the solo kick

is the feeling of being alone and not giving a damn.

As an only child, I spent most of my life alone. And I didn’t know it.

My favorite middle-school moments were watching World Championship Wrestling’s Monday Night Nitro. At home. Alone.

During the three-hour live broadcast, I body-slammed seat cushions to the ground, hollered proclamations from the staircase, and stomped on the living room rug. This parade of adolescent asylum continued for years. Each time, more electric.

And I could not have done it with anyone else there. To be free and primal, I had to be alone.

In my mid-twenties, I lost the touch. Being alone meant being lonely. I chased others for affection and attention. I forgot that being independent allowed me to be honest with myself. My insecurities.

I looked outward for what was inward. My innards were a gurgling slug of mush churning to absolute inertia.

And when I realized what I was doing, I became mad as hell. So I took time mixed with reflection, added a dash of resentment, and poured on the rage. Then it happened.

The solo kick.

A gut-reaction so strong– I couldn’t question it– I obeyed. Like a commandment from god herself: represent anti-loneliness to the fullest, live true, live raw.

You came out here by yourself? That’s ballsy.

Now I remember– solitude can be stunning.