Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
Death of Peace of Mind: The One Who Smiled
The first installment of our gripping new noir series "Death of Peace of Mind" drops you into the rain-slicked streets of 1986 Chicago, where Detective Grayson confronts a murder case that cuts too close to home. When the body of Eli Mathers is discovered in a seedy motel bathtub with a green matchbook stuffed in his throat and the word "Quiet" scrawled across the mirror, what begins as a standard homicide investigation quickly unravels into something far more personal.
This isn't just another victim for Grayson—it's the man he once saved from suicide years ago, only to abandon him afterward. As Grayson and his sharp-eyed partner Detective Laura Black follow a trail of cryptic matchbooks and haunting memories, we're pulled into a meditation on responsibility that transcends the typical crime drama.
"Redemption is smaller than that," Grayson reflects in his raw, unflinching monologue. "It's slower, it's dumber, it's you alone making the same choice a hundred different ways, until no one's left to notice." Through his journey, we're forced to confront uncomfortable questions about the people we leave behind and the silence we cultivate to protect ourselves from our own failures.
The episode takes an unexpected turn with a chilling "secret monologue" that offers a disturbing counterpoint to Grayson's guilt, suggesting that peace of mind might be the most dangerous illusion of all. Five powerful reflection questions challenge you to examine your own abandoned responsibilities and the sanctuaries of silence you've built.
Ready to question what it really means to save someone? Ready to confront the ghosts of your own making? This is noir storytelling that doesn't just entertain—it holds up a mirror and asks you to look unflinchingly at what you see. Subscribe now and join us on this journey through the shadows of guilt, redemption, and the stories we tell ourselves to sleep at night.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are starting a brand new series. It's called the Death of Peace of Mind. Is it's going to be a gripping series, guys? I'm telling you. It's going to be a lot of twists, a lot of turns and, if you like that, really 1980s gritty crime drama, a lot of smoking, a lot of drinking. This is going to be right up your alley, okay, so let's go ahead and let's get into it, cold, open. What's Left Behind? Episode 1 of Death of Peace of Mind the One who Smiled, chicago 1986.
Speaker 1:The rain has been falling for hours, not hard, not loud, just steady. The kind of rain that turns neon into watercolor. It silks across rusted metal sides and seeps into the cracks of pavement long since broken. Everything smells of oil and old cigarettes, wet concrete in the memory of something burned. In the distance, a train rumbles, not from part of this town. This part hadn't had a working station in a decade. There's a motel on the edge of it all. No name on the sign anymore, just a faded metal frame and a few busted bulbs still buzzing like dying flies One of the O's flickers when the wind hits it just right pulsing, weak and irregular, like the heartbeat of something that should have died long ago but didn't.
Speaker 1:Room 6B is taped off. The door is open. The blood is dried Inside. The smell is the first thing you notice, not the blood that comes second. The first smell is mildew, mold. It clings to the cheap carpet, to the curtains that haven't been drawn in months, maybe years. So I try to cover it with air freshener dollar store spray that now mixes with the copper tang of death in a way that makes your stomach turn. The air is humid still. The ceiling fan is spinning but it's not plugged in.
Speaker 1:There's a body in the bathtub. He's maybe mid-thirties thin, like he ran out of money and options in the same week. His arms are marked with old bruises and fresh needle tracks. Someone tried to clean him up. He's dressed jeans, white shirt, motel towel, still half-wrapped around his neck, like you try to dry his hair after a shower. That never happened. His mouth is open. Inside, where his tongue should be, a green matchbook, carefully folded, pushed in deep. The cardboard corners curl toward outward, softened by spit and blood. Across the mirror, someone has written one word in black grease pencil Quiet. Two detectives stand in the doorway. One smokes, but no one watches the smoke.
Speaker 1:The first is Grayson. He's tall but he carries himself like a man, trying to disappear in his own coat. The shoulders of his suit are slightly worn, charcoal gray with a subtle salt stain, where it's weathered too many nights like this. His tie is loose but still knotted, buttoned down. Shirt is white, with one small blood stain just above the belt line that no one ever notices. His shoes are clean, too clean. Grayson's face is sharp and tired, the kind of tired that doesn't sleep anymore, just smokes and paces and waits for something to stop Hair graying early Lines carved beneath both eyes. He looks like a man who hasn't cried in years but still carries the weight of every tear he didn't let fall, the kind of face that used to smile but forgot how, somewhere in the last decade. Right now he's lighting another cigarette, the fourth since they arrived.
