I have a small chalkboard on which I write my list of goals. If I ever feel like I don't know what to do with myself, I do something from the list. At the same time, I have a daily to-do list which covers the details that build up to the accomplishment of the larger stuff on the chalkboard list. Sometimes I'll even make nano to-do lists on my phone which further break down the steps I need to take to accomplish things on the daily list. If I could pay my neighbors to scream "MAYBE TRY OUT A NEW RECIPE!" at me every hour on the hour, I would.

My definition of a goal is maybe a little too wide. Reading a book cover to cover usually makes the list. It's a noble and enriching activity that has never been scratched off once. The ones that do are usually the sad ones, like the time the top goal of the week was "Go outside," with a little drawing of a thermometer next to it. I'd celebrate each outing (walking the dog and getting burritos didn't count) by filling a fifth of the thermometer with red, on up 'til the red thermometer juice (lava?) sprayed victoriously from the top.

Trying to replace my wife with a lot of menial accomplishments isn't as rewarding as you'd think. But accomplishing so little can be exhausting, which is why it's nice to work in some well-deserved relaxation ...

My brain's natural reaction to boredom is to kill it; no remorse, no survivors. So it releases an elite squad of soldier brain cells to end my boredom's reign once and for all. They have the discretion of an atom bomb. Where light reading or watching a couple episodes of a show might do the trick, the squad suggests weird shit like trying to bounce a racket ball from hand to hand for as long as I can while listening to an '80s hair metal playlist at 2 a.m. This is where I remind you that this part of the column is about relaxing. One day soon, the squad will go AWOL and live off the grid and suggest I prepare for bed by wingsuiting through a canyon.

Then there are times when I'm on the cusp of relaxation, and it's interrupted by a sudden deep fascination with whatever lulled me. One night, when I was already tucked into bed, wearing my jammies and my long sleeping cap with the fuzzy ball at the end, I was flicking through whatever YouTube's recommendation algorithm spat at me. Suddenly, like an 18-wheeler into my REM cycle, it gave me a whole list of ESPN's 30 for 30 shorts. Seconds before sleep, I fucked up and clicked on The Bad Boy Of Bowling, a shockingly compelling documentary about an all-time great pro bowler who doesn't play by your tight-assed rules of decorum. And then a short about the history of the most despised mascot in all of baseball autoplayed right after. And then one on the history of the high five in professional spo- WHAT THE FUCK HOW IS IT DAWN.

Once video becomes the crutch, things start to go downhill pretty fast, in the most boring way possible.

In a committed long-term relationship, it's nice to have separate hobbies that you can retreat to as a small escape from the world and the relationship itself. A drop of selfishness goes a long way. That's why my wife is into embroidery, while I do absolutely nothing constructive with my free time. It's really only when she leaves that not having taken up a hobby becomes a problem. I have nothing that lets me devote the kind of singularly focused attention only the manual labor of a creative hobby can draw out.

So I end up watching tons of videos of people who do, like of this guy who makes amazing scenic dioramas.

Or this guy who has over 40 videos in which he makes beautiful Japanese wood joints and nothing else. No larger project to attach it to. Just one video after another of a guy so good at what he does that he can make hypnotic videos about corners.

Just hours and hours, deep into the night, of nothing but people way more talented than I am creating incredible works of art that will slowly grow a jealousy within me that will fester until I watch an "Epic Fails" compilation of people stumbling a little, just so I can take the edge off. They have a hobby that's almost meditative, and I hate them for it. Yet it's the only thing that comes close to easing the anxiety of suddenly being thrust back into living alone. But I'll take whatever distraction I can get, because after a couple nights alone ...

Marriage bestowed me with a bravery I never previously had. Almost nothing's scary when you're in this together. The furry monster with razor-sharp claws that stalks the living room at night is going to have to get through both of us. Sure, my wife would be functionally useless in a real furry-monster-in-the-living-room attack, but the power of our love fills me with a certainty that lets me know it's going to be okay, because while it's closing in on her, I can be somewhere else making a break for it. Can't feel that confidence in my escape if she's not there.

Me without my wife plus about four days equals driving out of the Taco Bell drive thru and deciding that the only thing that can wash down these two Quesoridos is a 12-inch Italian sub. When I have no one else to elevate my self-respect game, my weaknesses shine. If I'm only responsible for my heath, things are going to get gross. Including more feels like manslaughter, and explaining the aftermath feels like a crime scene.

When my wife gets back, everything adjusts back to normal. This happens every time she leaves. If I'm an inflatable wacky arm tube guy at a car dealership, then she's the power plug that blows air up my ass to make me dance. Take it out and I fall into a sack of my own skin.

Luis is sitting on the couch watching TV with his wife. In the meantime, you can find him on Twitter, Tumblr, and Facebook.

Tell the world you don't need to play by any of society's rules (except for commerce and some other stuff) with this renegade cat mug!

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