Saint Dirty Face

Robert

Faith, Dirty Grace, and a Whole Lotta Whiskey, Regret, and Resurrection.

Visit my domain to dive face-first into the wild ride of my brain — a mashup of raw truths, dirty jokes, mental fistfights, and midnight rambles you didn’t know you needed. Saint Dirty Face. Imperfect on purpose. Faithful with fangs. Here to spill it all, laugh at the absurd, and maybe light a match under your too-comfortable chair.

  • MONDAY: THE OVERDUE BILL YOU CAN’T RETURN

    Robert

    A Saint Dirty Face Micro-Sermon

    Mondays don’t arrive, my man—they kick the damn door in like a repo agent who’s been practicing his roundhouse kicks all weekend.

    They don’t knock.

    They don’t greet you.

    They don’t care about your hopes, dreams, or that fragile sliver of peace you found Sunday night somewhere between prayer, exhaustion, and pretending everything is fine.

    Nope.

    Monday shows up like an emotionally unstable ex saying,

    “Hey. Remember me?

    I brought paperwork and regret.”

    You step into the week, coffee still negotiating with your bloodstream, and the universe immediately hits you with:

    A printer jamming like it’s choking on your will to live. A coworker who says “Happy Monday!” with serial-killer enthusiasm. A meeting that should’ve been an email… and the email that should’ve been left UNSENT forever. Someone complaining about a problem they personally created last Thursday.

    And somewhere in all this chaos, you whisper to yourself:

    “Just act normal. Fake human. Smile like you aren’t internally on fire.”

    But nah.

    Monday sniffs that lie out like a bloodhound on Red Bull and decides to spray gasoline on your patience just to see what happens.

    At this point, you’re not working—you’re surviving, like you’re trapped in a National Geographic documentary about a wounded Gen X’er trying to navigate a habitat overrun with confused children masquerading as adults.

    And yet…

    Somehow, some way, you push through.

    Not because you’re inspired.

    Not because you’re motivated.

    But because you’re Gen X and we do life like we do everything else:

    Quietly.

    Sarcastically.

    With enough trauma-bonded humor to make God sip His coffee slow.

    So raise your mug, brother.

    Here’s to another Monday survived by sheer spite, spiritual caffeine, and the unholy strength of knowing Friday will return like a long-lost lover.

    Stay dirty.

    Stay rebellious.

    Stay human.™

    — Saint Dirty Face

  • Science, Faith, and the Family Portrait Nobody Expected

    Robert

    You ever see an image so unhinged it makes both Darwin and the Vatican grab a bottle of whiskey?

    Yeah… this one right here.

    An alien, a chimp, and a human baby sitting together like they’re posing for a Renaissance-style Christmas card.

    If that ain’t the most “Y’all ain’t ready for this conversation” moment of 2025, I don’t know what is.

    But here’s the real kicker:

    Both science and faith actually thrive in this awkward little family photo.

    Science Looks at This and Says:

    “Hmm. Evolution? Possibly. Interplanetary gene-sharing? Maybe.

    We don’t know everything yet… but let’s keep poking the universe with sticks until it gives us answers.”

    Science is the kid in class who raises their hand and says,

    “Actually, what if…?”

    Curiosity. Experimentation.

    Zero shame in rewriting the manual when new evidence shows up.

    Faith Looks at This and Says:

    “Creation is bigger, stranger, and more beautiful than we can grasp.

    If God can sculpt galaxies with His breath, who’s to say He stopped at one species… or one planet… or one storyline?”

    Faith doesn’t fear the unknown.

    Faith is the whisper that says,

    “There’s meaning even when nothing makes sense.”

    And honestly?

    Both sides are looking at this picture and sweating for completely different reasons.

    The Contrast?

    Science asks how.

    Faith asks why.

    This image asks:

    “Bruh… are you sure your worldview is as simple as you think?”

    The Truth?

    You need both.

    Without science, we’re clueless.

    Without faith, we’re hopeless.

    Together?

    They give us a universe that’s wild, mysterious, and just coherent enough to keep us sane.

    This picture isn’t an argument.

    It’s an invitation.

    To stay curious.

    To stay humble.

    To stay open to the fact that creation—whatever its source—is way bigger and stranger than the stories we tell to feel safe.

    And if an alien, a chimp, and a human baby can sit together peacefully?

