Winning The Fight Against Depression

When I was 25 I hadn’t been laid in four days. A dry spell like that might be normal to the men out there who are anatomically proportionate. But me? After all a the branding I’d done in Lakewood, I shouldn’t a gone more than a few hours without going to bed with a girl.

But it’d been four long days since a woman threw herself at me. I was starting to think the world was coming to an end.

I was entering the biggest depression a my life, sliding down in the void deeper and deeper each day. But I didn’t realize it.

I did the only thing I could: I holed myself in my bedroom, refused to eat, drank only one beer a day, and masturbated furiously.

That ain’t a way to live life–masturbating when you got a tool like mine. But it continued for me this way for five months. I lost fifty pounds and was hurting in a bad way.

I was depressed and riddled with anxiety. I needed help from a doctor, a psychiatrist–and just about every drug they could give me.

But I didn’t have no money and I didn’t have no insurance. I was fucked.

So what does Bob Collins do in this bleak situation? Usually, Bob Collins would rent a hooker for an hour. But I was broke. Then Bob Collins would roll up in a defeated ball and wait to die. But instead I found some kind a inner strength and told myself: “Bob, you can’t go on living this way no more. You got a fine piece a meat that needs to be shared with the women a Lakewood. Find a way to share it.”

It was a realization. Or, as James Joyce called it, a epiphany.

That’s when I realized it was all up to me. No one was gonna help so I had to start the long and arduous process a recovery all alone.

It wasn’t easy and I didn’t take no shortcuts with pills an therapists (because a my financial limitations). I just faced down them demons each and every day, the way a bullfighter faces down a bull.

This is what I learned.


It’s the depression talking, not your normal you.

If that voice says you’re dying, listen to it, then tell it to go fuck off. Do something, anything that makes you feel alive. Because you ain’t dying. You’re depressed. It ain’t the same thing. In my case I went for a walk to make myself feel better. That first walk was only about ten minutes long, but after being locked up in my bedroom for five months it was a major step. It could be anything, depending on what you need. Just fucking make yourself do it. Do something that makes that voice a depression scared.


If you haven’t showered in five days, take five showers a day. If you’ve been locked in your room for a month, go outside and refuse to go back in until you’re either frostbitten or sunburnt. If you haven’t talked to no one in a week, have a conversation with someone until you just can’t stand stand listening to them no more.

Just make yourself do it. That’s the whole secret. Don’t give up. Don’t chicken out.


I dragged myself out a my depression one day at a time. When I first started on the road to recovery I was so weak I could barely stand for 10 minutes straight. My mind was always telling me I was dying a something. But everytime my depressed mind said I was dying, I yelled back ten times I am alive and I am fine. Sometimes the struggle wasn’t a day at a time, it was more like one minute at a time, just trying to limp from one minute to the next. When your body chemistry is screwed and wacky, you gotta fight through that and you gotta know there is light on the other side a all a this. Everything can be put back together. There’s no problem you can’t handle.

It’s like what Rocky Balboa said: It ain’t about how hard you can hit, it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.

After five months a solitude, after my body had atrophied and turned to eating its own muscles to get the nutrients I couldn’t swallow, I forced myself outside, I forced myself to talk, and I forced myself to get better.

At first I was scared to run into people and the thought of a real conversation made me wanna hole myself up in bed again. But instead a getting knocked out a life, I started saying hello to everyone I saw. Maybe they thought I was crazy, but fuck them. I was scared to talk, so I went out and made myself talk.

I got myself out of a hole doctors said only medicine would cure.

Well, fuck that.

I ain’t had a spot a depression since then. That’s 12 years a mental toughness. If a mental weakling like Bob Collins can do it, you can do it too.

Of course, I had to do it the hard way because that’s just the kind a guy I am. Plus, I didn’t have no money or health insurance.

But that’s beside the point. Just know you can dig yourself out too if you need to. It ain’t easy and it ain’t a quick fix, but it lasts longer than the pills do.


– Bob


What Do You Stand For? Personal Branding With Bob Collins

When was the last time you thought about what you stand for?

No, fuck your “personal” brand for a second. Let’s focus on you. Because right now I don’t give a fuck what your brand is.

I wanna know what you stand for when I read about you. I want my head filled up with only ideas you can put there. I wanna know what shit makes you burn. What is it about the world that makes you mad? What makes you happy? What makes you unique?