Speaker 1:The woman beside him is black, laura Black. She doesn't flinch at the scene. She's in her late thirties, but the sharpness in her posture gives her the presence of someone much younger and much older at the same time. She wears a black leather jacket, fitted, sleek, zipped. Just halfway. Under it a gray t-shirt with some faded print, tucked into dark denim jeans and lace black boots, the kind you can run or fight in. Her blonde hair is tied back loosely. A few strands have fallen around her temples. Eyes the color of smoke, intelligent, but not warm, not anymore. She holds a small black notebook in her left hand, thumb tucked into the last page she wrote on Another matchbook, she says voice low. Grayson doesn't answer. She walks into the bathroom, careful not to step on the dry blood. Near the tub, the tiles are cracked. She crouches and peers into the victim's mouth. Green, the same as the last one, she adds. Grayson exhales smoke through his nose eyes on the ceiling like he's waiting for it to collapse.
Speaker 1:Outside, red and blue lights flicker against the puddles in the parking lot. A beat-up cruiser idles beside a dumpster, steam curling from the hood. Someone's playing Phil Collins faintly from a radio inside the patrol car. I can feel it come in in there tonight, oh lord, I can feel it come in in there tonight, oh Lord. Grayson steps inside. He says nothing as he kneels next to the tub, pulls out a pen not to take notes but to carefully, vaguely lift the matchbook from the victim's mouth, comes out soaked and soft cover torn at one corner. He flips it over in a bar's name, the Ember Room, straw, clinches. Black watches him, you know it. He hesitates too long. Yeah, I used to, that's all he says. She doesn't press, not yet. Grayson stands, puts the matchbook in a small plastic evidence pouch. He hands it to her like it burns. She doesn't look at it, just watches him. You alright? She asks. He lights. Never a cigarette, never better. There's a silence between them, the kind only partners can stand in, the kind that says too much and nothing at all.
Speaker 1:Grayson steps back into the motel room, looks around. Old TV in the corner, busted antenna Chair with one leg replaced by a stack of Bibles, phone ripped out of the wall, clock blinking 12, over and over, like time never started. He walks towards the mirror and the word quiet smeared across it. His reflection is blurred by steam and fingerprints. He stares for a long time. Black steps beside him. You think it's the same guy. Grayson exhales, looks down at his own reflection in the sink, sees the bags on his eyes, the yell in his teeth, the streaks of blood near his collar. It's always the same guy. They leave the room in silence. The rain hasn't stopped, but the flickering neon above the motel. Does the owl finally dies? Part One the Bathroom Door.
Speaker 1:The precinct is quieter than usual. It's past midnight and most of the city's noise is dulled to a low mechanical hum that pulses in from the street Rain hitting hoods, wheels slicing puddles, neon signs buzzing somewhere just outside the glass. Inside there's only one occasional echo of a phone ringing down the hall or the sound of a vending machine wheezing through a cooling cycle. Grayson sits alone at his desk. The overhead lights are too bright but he hasn't turned them off. A cigarette burns in the ashtray besides him, mostly ash now the paper curled in on itself like it's to remember what it used to be On the desk an open folder with crime scene photos, a Polaroid of Eli Mather's face slack and pale matchbook still visible in his throat.
Speaker 1:The bagged evidence. The matchbook itself dried now. A note scribbled in Grayson's own handwriting. The Ember Room. He stares at the matchbook itself dried now. A note scribbled in Grayson's own handwriting. The Ember Room. He stares at the matchbook for too long. His fingers twitch toward it once. Stop and pull back Across the room.
Speaker 1:Black leans in the doorway. She's changed leather jacket traded in for a dark gold trench Hair down now damp from the rain. There's something about her that always feels like she's halfway out the door and halfway watching you fall apart. You gonna tell me what's eating you? He says Not a question. Grayson doesn't answer. She steps closer, pulls up a chair backwards, straddles it, rests her arms on the back. You knew the guy. I didn't say that you didn't have to. He looks at her, really looks at her, not in the way you look at someone speaking, in the way you look at someone who could ruin you if they kept talking. He used to pan out. You know panhandle outside the Ember Room. Grayson says finally back when it still served more whiskey than blood.