    Maybe the rest of us can too.

    At the end of the day, science maps the stars and faith names the light — and somewhere between the two is the truth we ain’t evolved enough to handle.

    Stay curious. Stay human.

    Stay Dirty, Stay Rebellious™

  • Saturday Night Is Okay for Fighting

    Robert

    —Saint Dirty Face™

    Saturday night isn’t for peace.

    It’s for payback.

    Not on people—nah, that’s amateur hour.

    I’m talking about throwing punches at the week that tried to break you.

    It’s when Gen X stands outside under a streetlight, pops their knuckles,

    and says to the universe:

    “Round two, motherf— let’s dance.”

    Saturday night is when you swing at:

    the stress the deadlines the corporate idiots the silent battles you don’t tell anyone about the ghosts that still think they live rent-free in your head

    Because by Saturday?

    You’ve earned the right to fight back—

    not with violence, but with living louder than your week expected.

    Have a drink.

    Blast the music.

    Dance with someone dangerous.

    Laugh at the devil when he asks for a rematch.

    Saturday night is okay for fighting—

    because on Sunday you’ll rise like nothing touched you.

    And Monday?

    Let it know you’re coming.

    Stay Dirty. Stay Rebellious.™

  • 🗝️ Latchkey, My Ass — We Just Called It Tuesday

    Robert

    By Saint Dirty Face™

    You ever notice how every generation after us turned our childhood into a psychological case study?

    “Latchkey kids. Early exposure to independence. Potential emotional ramifications…”

    Yeah, okay, Karen.

    We just called it life.

    I wasn’t sitting there at 8 years old contemplating attachment theory—I was heating up a burrito, watching cartoons, and knowing damn well Mom and Dad were out busting their asses so the lights stayed on. That wasn’t trauma. That was Tuesday.

    Gen X didn’t freak out about being alone.

    We understood the assignment:

    Parents gotta work? Cool. House empty? Even better. Microwave? My throne. Front door key on a shoelace necklace? Badge of honor.

    We didn’t need a village.

    We were the village.

    Just smaller, unsupervised, and fueled by sugary cereal.

    But here’s the twist—some kids did feel lonely. Others felt empowered.

    That’s the magic of our generation:

    we didn’t all experience it the same, but we all survived it anyway.

    Me? I never had an issue being alone.

    I knew my parents were out there doing what they had to do.

    That was love—Gen X style.

    Not coddling.

    Not bubble-wrapping.

    Just reality.

    And that reality forged us into the most self-reliant, least-whiny bunch of humans to ever roam Earth.

    We grew up with keys around our necks and chips on our shoulders—and somehow turned out just fine.

    Well… mostly.

    We’ve got a little dark humor, a little edge, and the wisdom to know exactly when to say:

    “Stay dirty. Stay human. Stay Gen X.”

    — Saint Dirty Face™

    Cracked halo. Full attitude. Still knows how to microwave a burrito like a champ.

  • 🔥 The Top 5 Narcissist Lines — And What They Really Mean (SDF Edition)

    Robert

    Because sometimes the devil doesn’t show up with horns…

    He shows up with an apology he doesn’t mean.

    1. “You’re too sensitive.”

    Oh look — the classic gaslight smoothie.

    Translation: “I don’t want to be held accountable, so let me make you feel crazy instead.”

    Gen X translation: “Bro, I survived metal lunchboxes and latchkey childhoods. I’m not sensitive — you’re just an ass.”

    2. “If you really loved me, you’d…”

    Ah yes, the Manipulation Olympics.

    Every narcissist’s favorite event.

    What they mean:

    “Let me weaponize your love so I can get my way with zero effort.”

    Saint Dirty Face translation:

    “If you really loved me, you’d shut up and stop asking me to be a decent human.”

    3. “You’re remembering it wrong.”

    No, champ — they’re lying and hoping you doubt yourself enough to buy it.

    This one hits like a cheap Monday hangover.

    The SDF truth?

    “My memory works fine. I remember every red flag you thought was subtle.”

    4. “Nobody else would put up with you.”

    This is the nuclear line.

    The poison dart dipped in insecurity.

    They say it to isolate you…

    Because if they can make you feel worthless, you’ll stay.

    SDF version:

    “Relax, sweetheart — plenty of people would put up with me. You’re just scared I’ll figure that out.”