If you can’t answer them things, you can’t have a true and authentic personal brand. You’ll just be looking like that douche in the stylish clothes who’s trying too hard to look stylish–and failing.

So, what do you stand for?

Don’t expect no one else to answer that but you. Okay, fine, some people can give you hints, but that’s all.

Take my brand as an example: I call it BOB COLLINS’S STORYTELLING SEX SECRETS. It stands for stupidity and regret–and buttloads a sex. How do I achieve this? Easy: I do stupid things and regret the things I do. Instead a changing myself for the better–which would be too damned hard–I just decided to make my weaknesses my brand. Of course, since I’m a alpha male, I never admit I regret nothing, but the truth is I do–most a the time. But you’ll never hear me say that.

That reminds me. My personal brand also stands for being the biggest alpha male a all time known to have an intensely satisfying penis.

It’s the authenticity that gives a brand weight. 11 & 3/4″ a authenticity.

But, and this is the point I wanna make, where did my personal brand come from? That’s easy. It came from who I am by nature. I didn’t go collecting a bunch a things from other people just cuz they were cool. I’m just going with who I am. That’s all you got to work with.

I’m a alpha male. I got a big dick. I’m a stupid man who does stupid things. And I regret a lot a the stuff I done.

Right there, that’s my brand.

And I love every little bit about me. Because I’m so fucking adorable.

So, this is my only advice to all you blogging newbies:

Make your brand come out a you, don’t make yourself conform to a synthesis a something you ripped off from half a dozen other people.

It all comes out a you or it’s nothing.

So I just wanna leave you with a closing thought. If you are building a personal brand, get yourself a logo. Because I can’t tell you apart from anybody else without one.

I Still Remember Her

One a the two girls I ever loved left me with a few words: She said she just couldn’t imagine me the father a her kids and walked out on me.

I could understand that. She was a perfect girl and I wasn’t so much of a perfect guy.

But it hurt like a bitch. I spent the next eight months drunk off a booze and high off a paint thinner.

There were other things, too. A lot a things she thought but she never would tell me in order to spare my feelings. I always thought it boiled down to one word–asshole. As in: I’m an asshole and she ain’t. She was the first person ever call me that. But I wasn’t too much a one back then. Although I been proving her right most a the days after she left me.

Now, I’m stretched out on a apartment floor in Paris, France, thinking about all the shit with that One Girl that meant something to me. Me and this other girl I just met are beside each other on the floor, watching a movie. It’s some French thing and I don’t give a shit about. I just came up here to get laid. Our elbows is touching, so’s our legs. Ordinarily this is the type a contact that tells me she wants me inside her. But tonight it ain’t working that way. This touch, the way our arms is just touching, is just like that first date I had with The One.

Usually, I would a made my move by now, been slapping my balls on her chin. But I’m laying here next to her just as still as a corpse with these troubles in my heart that have nothing to do with high cholesterol.

See, this asshole right here is thinking about that one girl, and the first time me and her went out when I should be putting the moves on the new one. The way her legs looked in them black high heels that first time we went out and the way I told her her legs were meant to wear them things. These things I just can’t get outta my brain. And the way she got cold on the way home and how I didn’t think a nothing but her all night. Then we laid on her apartment floor watching movies, and our legs just touched and so did our arms and I was happy to lay there just with our arms touching as long as it lasted forever. But then I kissed her forehead and moved down to her mouth…

But I don’t wanna think about that no more. That was years ago when I laid beside her, an entire lifetime ago for some sonofabitch like me.

(Remember I said I wasn’t gonna pine for you the rest a my life? I guess I was a liar.)

Sometimes them memories come back like I’d just lived them yesterday. I close my eyes and see her and I smell her just like when I lifted the back a her hair and put my lips on the back a her neck. Then I’d let her hair fall over my face just so I could breathe. Now she’s gone, far away, and a stranger to me now.

But here I am with this new girl and all I can think of is the Special One. Maybe it’s the situation, the way we’re lying on the floor, touching in the same spots I was touching Her, that’s making me think of it. Who the fuck knows? She’s probably got her house by now and the kids she always wanted and I’m still up to my old tricks. For a while I might’ve looked like a stable bastard with my little job, but she figured me out: I ain’t respectable. I’m a vagabond. A girl like her wants a respectable guy, a guy who’s here to breed and not much else, one a them defeated guys or them guys that don’t have no fight even if they been in the military. As Margaret Mead said it: “Woman want mediocre men, and men are working hard to become as mediocre as possible.”