Speaker 1:Black nods slowly, no judgment, just watching you ever go in? She asks. Grayson hesitates again. Once the silence stretches, she gets up, moves towards the door, stops one hand on the frame You're not the one on trial here, gray. He doesn't answer. He doesn't look at her. You'd tell me if something was off right. This time he does not look and lies. Of course she's gone just like that. The room feels colder now. Grayson leans back in his chair and lights another cigarette. Watch as the smoke curls towards the ceiling, vent like it's trying to escape. Then he stands.
Speaker 1:Fifteen minutes later he's back at the motel. There's no tape now, no officers, just him, the rain and the flickering death of the last working neon bulb. He unlocks the door with the key. He never turned in. Room 6B looks the same, like a memory that hasn't decayed properly. The fan still turns, the blood still dark, the word quiet still smears the mirror. But something's different. He walks to the bathroom, stops in the doorway. The tub is empty now, but the shadow remains Faint, almost like a stain on the tile. Like Eli never really left.
Speaker 1:Grace I reaches in his coat, pulls out the matchbook. He opens it Inside, scrawled in black pen, almost invisible, against the green. Tell him you're sorry. He stares, then flicks the matchbook into the sink and watches it sit there Soaked in a puddle of water and old soap, unlit. The quiet grows. Somewhere inside him something cracks Part 2. The Case grows. Somewhere inside him, something cracks Part 2. The Case File.
Speaker 1:The next morning the precinct smells like burned coffee and cheap aftershave. Sunlight cuts through the blinds and fractured slats stripping the floor like a barcode. No one can read. The rain has stopped, but the sky still carries the weight of it Gray, low, low and swollen. The kind of morning that doesn't want to wake up all the way.
Speaker 1:Grayson is already at his desk Shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, jacket slung over the back of his chair, ashtray full. His tie is gone, just a loose collar, and the same exhaustion in his eyes. His tie is gone, just a loose collar, and the same exhaustion in his eyes, only deeper. Now the case follows open again. Photographs splayed out like a deck of haunted cards. There's one of Eli's body from the hallway, one from above the tub, one of the mirror wrote quiet, tilted and smeared, like someone wrote it with their wrong hand. On the next page the matchbook, ziplocked, numbered, photographed. He stares at it, his hands are still Black.
Speaker 1:Drops a cup of coffee on his desk. No words, just a gesture. Grayson nods, takes a sip, runs his tongue, doesn't wince. Did you sleep? She asks. He looks up you. She leans against the desk next to his, crosses her arms. She's in the same boots, different jacket, brown this time. Crack leather at the elbows. Her eyes are even darker today. Talk to the manager of the Ember Room this morning. She says that gets his attention. She hands him a printed statement. Grayson scans it.
Speaker 1:Eli Mathers used to hang around here outside the bar Claimed he was waiting for someone. Never said who Wouldn't leave Bar. Turned to give him coffee once Said the guy never smiled, just stared through people. Grayson exhales through his nose, sets the paper down. He smiled. He says Black tilts her head. What? Grayson doesn't look at her? Last night in the tub he was smiling when I found him. Pause.
Speaker 1:Black sits in the chair across from him. The silence grows thick between them, not uncomfortable. Just loaded. You sure you're okay? She asks it's the second time. She's asked. The second time he lies yeah, he drops it for now. Another matchbook means this isn't random. She says got a pattern now. Grayson nods slowly. You think the message on the mirror was for the victim. No, black waits. The message on the mirror was for the victim. No, black waits. I think it was for whoever found him. Black watches him carefully, but not like she's trying to catch him more, like she's afraid of what she'll see if she looks too long. Grayson stands. He pulls on his coat, smooths the lapel. I'm going back to the ember room. Black blinks Now you can come if you want. She stands too, grabs her notebook, follows him towards the door. But just before they step out she says hey Gray. He turns. If something's bleeding it's okay to say it out loud. He holds her gaze for a beat too long, then looks away. I'll keep that in mind. The door closes behind them.
Speaker 1:Part 3. The Ember Room. The sign is still lit, red neon against black brick that's covered in soot, buzzing faintly like a fly trapped in a jar. The Ember Room Half the letters are burned out but the name still pulses through the haze of cigarette smoke and cold morning fog, like a heartbeat that doesn't know it's dead.
