Welcome, welcome. Today, I’ll be talking about life’s mistakes and lessons—or, in some cases, the complete lack of them. But before we begin, if you missed last week’s blog where I shared my perspective on The Modern Dating Game—despite I haven’t had one—you can check it out [https://daboisastrgledt.wordpress.com
/2025/03/06/the-modern-dating-game-a-brutal-honest-analysis/]. Hopefully, you’ll find today’s topic interesting. And if not, well…I guess I need to step up my storytelling game
Mistakes are a daily part of life—at least in mine. But most of them, in my opinion, don’t happen consciously. Instead, they come from an unwillingness to follow certain rules—well that’s called laziness and it’s pretty conscious. Everyone who claims to be hyper-disciplined or follows strict regimes—I’m 99% sure they’re lying. I say this because I know myself, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that experience is the best teacher.
For a long time, I thought I was “someone”, thus I had high expectations for myself and the life I would lead because I believed I saw things more clearly than others. Of course, reality had other plans. In many situations, I could predict the outcome—not in a winning-the-lottery kind of way, unfortunately, but more in the sense of knowing how things would play out with people. Nine times out of ten, I had a feeling about where things were headed and they typically ended badly—usually with me paying the price for the mess I’ve made.
So, is there a way to prevent mistakes and push someone toward the desired path? I used to think so. I was following a strict routine—waking up early, exercising daily, and consuming thought-provoking content. Did it actually help? Honestly, I don’t know. But it gave me something to hold on to, and for that, I’m grateful—even if it doesn’t always feel that way.
From an early age, I was drawn to analyzing everything around me and asking a series of questions to try and make sense of the world. It turns out I have ADHD—or at least that’s what the result of an online test from a sketchy platform stated.
The Ego Trap
Making mistakes and refusing to acknowledge them has done something to my memory—maybe it still does. I’ve noticed a pattern: I knew what not to do and did it anyway, convinced that next time would be different. But why did I believe things would change without me changing? Some people called that “authentic” or “sweet,” but let’s be real—that’s just nonsense, usually coming from those living in pineapple-ish house underwater.
You’ve probably been in similar situations, asking yourself all kinds of questions. It’s strange how different we are—separated by language, birthplace, and culture—yet we all seem to glitch in the same ways. We spend so much time proving to others—even more to ourselves—that we are more than what we are. That our skills are valuable. That we deserve admiration or, at the very least, recognition. But isn’t that just ego? It’s like a world where everyone believes they’re president, yet no one is actually in charge.
My father often tells me, “Use your common sense. Learn not to be wrong by focusing on what’s right. You’ve made enough mistakes to know better by now.” But I never understood him. I always claimed I’m responsible and mature. I believed I had outgrown life-threatening mistakes. But if you follow my blog, you know how that turned out. In case you don’t, not long ago, I drove drunk—unconscious—and lived to write about it.
How Many Mistakes Are Enough
What mistakes do people make? What mistakes do I make? Are they different? Should I ask others about theirs and tell them mine? Probably not. Who wants to embarrass themselves in front of friends or strangers? Better to lie, pretend, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll become the person I claim to be.
Sarcastic? Sure. But this is reality. I’ve met plenty of people like me—people who keep everything bottled up, even when it’s eating them alive. And yet, they can’t drop the act. They can’t stop performing long enough to just be themselves. So, are we really that different from each other? Maybe. But then I met people who survived on $2 a day, and I have to ask—how should they be judged for their mistakes? Do we even share the same starting line? Not even close.
So what’s really happening? And who the fuck is you—that universal someone we all know—to tell me I’m wrong and you’re right?
My dad always says the universe has a plan, and that people get what they deserve. Karma, right? But as I’ve said before, karma is something that often people who want justice use to relief themselves. Do people really get what they deserve? Maybe. My dad believes that if someone doesn’t pay for their sins, their kids will. So… am I suffering for something my parents did? Come on. We like to frame things neatly, but there’s so much we don’t see, and even when we do, we rarely understand.
Some people are just unlucky—wrong place, wrong time. One tiny misunderstanding, something you barely notice, can flip your life upside down and drag everyone around you with it. But here’s a twist: Mistakes don’t happen in isolation; they’re the result of a chain reaction set in motion long before we even recognize it. But, as always, I could be completely wrong.