Women left Hemingway, I tell myself, hoping to feel better. Here was this guy who was world class at what he did and not even Hemingway could keep one around.

That’s just the nature a things, ain’t it? The nature a women. They do the picking and the choosing. 500 years ago it was behind their men’s backs, now it’s just out in the open. But it ain’t really a change–they do the same thing only the style’s different. When a girl is out a love, there ain’t no bringing her back.

If Hemingway couldn’t keep one around, then I really gotta ask myself what a woman wants out of a man. Seems like most a the guys in happy marriages for years are pussies on some level. They might be big and burly and look like bikers but they got this squishiness about ’em. And they ain’t no good at nothing, not usually. They’s maybe average at their job and that’s okay with the women, I guess, but that’s all. They just wanna keep that bread on the table and go to their job for that steady check and don’t want nothing else out a life than to spend that money on a house, a car, and some vittles.

It don’t pay to be good at nothing if you want a woman. They’d rather you be mediocre and cool with a job than be good at anything. And they wanna dominate you to see what kind a fool you’d be for them. All the hard work I put into becoming a good writer don’t mean shit to women. They’d rather spend their lives with some safe and stable sonofabitch, and then have affairs with someone like me–just to know what a 11.75″ cock feels like.

They’d rather get a man who takes his order with his balls hidden in his stomach.

Since I picked up writing, the word’s been more faithful to me than any woman.

Still, I lay her next to this new girl. She’s good-looking enough. When she glances at me, she’s got these nice big eyes that say: Are you gonna make a move or not? She’s got these nice juicy titties and a hell of a ass.

Am I gonna make a move or not?

My answer: I just keep laying here thinking a Her. No moves tonight, honey. Not when I’m thinking a The One.

“Where are you going?” She asks when I get up.

She looks at me with that hurt in her eyes that only comes from being rejected. Frenchie, I wanna say, you do not wanna get mixed up with me. You’re a cute girl but you ain’t Her. Don’t get mixed up with me, I ain’t nothing for a woman, except for a night. That’s my gift, the only further my skills go. I got Big Ole Cock and I ain’t got nothing else to give you. So don’t you get no ideas about me.

Even though this ain’t the way Bob Collins operates, leaving available pussy untapped. When a girl gives herself to me, I take take take until she won’t give no more.

But not tonight. Tonight I can’t think a no one but Her. And I ain’t fucking someone else when she’s on my mind. It’s the last bit a loyalty I got for her and I’m gonna keep it for Her.

The new girl tells me to stay, but I’m already out the door, down the hall, out on the moonlit Paris streets before she knows it. I hope to run into Her somewhere, but she can barely get out a bed let alone out a the country. I walk up to the Sacre Coeur so’s I can look down on all a Paris and how the gray city is dotten by little lights. I wanted to take Her here one time, wanted to sit at sidewalk cafes while she smoked and sipped coffee in her beret, and I wanted to walk at night with her her hand in mine, like we did a long time ago, along the Seine, and dance in front of the Eifeel Tower until the lights turned off. But it ain’t gonna happen now.

It’s never gonna happen now.

It’s all over.

So I gotta go find some beer. Maybe two cases to make it through the night.

And that damned Willie Nelson song haunts me:

“You were always on my mind. You were always on my mind.”

And that’s no lie.

The Secret to Getting Laid by Txting a Picture of Your Junk

I was in a cafe on Rue Baudelaire when I saw an American backpacker and sat down next to him.

He looked depressed. As my readers know, Bob Collins ain’t nothing if he ain’t sympathetic to others in pain. I slapped his back and told him to tell me what kind a gerbil was up his ass. I really wanted to make him feel better.

He hung his head. I really felt for the kid.

He said, “Listen, man, this is supposed to be the best time of my life. I’m on summer vacation, my parents are cramming thousands of dollars into my bank account every month, I’m staying at youth hostels, meeting all sorts a new cool people, but–“

“But what!” I yelled, very tenderly.

“But I can’t even get laid.”

He exhaled one long old breath a air. There. He’d said it. His secret was out in the open. He couldn’t get no pussy. Luckily for him, I was just the guy that could help him.

I said, “Listen, kid. What have you been doing?”

“I don’t know… I meet these girls, get their numbers, txt them a picture of my junk… Then I never hear from them again.”

“Are you sure you’re sending them a pic a your junk?”

“Well, I’m not sending someone else’s. I don’t have random pictures of junk on my phone.”