Speaker 1:Grayson and Black pull up in an unmarked car. He kills the engine but doesn't move. Black watches the bar through the windshield, not open yet, but someone's inside Shadows, moving behind frosted glass and mop swiping across the floor in slow, tired circles. You sure you're good to go in there, she asks. Grayson lights a cigarette. No, he opens the door anyways. Inside the smell is still the same Smoke, bleach and memories that should have stayed buried. The floor creaks in all the right places. The jukebox is silent, but Grayson can still hear the songs that used to echo here, used to drink here, used to bleed here. The bartender looks up, late forties, maybe older, bald apron stained with something red. That's probably tomato juice, but it might not be Closed, the man says. Grayson flashes the badge. The man shrugs and goes back to mopping.
Speaker 1:Black walks the perimeter, eyes sharp. She moves like a different species than the men who usually haunt this place Cleaner, smarter, like she doesn't belong but dares you to say it to her. Grayson moves to the far booth back corner, same one. He used to, said it always. The cushion is split at the seam, same as before. He sits. His hand brushes the underside of the table. Still there, a tiny notch Carved with a penknife, an initial E. He made it there when he was drunk Alone After his brother's funeral. He stares at it now like it might bleed. Black joins him.
Speaker 1:Used to come here, huh, she says. Grayson exhales smoke through his nose Once or twice. Want to tell me what you remember? He pauses, Then slowly. There was a night I'd just lost someone. Came here to forget. Then I found a man in the alley trying to hang himself with a belt. I cut him down, eli, he nods. Black leans back. You saved him. Grayson doesn't respond.
Speaker 1:The bartender steps over, flaps a rag on the table. You used to wait out front, he mutters. Someone told him to come back every night. He'd stand under the sign and just smile. Grayson draws his tenses. You remember when he stopped showing up? The bartender scratches his head couple weeks back. We figured he finally gave up or OD'd.
Speaker 1:Black flips her notebook open. Anyone ever threaten him? Nah, most people just ignored him, except Grayson, she says. Bartender looks between them, shrugs Eh, guess, not everyone's that lucky. He walks away. Black studied Grayson's face. You think he remembered what that you saved him. Grayson looks at the matchbook in his hand. I think that's why he smiled. They step back into the daylight. The rain has returned, soft, steady, quiet. Grayson doesn't open up his umbrella, just stands there, cigarette already soaked, coat darkening at the shoulders. Black watches him hey, you good. He flicks his cigarette away no, and walks towards the car Part four but the ashes whisper.
Speaker 1:Grayson's apartment is too quiet, not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful, the kind that feels deliberate, like everything has been turned down to silence, so the only thing left is the noise inside your own head. The walls are bare, the furniture is minimal. There's a record player in the corner but no records beside it, just dust, a single couch, a coffee table, a cracked ashtray with four half-smoked cigarettes still smoldering in it. He sits on the edge of the couch, jacket still on, shirt collar wilted from the rain. The room smells like smoke paper and something else, something colder.
Speaker 1:He's holding the matchbook again. He didn't mean to bring it home, thought he left it in evidence. But there it is in his hand, dry now, cracked Slightly at the fold. He opens it. It's blank inside. He stares at it for a long time, then walks into the kitchen. There's a drawer underneath the sink, old and rusted. He pulls it open, pulls out a manila envelope labeled 6B. Inside are old case notes, photos. The first time Eli was arrested the night Grayson booked him and never filled out the report. The matchbook was in his pocket. Even then he forgot that port, or he tried to. He spreads the files across the kitchen table Black and white mug shots, blood work, a photo of a razor found in Eli's boot.
Speaker 1:A drawing, crude, pen-sketched childish of a stick figure holding a sign. The sign says I deserve it. Grayson folds it shut. He leans back, takes a deep breath and then takes a long drag from a cigarette that burned out five minutes ago. There's a knock at the door. He doesn't move. Another knock A little louder. He opens it, splat.
Speaker 1:She's holding a take-all bag in one hand and two cans of beer in the other. You looked like shit when you left the bar. She says he steps inside. She walks in, sets the food on the table, doesn't comment on the fowls or the mess, just hands him a beer. They sit in silence. The only sound is a slow fizz of carbonation and the hum of the refrigerator working too hard for a job no one asked it to do. Finally, she says You're still carrying him, aren't you? Grayson doesn't look at her, not just him. She nods, takes a bite of cold. Lo mein Doesn't flinch. Do you wanna talk about it? He lights another cigarette. No, then tell me something, true? He thinks for a long time. Then I think I killed the part of me that used to believe people could change. Black leans back and I think he was the one who smiled that night.