Anyway, no one dies from their first drunk driving incident—or 2nd, I’m proof of that. But was that luck or something else? Maybe my previous mistakes stacked the odds this way. Some people don’t get that second chance. Some make one mistake and carry it forever—or worse, lose their life. Look at Sam Ballard (his story here: [https://time.com/5445715/australia-slug-dare-sam-ballard/]). Cases like his are rare, but rare doesn’t mean impossible.
So, yeah—better be careful. I just hope I don’t end up in history for something equally stupid, led by my own ignorance.
A Tale of Two Injuries
In my rarely told life story, I have some examples that might make your head spin—if you come from a strict or religious family. Or, if you’re a career criminal or full-time lunatic, you might see it as nothing more than a blooper reel. Either way, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that everyone makes mistakes, and we all adjust to our version of reality. For me, my mistakes aren’t a big deal because I’ve seen plenty of crazy shit. But if you ask my family and the few friends I have, they’ll tell you I’m a lost cause. I can’t blame them.
Take last summer, for example. In two weeks, I managed to injure the same ankle—twice. The first time, I was rushing home after work when it started pouring. I could’ve waited for the bus, but I figured a 40-minute walk was better than standing around for 30. What I didn’t consider was that Ocean City floods fast—especially downtown. My shoes were already soaked when I reached a completely submerged street.
So, naturally, I decided to parkour across. Some of you might think, “Not a bad decision.” I thought the same. Took a few steps back, jumped, and—lucky me—landed first on my left foot, which is not my lead foot. It folded like a deck chair. My ankle twisted sideways, and the pain was instant and diabolical. I basically landed in a yoga pigeon pose, except this wasn’t a wellness session nor it was sexy.
Did I go to the doctor? Of course not. I’m Wolverine—not because of my body hair, but because my philosophy is simple: unless there’s blood gushing from one of my three essential holes, I can handle it. I planned a week of rest, but my boss asked if I could come back in three days. I felt better, the money was worth it—yes, I know, how greedy—and I already had ankle and knee braces from past injuries. So, I slapped them on and limped through the next two weeks, which, funny enough, has become a summer tradition for me since 2021.
Then, exactly two weeks later, I did it again.
I went to Salisbury with two friends—girls I met back in 2021—for some paperwork. Once we finished, I suggested we check out the zoo. There was this metal pipe, designed for kids to hang from like sloths, and naturally, I decided to be the clown. The pipe was barely a meter off the ground (about 3.5 feet), but I spotted a tree nearby and thought, Why not take this up a notch?
So, I grabbed onto a branch, channelled my inner Sid from Ice Age, and hung there for a moment. What I didn’t account for was the tree’s roots—one of which stuck out of the ground right beneath me. When I let go, my left foot landed directly on it. My ankle popped so loudly that Erica, standing next to me, made a face like she’d just witnessed a murder.
Strangely, it didn’t hurt as much as the first injury, but within minutes, my leg transformed—full Optimus Prime mode. Swollen, misshapen, and looking like it belonged to a 150kg (330-pound) diabetic man. Still, I convinced myself everything was fine and went straight to work.
This is how it looked: ↙️
Getting my foot into my shoe was a disaster. I had to remove the laces, and even then, it felt like shoving the wrong key in the dark—reminded me of a very awkward bedroom experience once.
The next morning, though, the pain was way worse. My friend Roy—a very thoughtful guy—saw it and urged me to see a doctor. He was convinced I’d actually broken my ankle this time. Tupically I’m a tough nut but this time, I decided to listen.
Turns out, I have an insanely strong bone structure. The doctor was shocked I hadn’t fractured anything. When I casually mentioned that this was my second ankle injury in two weeks, she gave me a long look and asked if I had suicidal thoughts.
Classic America, I thought. Instead, I replied, “Only after sex and whenever my dad says he loves me.”
Unfortunately, my joke landed just as well as my foot.
So, yeah—those are just two of many incidents where I somehow avoided permanent disability.
Is it just good genes, or maybe the vitamins I take?
The Fine Balance Between Chaos And Survival
These two incidents got me thinking—at least until the next one happened. The thought was simple: Maybe I should be a little more aware of my surroundings and actions. Hilarious, in hindsight, a month later, I found myself driving without remembering a single thing about the journey. So, take that as you will regarding my credibility as a source of wisdom.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I’ve made it this far. I’m three years away from the 27 Club, and if I make it past that—well, I’ll count it as an accomplishment. If humans had evolved to be like me, we wouldn’t have survived past the first saber-tooth encounter. I mean, if you lived in an environment filled with predators, you’d probably carry a weapon—not stroll around like some hipster, mindlessly wandering into danger. And yet, here I am, existing in a world that’s technically safe but still managing to harm myself in increasingly creative ways.