This kid had me stumped. Every time I sent out a picture a my junk, I got some good responses. Maybe he just didn’t have no lighting, or he had something in the background that didn’t make him look good.

“Here’s my number,” I said. “Send me your junk pic. Let’s see what you have to work with.”

He went to work on his phone.  Couple seconds later my phone buzzed in my pocket. I always keep it on vibrate. When I opened it up, this is what I seen:


I’m sorry, but I ain’t really sorry. I laughed. Hard. I’m an asshole. The tip a Big Ole Cock was bigger than his whole unit.

“That’s a picture of it hard,” he said. “Why do you have to laugh at me?” Then he broke down whining and crying. Wasn’t a manly way to act, but I forgave him. I wasn’t sure he’d went through puberty yet.

“Listen, kid, you ain’t gonna get laid sending that shit to girls.”

“Help me!” He screamed.

“I’m sorry, bud, but there ain’t nothing I can do.”

I got up, took one last look at the pathetic kid, then said, “There is one thing. Txt me those girls’ numbers. I’ll try to hook you up.”

“Really? You’ll help out?”

“I can’t promise you no miracles, kid, but I’ll do what I can do. Just txt me them numbers.”

I walked away.

A little down the street, I started feeling my phone go crazy in my pocket. The kid was coming through.

Soon as I got them numbers, I started sending out txts a my own. Went something like this:

Sorry about the teenie weenie. If you wanna try out a real man, I’m all yours.

Then I attached a pic a Big Ole Cock.

The responses started pouring in:

Where and when?

Name a place?

Your place or mine?

Out a 13 txts, I nailed 11 a them. And got seconds out a 9.

How’s that for conversion ratio?

What did I learn from all a this? Some online marketing techniques only work if you got a big dick.

Vol 1 eBook

Attention! Achtung!

The vol 1 eBook, the Sexually Adevturous Life of Bob Collins is currently being worked over for a fresh release in a couple weeks. Will update when it is available.

— Bob Collins

Essential Character Building Tools – CORE NEEDS

Thanks to Lynda R. Young, although she probably don’t wanna see her name on my blog, she inspired ole Bob Collins to put his $.02 in on the topic a creatin’ characters.

Thanks, Lynda. Sorry to bring you into this.

First things first. The easiest way to create a new character is the old fashioned way: No condom and just let ‘er rip. Mother Nature takes her course and a few months later, you got yourself something to deal with who’s gonna set off all sorts a plots in your life.

But that ain’t really what we’re talking about.

Alright, just shut up, Bob. No one likes your perverted digressions. Stay focused for once in your life. We’re talking about character creation–as in fiction.

Well, alright. I’m focused now.

Where does Bob Collins start? Since Bob Collins has his own personalized brand, he starts with…

Bob Collins’ Essential Character Building Tools.

It’s a patent-pending bunch a ideas that set any character you create off on the right foot.

And the first step is CORE NEEDS.

So. How the fuck does it work?

Glad you asked.

It all boils down to the premise that we all got some stuff inside us that don’t ever change. It’s an abstraction, or a way to understand these variety a things that don’t ever change inside us throughout the course a our lives.

Core needs are talents, certain personality traits. But it ain’t personality, persona, identity, or likeability.

A character’s core needs are them things that are a part a that character no matter what experiences they go through. Call it genetics, call it hardwiring. Call it “gumball factor” or “slut gene” for all I care. The core needs are them things that a character has in them from day one to day whatever–and they don’t ever change.

A good place to start thinking about a character core is the MBTI, or as us dumbasses like to call it–the thing that boxes you in (even though it don’t).

MBTI is the Myers Briggs Temperament Indicator. And let me stress, it’s one a them things that (most likely) don’t change. There’s a lot more that goes into a character, or a person, than the personality type. But it’s there and a good place to start.

(Remind me to go into my George Foreman bit at the end a this for an example of stuff that can change.)

Take me, for instance, Bob Collins. One a my core needs is to do a lot a banging with as many broads as I possibly can, but one a my other core needs is to feel independent or solitary. The need is almost pathological. Because a this need, I can never force myself to join groups or clubs, and having a job is a real pain in the ass, but that might just be since I’m a lazy piece a white trash, too.

My father is the opposite a good ole Bob. He loves being a member a groups. He’s a member a the Republicans, the Shamrock Club, a church, charitable organizations, The Reagan Ranch, The Heritage Club. He’s never happier than when a bunch a people are around. I’m sure there’s more he’s joined, too, but the point is made. He has a need to join groups.