Speaker 1:When she leaves, grayson sits at the floor of his living room and lights a match Just one. Watches the flame dance for a few seconds, then burn it close, then presses into the corner of the matchbook. The flame catches slow at first, then fast. He drops it in the ashtray, watches it burn until there's nothing left but ash and a curl of smoke that whispers towards the ceiling like it's trying to remember a name it forgot. And still the room is too quiet.
Speaker 1:Part 4. The Memory that Stayed. The city is quieter at night Not silent, chicago never gives you that but softer Like it's whispering to itself. Steam rises from a manhole cover, streetlights blink like tired eyes and the wet pavement reflects everything twice the world as it is and the world you wish it was.
Speaker 1:Grayson walks with no destination, hands in his coat pockets, collar turned up, cigarette burning between his fingers like a fuse, with nowhere to go. He passes shuttered shops, graffiti tag alleys, the flickering pulse of a liquor store sign that hasn't changed in 20 years. He ends up outside the Amber Room again, of course he does. It's closed now, dead quiet. The Amber Room again, of course he does. It's closed now, dead quiet. Just the sign humming and a single lamp light haloing the curb where Eli used to stand. He walked towards it and then a memory floods in. This is two years ago. Same curb, same rain, same Eli.
Speaker 1:He was thinner than paler, wearing a jacket three sizes too big, sleeves hanging past his fingers like he was trying to disappear into them. His face was smooth but hollow eyes too bright for a man that tired. He was smiling, but not a happy smile, not even a real one, just a defense, a way to show the world his teeth. Before it bended to him first. Grayson had just left the bar, half drunk, angry and grieving. Eli reached out. Hey, man, you got a light. Grayson stopped, flicked his lighter, watched the flame catch On the match that Eli already had between his teeth. Thanks, man, a beat. You're not as lost as you think. Eli said. Grace remembered wanting to hit him.
Speaker 1:Now, standing there years later, he hears those words like they were carved into the air. He looks down. There's a matchbook on the ground, green, just like the others. He picks it up no writing inside, no logo, just blank. He flips it shut. No writing inside, no logo, just blank. He flips it shut, then flips it open again. It's blank, and again Still blank. He blinks and suddenly there's writing Four words you Didn't Save Me. Grayson drops the matchbook. It hits the sidewalk like a gunshot in his chest. He stares at it, then turns fast like something's behind him, but the street is empty, only the sound of his own breath. Now he walks away Faster, like if he moves fast enough the goat won't follow, but it always does.
Speaker 1:Part 6. Quiet, finally. The clock says 3.12am. Grayson sits on the floor of his apartment, back against the cold brick wall, cigarette resting between his fingers, half ash, barely smoke. The television is on, but muted, static kisses across the screen, white snow flickering like ghosts trying to come through. He doesn't blink. There is an open notebook on the floor beside him, blank pages, pen uncapped, like he was meant to write something and forgot how. In front of him, on the coffee table, or five objects the empty matchbook, the Polaroid of Eli, half burned at the corner, a copy of the arrest report from two years ago, a church pamphlet with a number scribbled out in pen, his own badge face down. He stares at them like they're tarot cards, trying to read the shape of what he's becoming Outside. A siren rails Far away then silence His eyes close.
Speaker 1:He dreams of the motel, but this time he's the one in the tub. His mouth is open and the matchbook is inside. He wakes with a jolt, a cold sweat. The cigarette's still lit, burned down with the filter, it hisses when it drops into the glass of water. He stands slowly, shoulders they're heavy, like the weight of something that doesn't want to be named. He walks to the bathroom, turns the light on, stares into the mirror. His reflection looks back, but for a second, just a second. The word quiet flickers across the glass, then vanishes. He breathes in long, slow and walks back into the dark.