But why?
Is it boredom? A subconscious craving for chaos? Or maybe the complete opposite—a desperate need for control? Could it be the neglect of creation? A lack of faith in God? Most likely, it’s all of the above, plus a dozen other unnamed reasons.
The truth is, I’ve never really cared about my life—never suicidal though—but funny enough for 2 and a half years I was basically Bryan Johnson before I even knew Bryan Johnson existed. Then once you take that first step backwards—away from discipline and into the glorious abyss of modern indulgence—there’s no turning back. At least, not unless a doctor sits you down and gives you two options: fix your habits or ☠️—I’m good… for now.
My father—who, if you haven’t realized yet, is a very wise man—has a saying:
“Why do you have to lose something or get hurt to finally realize you shouldn’t have done it in the first place?”
I swear, the man was born to be a preacher but ended up in the wrong profession. And as much as I joke about it, everything he says is true. I hear the same wisdom from top-tier professionals online, and I try—I really want to—but I guess I’m just weak.
I can’t fight it. So instead, I’ve accepted it. Rather than eliminate my impulses, I just try to manage them.
Does this method work? Is it actually better? No clue.
But hey—I’m still alive. And if anything changes for better or worse, I’ll be sure to keep you posted.
A Toast to Mistakes (May the Past Be a Guideline and the Future Another Chance)
What do I mean? Let me paint you another picture. The year was 2020—a month or two before COVID trainwrecked the world. This is when my Bryan Johnson phase started and I made a vow: No more drinking. Not after everything that happened every time I raised a glass. Too many nights blurred by alcohol, too many unresolved messes, too many lost items, and—no surprises here—too much money wasted. And yes, the questionable nights count in that tally. But hey, I suppose that’s all perfectly normal for an adolescent, right?
So, I declared myself a new man. And for nearly two years, I stuck to it. No alcohol. Not a drop.
Then, summer of 2021—right around my birthday—I decided to give my relationship with the bottle another shot.
Bad idea.
The night played out like this—at least, based on the fragmented evidence I later collected from my friends. Think of it as a jigsaw puzzle, mostly assembled by other people.
First stop: a bar. Which, as it turned out, was completely empty. While my friends chatted with the bouncers, I somehow managed to slip away and hop into a cab headed for another bar. Eventually, they found their way to where I’d gone, but—plot twist—I was already gone again.
Next memory fragment: I’m talking to a police officer. Or, more accurately, the same police officer—but in different parts of the city. At some point, I wound up far from home, and this officer—bless his patience—was asking me for directions. To my own house.
Meanwhile, back at home, my housemates were wondering where the hell I had disappeared and why I wasn’t answering my phone.
Cut to: a police patrol car pulling up in front of the house. The officers ask my housemates if they know this drunk—pointing at me. They carry my helpless-ass and just like that, I’m hand-delivered back home like an Amazon package.
End of the night? Nope.
Apparently, moments after the police left, I decided it was the perfect time to hop on my electric scooter and head to a store. The girls in the house tried to stop me; the guys? They just stood back and laughed. So off I went. Ten or fifteen minutes later, I returned—triumphant, carrying a bag of doughnuts and six sandwiches.
And, as I proudly informed them, I hadn’t paid for any of it.
The next morning, I woke up sprawled across the couch—legs up, torso on the floor. Turns out everyone had gotten sick of me and gone to bed. And as I pieced together the night’s events, I felt…stupid, although it wasn’t even the top 10 worst situations I’d ever been in.
But something nagged at me.
Not because I was suddenly a born-again saint, but because that part of the night didn’t sit right. So I made a decision: I’d go back and pay for what I took.
When I arrived at the gas station, I walked straight up to the cashier and admitted it:
“Look, I was drunk last night. I blacked out, but I was told I came in, grabbed six sandwiches and a box of doughnuts, and walked out without paying. So I’m here to fix that.”
The guy behind the counter—an older man—just stared at me. He’d been working the night shift and had no memory of me taking anything. He wanted to check the security cameras, but I waved it off—no offence to the guy, but he could barely see five meters (16 ft) in front of him.
So, I paid what I owed. And then, as if the night couldn’t get any weirder, he smiled and said:
“What a great man you are. Here, have a sandwich for doing the right thing.”