These core needs set up behaviors. As you can see, I shun groups and dad runs to them with open arms and wagging tail.

Now, some event might get me to join a group and something might happen to make my dad a recluse for a while. It would have to be a pretty disastrous thing to make someone go against their core.

This is a great way to set up plots and stories.

If you’re careful, you could be unlocking a powerful tool here. And remember what it’s called:


You can think about it as whatever you want. Just make sure it’s a core trait—something immutable and unchangeable.

But be warned! Not everything is an immutable trait.

A surly demeanor might through a series of events turn into a bright and happy demeanor. It did with George Foreman, which I will touch on later.


Once you establish a core, how do you use it to create a story?

Well, obviously, there are many other factors which Bob Collins will tackle whenever the fuck he feels like. But for right now, you can use a character’s core to set up a story like this–

Let’s say we create a charcter who’s a complete joiner, like my dad. This guy just needs to fit in and be a part of the social scene. If he doesn’t, he feels like shit about himself. One fine day, he does something that the group rejects, like stick his finger up a dog’s ass or something. He becomes a pariah. Now you have a miserable bastard who wants nothing more than to be a part a the group, but he’s outcast and ostrasized. What’s he do now? He stars in a damned story, that’s what.

If you know your story you can create a character with the perfect core to carry out that story.

Or, if you’re a bastard like me, Bob Collins, you create the character first because the story can always be found inside a well-designed character. I think some douche named Henry James had something to say about this (character is plot). (Which makes me think about the Hollywood idea of High Concept, but that’s another blog.)


If you ain’t aware, scientists think they’ve isolated a “slut gene”. What does this gene do? Well, if you’re lucky enough to have this gene, like I’m sure I do, it makes sex with multiple partners more exciting than monogomous sex.

I would say this gene would be a core trait. It’s in there and it ain’t going away.

But the interesting shit comes into play after we know that gene is there exerting compulsions on the character to act in a certain way.

Take this wayward soul afflicted with the slut gene. What if she’s raised in a fundemantal christian culture?

What choices does she make? How does she develop?

Does she give in to her compulsions? Or does she fight them because even though she has the slut gene she believes in how she was raised?

From this core trait follows a situation, which informs thoughts, feelings, actions, judgments, philosophies, justifications, choices–all of which make a story and define character.


I knew I’d get to old George sometime in the course a this blog. If you’re not too exhausted by the boring shit I already wrote about, take a few minutes to consider former heavyweight boxing champion George Foreman.

This is a great example a how something that seems like an immutable trait isn’t.

Back in the 70s George was the man, an absolute monster. He wasn’t just a brick shithouse, he was a brick skyscraper. He was so huge, so stacked with muscle, that he looked like a superhuman that could never be beat.

All the talking heads said that too. They said old George was invincible. George believed it. And he was a bit of a dick about it too. Standoffish, surly, rude–George was the whole package. He created his whole identity around the man who could never be beat. If you weren’t careful, you’d think George was born a dick. He played the part so well, you’d never think he was anything but a natural first class cocky asshole.

Then old George, cocky, surly, invincible George, had to fight Muhammed Ali.

If you aren’t aware, Ali won that fight with the “rope-a-dope”, knocking out Foreman in round 8 (I think).

But George wasn’t just beaten in the boxing match, he ended up broken. His identity had shattered. Before the fight he was unbeatable George Foreman, but the fact was he had been beaten. That fact was so strong and so not ignorable (meaning he couldn’t justify it into irrelevance as far as his identity was concerned), George went into two years of seculsion to deal with this conflict in reality versus belief. When he came out of seclusion, he had a different personality/persona/identity. He was no longer surly George, he was happy friendly George. He laughed and smiled and shook hands. He sold grills and made jokes. He named all a his kids George.

The point is, he had to change his identity or he would have went insane trying to reconcile irreconcirable identity and reality.

The next point is: identity is not a core trait, neither is demeanor, or persona. I will dig deeper into this in a later installment.

So, what if anything, was immutable here? George’s athletic ability was immutable. It was there from day one and it will be there when he is an old man. George made a comeback in his forties. He was still a contender.


In the next Bob Collins’ Essential Character Building Traits we’ll take a deeper look at identity and justification by using our poor miserable girl afflicted by the dreaded slut gene.

Don’t miss it.

– Bob