps trying to modernize everything.

Love became temporary.

Loyalty became optional.

People collect followers but don’t know their neighbors.

Promises have expiration dates.

Maybe I’m getting old.

Or maybe some things were never supposed to change.

I still believe a man protects.

Provides.

Keeps his word even when it costs him.

I still believe if you love a woman, you fight for her.

Not with noise.

Not with control.

With consistency.

I still believe friendships should survive hard times.

That character matters.

That God matters.

That standing for something matters.

The world can keep the new version if it wants.

I wrote a song called OLD SCHOOL WAY because I know I’m not the only one who feels this.

This song isn’t nostalgia.

It’s a flag in the ground.

For the people who still believe loyalty means something.

For the people who still live by a code.

For the ones who never sold out.

For the ones who still…

Ride or die ‘til the day they die.

Read More @Medium

Watch Now:

[diaryofanoutlaw]

NOBODY WILL CARE UNTIL ALL THE GOOD MEN ARE GONE

The strange thing about good men is nobody really notices them while they're carrying everything.

People notice the loud ones.

The flashy ones.

The narcissists.

The performers.

But the good men?

Most of them suffer invisibly.

The father working himself into exhaustion.

The husband silently holding a family together.

The man sacrificing his own peace so everybody else can sleep peacefully.

The guy fixing problems nobody even realized evict herance he handled them before they became disasters.

That man usually dies unnoticed while everybody argues online about "toxic masculinity" from phones built by men exactly like him.

And before somebody twists this into a gender war, relax.

This isn't about men being victims.

It's about society forgetting the value of quiet sacrifice because modern culture only rewards visible attention.

Good men rarely advertise themselves.

That's why people miss them.

The strongest men I've ever known weren't loud.

They weren't influencers.

They weren't pretending to be alpha online while selling courses from rental cars.

Most real men are actually pretty simple.

They want loyalty.

Purpose.

Peace.

A woman they can trust.

A little respect.

A reason to keep going. That's it.

But modern life slowly drains those men dry.

Nobody asks how they're doing.

Nobody notices when they stop smiling.

Nobody notices when the pressure starts crushing them.

Because everybody assumes they'll just keep carrying the weight indefinitely.

And most of the time...

they do.

Until one day they disappear emotionally.

Or physically.

Or spiritually.

Then suddenly everybody talks about "what a great man he was."

Funny how that works.

The world waits until good men are broken, dead, divorced, numb, addicted, or exhausted before acknowledging what they carried the entire time.

I think that's part of why so many men are lost now.

Not because masculinity is bad.

Because genuinely good men started feeling invisible.

And when people feel invisible long enough, eventually they stop believing their existence matters at all.

That's dangerous.

Because civilizations survive on the backs of ordinary men doing difficult things quietly.

The worker.

The protector.

The father.

The builder.

The man who keeps showing up even when life gives him every reason not to.

The world still depends on those men whether it admits it or not.

And one day society is going to realize something too late:

Good men were never weak.

They were just too busy carrying everyone else to stop and carry themselves.