Yes, you read that right. I shoplifted from his workplace, and now he was rewarding me for coming clean. But in a place where theft is so common, I guess honesty is a rare enough occurrence to be appreciated.
I thanked him, took my sandwich, and walked out—once again reminded of just how strange and great America is. Cheers!
The Man Behind Everything
So much for the examples. Those stories? They all tie back to one thing: Making mistakes and then apologizing—a lot—for the things people have had to put up with because I let myself slip into those situations. And that’s not my problem.
Especially when I became the “drunk Ivaniel”. I used to believe we were two different people or at least, that was the lie I was trying to convince myself to believe.
The truth? We are the same person. And the version of me they see under the influence—the reckless, unfiltered, impulsive me—isn’t less real. If anything, it’s more real. Not because I’m faking anything when I’m sober, but because when I’m drunk, I stop holding back. I don’t filter. I don’t self-edit. I am.
Want to really know someone? Get them drunk. Hell, the same applies to certain drugs—but always be careful. Watch how they act. That’s where you’ll see everything they try to keep buried while playing the role of a “normal” person. The fears. The frustrations. The parts of themselves they’re too ashamed or too afraid to show in daylight.
I could sit here and give you a hundred more stories—proof of how careless, reckless, and irresponsible I can be. But there’s no point. The point isn’t to entertain you—or maybe a tiny little bit—with tales of my screw-ups. The point is to show you who I am because of them—and why I keep making them.
People don’t just make mistakes. They carry them. They hide them. And in doing so, they set themselves up to make them again. The tighter you try to lock something away, the louder it bangs on the door.
I talk a lot about sinlessness. I’ve even preached it to those around me. Complete hypocrisy, right? And if you missed it, I hate hypocrisy. Yet here I am, telling people not to do the very things I’ve done—and still sometimes do.
So why the hell would anyone listen to me?
It’s the ultimate paradox: a preacher who doesn’t believe in God, standing in front of a crowd and telling them how righteous it is to have faith.
So I’ve stopped pretending. I’ve accepted who I am. I own my actions—past and present. That doesn’t mean I get a free pass for whatever dumb thing I might do next. But at least this way, I can face the truth—the real truth. I can stop lying to myself. I can stop rewriting history to make myself feel better.
Because the only thing worse than making the same mistake over and over is refusing to admit why you made it in the first place.
The Weight of Mistakes
Interestingly, back when I was a hypocrite—not that I’m not one anymore, just less of one—I had a lot more people around me. Sure, I looked out for my own interests, but I also bent over backwards to please those same people. I told them what they wanted to hear.
Now? I tell the truth. I act the way I want to. And suddenly, people don’t stick around as much.
Because, just like I used to, they live in a fictional reality where they are always right. Where their opinions matter most. And anything that challenges that? Inconvenient. Unacceptable. Grounds for distance.
However, this is exactly what I’m trying to say. Everything I did and how I did it led to this very moment. If I had grown up without being ignorant and lying 9 out of every 5 words that came out of my mouth I could have been a potential CEO—Chief Entertainment Office.
This is a little off the topic but since I’m talking about mistakes I can include it. Take men, for example. They claim to value honesty—until that honesty cuts them somewhere they’re not ready to admit exists. They wear a hundred masks, switching between them depending on who they’re talking to. But the moment someone forces them to look at their real face, they lash out. Not by addressing the truth, but by attacking the messenger. Pointing out flaws. Highlighting weaknesses. Shifting the focus so they don’t have to confront the thing they refuse to accept.
It’s textbook male behaviour—never admitting fault, never backing down, insisting they’re right at all costs. Like a Communist Party member, ironically, which is exactly how a lot of Americans behave despite their obsession with “freedom.”
With women, it’s slightly different. Not much, but the layers run deeper.
Making friends with a woman isn’t hard. Be helpful. Don’t belittle her. And—most importantly—don’t have any sexual intentions toward her. Oh, and nine times out of ten? Lie to her face.
The same applies if you do want something more intimate, except in that case, you need to be more… punchy. Not literally—though, some are into that too.
Nowadays—and I say this like I’ve lived for a hundred years—women hold most, if not all, of the power in deciding what will happen. And they never make mistakes. Just like men, they blame the opposite sex for most of their misfortunes. And if you try to talk to them honestly?
You’re either a pervert or a know-it-all.