    5. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

    This isn’t an apology.

    This is a customer service email from Hell.

    It’s the narcissist version of:

    “I’m not wrong, you’re just inconvenient.”

    Saint Dirty Face response:

    “Cool story. Now try apologizing like someone who doesn’t suck at soul work.”

    💥 SDF Closing Hit

    Narcissists don’t break you with fists —

    They break you with doubts.

    With blame.

    With little cuts disguised as love.

    But here’s the Gen X gospel:

    We grew up unbreakable.

    Raised by chaos, baptized in rebellion, and armed with the emotional callouses of a thousand Monday mornings.

    So if you’re dealing with one?

    Remember the Saint Dirty Face creed:

    “Stay Dirty. Stay Sharp. Stay Unmanipulated.”™

  • When the World Burns and Your Partner Still Goes Drinking

    Robert

    Some nights, man…

    you look around and swear the whole damn planet is held together by duct tape, wishful thinking, and the faint smell of tequila from someone who promised they’d “be home early.”

    And there you are.

    Sitting with your thoughts, your loyalty, your effort, your damn heart on the table like a dog waiting for scraps.

    Meanwhile?

    They’re out there clinking glasses with people whose names you couldn’t care less about, while you’re left holding the emotional grenade with the pin halfway out.

    But here’s the real punch in the ribs:

    It’s not the drinking.

    It’s the not listening.

    It’s the not caring.

    It’s that rotten little ache that says:

    “Damn… you really didn’t give a shit that I needed you tonight.”

    That’s the kind of hurt that doesn’t bruise.

    It festers.

    You start questioning everything—

    your worth, your patience, your sanity, your ability to keep showing up for someone who can’t bother to meet you halfway even on a good day.

    The world is already spinning off its axis.

    Bills. Work. Stress.

    Endless responsibilities and silent pressures that nobody sees until they collapse on top of you.

    And instead of a partner?

    Instead of a teammate?

    You get a ghost with a bar tab.

    So yeah—be angry.

    Be furious.

    Be incandescent.

    You’re not wrong.

    You’re not “overreacting.”

    You’re not needy.

    You’re human—

    with a heart that still gives a damn even when it’s tired of bleeding.

    And the cruelest part?

    You only get this angry when you love someone enough that their absence feels like betrayal.

    So tonight, let the world spin.

    Let the drinks flow wherever they may.

    Let the people who don’t listen stay deaf.

    Because you?

    You’re the one who carries the weight, the fire, the loyalty, and the backbone.

    And if they can’t see that?

    Then maybe it’s time they learn what it feels like when you stop showing up.

    Stay Dirty. Stay Human. Stay Unbreakable, brother.

    We rise even when they disappoint us.

  • For Those Who Stood Up When Others Sat Down

    Robert

    There are people who talk about courage, and then there are the ones who had to live it.

    Today isn’t about flags, governments, or speeches written by committee.

    It’s about the human beings who packed fear next to their socks and went when they were called.

    It’s about the ones who came home different.

    The ones who didn’t come home at all.

    The ones who came home, but had to fight a new war inside their own skull.

    To every Veteran around the world:

    Thank you.

    Not the cheap, bumper-sticker kind.

    The real kind.

    Thank you for the birthdays you missed.

    Thank you for the parts of yourself you left behind.

    Thank you for the scars no one sees.

    My bloodline carries this:

    My father — Vietnam.

    My grandfather — World War II.

    Men who walked through fire so that I could walk into a convenience store like it’s no big deal.

    We stand on the shoulders of ghosts who don’t ask us to remember them —

    but we damn well should.

    So here’s my salute:

    Quiet.

    Steady.

    No theatrics.

    To the ones who served:

    May your nights be gentle.

    May your memories be kind.

    May your peace be real.

    You are not forgotten.

    Stay Dirty. Stay Human.

    — Saint Dirty Face™

  • She Knew Exactly What She Was Doing

    Robert

    There’s a moment right before two people kiss.

    Not the kiss itself.

    Not the part where everything goes hazy and desperate.

    I mean the pause.

    That half-second where you both realize:

    Oh.

    We are absolutely about to cross a line.

    And that is where I live.

    My address is that moment.

    My zip code is don’t say it out loud or the universe might hear you and blush.