They live in their “Barbie” world, searching for their “Ken.” But the twist? More and more, Ken is out there looking for his own Ken.
See, dolls don’t have organs. And when you don’t have organs, you don’t need a partner. You just need… a partner.
Of course, I’m not really talking about dolls here—in case you’re struggling to keep up.
Potential partners make mistakes just like we do, but the real challenge is that we can’t walk away from ourselves. No matter how many mistakes we make, we’ll always try to convince ourselves: ‘It wasn’t so bad.”
It’s easy to hate what you see unless you see your own reflection.
The Checkpoints of Life
I think I’ve gone on long enough about mistakes today. I don’t have clear answers—same as in love. I’m not here to sell you the door, the keys, and a few spares just in case.
I will be wrong. You will be wrong. And we will continue to live together in this oh-so-wonderful, sinful, yet amazing world.
I only hope that the mistakes we make won’t cost future destinies or ruin the lives of others. May our mistakes affect only ourselves. And if they do reach someone else, then may we have the courage to accept the consequences—without running from accountability.
Each of us knows deep down that we are not sinless. Yet we still insist otherwise. Why it’s so important to be right—apart from winning.
We could sit here and debate it all day, but what’s the point? The answer is individual. If you ever find yourself lost, just pick up any of the hundreds of thousands of books written on the subject. So many people have walked paths like ours before. Their journey won’t be exactly the same—but it won’t be that different either. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find yourself in the examples they give.
Marcus Aurelius wrote Meditations.
Friedrich Nietzsche wrote Beyond Good and Evil.
Mark Manson wrote The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck.
Dr. Steve Peters wrote The Chimp Paradox.
And many, many more.
Artificial intelligence can be your psychologist—but first, you have to admit you need one.
Anyone who really wants something finds a way. I used to wish I could stop making mistakes years ago, and I’ve continued wishing the same thing every year since.
Have I succeeded?
I don’t think so.
But I’m certainly much closer now to the version of myself I’ve dreamed of over the years.
Of course, when I make bigger mistakes, I face the consequences. They ripple through my life. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve gone back to the beginning—but that’s not really true.
So, here’s how I see it:
It’s not much different from playing a video game.
At a certain point, every game has this feature called Autosave—a checkpoint. Once you reach it, there’s no going back. No matter what happens from there, you can’t return to the beginning. Sure, you can delete the save file, but in real life? That’s not possible.
Or to put it in simpler terms for those who have never played a game:
What you learn stays with you.
It can’t be taken away—unless you forget it.
And to forget? Something else has to take its place.
And that?
That part is entirely up to you.
The Final Thought
I wasn’t going to add this part, to be honest, but somehow, it felt like the right way to wrap things up.
This happened last night, and since it ties into the topic, I can’t leave it out.
Ever since I stopped smoking marijuana, I’ve been dreaming vividly almost every night. The dreams are so intense that even if I wake up for a minute or two, the moment I drift off again, the dream picks up right where it left off—like a soap opera. One moment, I’m watching something happen. The next, I’m standing in the middle of a murder scene. Before I can even figure out what’s going on, I’m at the very end of it—people either cheering or looking at me with anger in their eyes.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember most of it. That’s how dreams work—once you wake up, they start slipping away.
Normally, I keep my phone nearby to jot down whatever fragments I can recall. But last night, I had left it charging in the other room. So, I failed. Still, I tried to salvage some key details.
There were quite a few familiar faces in my dream. Mostly doctors and patients. I remember Roy being in one of the rooms. He had hair like Jim Morrison but sounded like a pissed-off Korean cop.
Anyway, mistakes kept happening. Again and again.
Someone kept experimenting on me or maybe I had volunteered for it?
The night before, I had started writing this blog, thinking about mistakes. And right before bed, I watched an episode of the TV show Maniac. I guess those two ideas merged in my mind while I was sleeping, which led to… well, whatever that was.
In the dream, every time I woke up, I had to go back and fix the mistake I had made in that particular situation—or at least try something different to see how it would play out.
I don’t remember exactly what happened, but the point is this: mistakes are inevitable.
Avoiding some just means making others.
And if I had to remove one mistake so that no others would happen…
I’d probably have to remove myself.
Kind of like The Butterfly Effect.
If you haven’t seen it, I recommend it. It’s weird, but it leaves you with a lot to think about.
Thanks for reading!
Yours sincerely,
Ivaniel Georgiev
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