    She walked in like she owned Friday night.

    Lavender perfume that didn’t ask permission.

    Eyes like she learned how to sin directly from the confessional booth.

    She didn’t sit next to me.

    She took the seat—like the world was built to tilt toward her.

    She said,

    “You always look like you’re thinking about something dangerous.”

    I said,

    “That’s because I usually am.”

    Cue that smile.

    The kind that tastes like trouble and confession and “Lord forgive me tomorrow, but not tonight.”

    We didn’t rush anything.

    No grabbing.

    No fumbling.

    Just the slow gravitational pull of two planets deciding the tides were getting boring.

    Her hand found mine on the table.

    Not intertwined.

    Not claiming.

    Just… resting.

    Like she was trying to memorize the heartbeat in my palm.

    And I swear the room fell quiet.

    Not because anyone noticed us.

    But because we noticed us.

    The way her knee brushed mine.

    The way the bartender kept smirking like he’d seen this movie before.

    The way neither of us moved away.

    There are entire wars fought with less strategy.

    And then she leaned in.

    Not to kiss me.

    To whisper:

    “Relax. I’m not here to ruin your life.

    Just to make you think about it.”

    And I laughed.

    Because damn.

    She knew exactly what she was doing.

    Not lust.

    Not love.

    Just that dangerous in-between space where the heart and body hold a knife to each other’s throat and say:

    Don’t move.

    I want to remember this part.

    If you know, you know.

    And if you don’t?

    You’ll learn.

    Trust me.

  • The Monster In Your Head Never Dies

    Robert

    Sunday Reflection — Saint Dirty Face Style

    Here’s the truth nobody likes to say out loud:

    The monster in your head never dies.

    It doesn’t get defeated.

    It doesn’t get “healed.”

    It doesn’t go to therapy, cry it out, and then politely leave your psyche like a guest who overstayed their welcome.

    Nah.

    That thing signs a lease.

    It pays rent in memories, regrets, what-if’s, and those late-night reruns of conversations you should’ve handled differently.

    But here’s the twist that keeps the whole show from going off the rails:

    You don’t have to kill the monster.

    You just have to teach it how to walk on a leash.

    You say:

    “Sit. Heel. We’re not doing all that today. I’ve got shit to do.”

    The monster is your:

    anger that shows up like an old biker friend trauma that still thinks it has VIP access to your thoughts fear that whispers like it knows something you don’t shame that acts like your attorney, judge, and executioner all at once

    But the older we get — Gen X clearance rack philosophers that we are —

    we learn something better than “healing”:

    We learn how to make the monster useful.

    Turn the anger into drive.

    Turn the fear into caution.

    Turn the pain into art.

    Turn the shame into wisdom.

    You don’t bury the beast.

    You become its handler.

    And eventually, the monster stops trying to eat you

    and starts guarding you instead.

    This is how you survive adulthood without becoming a bland beige oatmeal person who collects inspirational mugs.

    You don’t get rid of your darkness.

    You domesticate it.

    So yeah, the monster doesn’t die.

    Good.

    You might still need it on Tuesday.

    Peace & Love, Sinners.

    Stay Dirty. Stay Human. Stay Dangerous.™

  • Strange Fruit

    Robert

    There are songs that entertain, and there are songs that hold a blade to the throat of history.

    “Strange Fruit” isn’t a song.

    It’s a warning.

    A haunting.

    A memory with its teeth still in the soil.

    Billie Holiday didn’t sing it — she bled it.

    She stood in smoky rooms where people came to be distracted, to forget, to drown the day.

    And she made them look.

    Made them sit with the horror America tried to bury under magnolia trees and polite handshakes.

    Bodies swinging where fruit should have been.

    The breeze carrying grief, not sweetness.

    An orchard of injustice disguised as “the good old days.”

    This song isn’t about the past.

    It’s about what happens when a nation refuses to face what it has done —

    and what it still allows.

    It asks one question:

    What grows in a land watered with silence?

    The answer:

    Strange fruit.

    And it’s still growing.

    If you listen to that song and your chest gets tight — good.

    Your heart still works.

    You’re not numb yet.

    Hold onto that.

    Peace & love to the ones still fighting the quiet wars.

    – Saint Dirty Face

    Stay Dirty. But Speak Up.
    Because silence is how the roots grow back.