Speaker 1:Okay, guys, so we're going gonna do a little bit something different here, because I know usually what we do is we go ahead and we get into a monologue, but with this series there's gonna be two monologues. There's gonna be grayson's monologue and then obviously we're gonna have the reflection questions that are going to be from me, obviously, and then there's going to be a monologue from another individual who you'll start to find out here soon. So I just want to make sure that I said that again, we're doing this a little differently because this is a suspense series, so we're going to be seeing things from a little bit different angles here now. Okay, but the message is always still the same. It's always about self-development and these reduce a peak into you, so how you can apply this to yourself. So I'm going to go ahead and I'm going to go ahead and get into Grayson's monologue. So here we go.
Speaker 1:There are some men you carry with you, not because you want to, not because you love them, not because you lost them, but you loved them not because you lost them, but because they remind you of a version of yourself you swore you'd never become. Eli Mathers smiled when I found him. Not the kind of smile that says thank you, not the kind that says help me, the kind that says I knew you'd come. I've seen a lot of dead men, some with eyes open, some with hands still clutching something, but, eli, I knew you'd come. I've seen a lot of dead men, some with eyes open, some with hands still clutching something, but Eli. Eli didn't fight, he let go before I even touched the door.
Speaker 1:And that smile, it's been with me ever since I used to think redemption was a one-time thing, a moment, a grand gesture. The bullet you don't fire, the bottle you don't pick up. But it's not. Redemption is smaller than that, it's slower, it's dumber, it's you alone making the same choice a hundred different ways, until no one's left to notice. And the truth is, I don't know if I saved him, not then, not now. Maybe I just delayed it, maybe I made it worse, maybe he stood outside that bar all those nights waiting for me to come back to fix what I broke, to tell him he was worth the air he kept breathing. But I never did. And now the matchbooks, the silence, the blood, they're all just reminders that I did not come back, that I left him there, that maybe I'm not chasing a killer, maybe I'm chasing something else, something closer, something quieter, something with my face. But that's the thing about peace of mind. You can't buy it, you can't earn it. You can only steal it from yourself, piece by piece, until nothing is left but silence. And maybe that's what I really want.
Speaker 1:So let's go ahead and let's get into the five reflection questions. Who in your life have you quietly abandoned, not by walking away, but by standing still? What does it say about the version of you that let them go? Number two what part of you keeps smiling to survive, even though it's already dead? Second part and who are you still trying to convince it's okay? Number three when did you first start lying to yourself and how long have you been calling it peace? That's a big question. Long have you been calling it peace? That's a big question. Number four are you chasing the truth or are you just trying to stay ahead of your own reflection? And number five if silence is your sanctuary, what did you bury to build it? And does it still whisper at night now? Now here is the secret monologue.
Speaker 1:Eli Mathers had to die, not because he was evil, but because he was dangerous, because he was loud, because every smile was a scream. Every apology was a confession in disguise. Every time he looked in the mirror he said I'm trying. He told the world it was okay to be less and I do not forgive that. You see, weakness isn't loud. It doesn't kick down doors or draw blood in alleyways. Sometimes it just waits. It hides in corners, smiles at itself while it rots.
Speaker 1:He made excuses with his eyes. He asked for help like a man auditioning for guilt. He smiled while begging. And that's how I knew, because men like Eli, they don't change. They memorize new scripts to read at the next intervention. They cry on cue, they nod when you say I believe you, and then they go back to the silence they came from.
Speaker 1:I gave him something real. I gave him what no one else had the guts to give A full stop. This is the code. If the noise in your head won't quiet down, cut it out what's causing it. There's no peace in pretending. There's only precision Only, silence Only, in the removal of less aversions, and he was a version I no longer needed and I made the room quiet again and that's why he had to die.
Speaker 1:All right, guys, woo man, this is going to be. I'm telling you, man, this is going to be such a fun series. This is going to be again. It's so much different than anything else we've done here on Jen's Journey and I like to do things different, as we all know. So again, let me know if you like this. And again I want to just say something here really quick. Getting back to this after a couple weeks, it's been awesome, and coming off an injury and that kind of stuff. It's been a lot of fun and I know I say this to you guys all the time, but without you there is no Jen's Journey. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate every single one of you.
Speaker 1:Again, I want to thank you guys so much for listening today. Oh yeah, we got to tell you how to look us up. Sorry, I forgot about that, guys. A couple different ways. First way, always if you want to get in up. Sorry, I forgot about that, guys. So, a couple different ways. First way, always if you want to get in touch with me. There's a link here where it says let's Chat. It's in the description. You click on that and you and I can have a conversation about this series, this episode, the 15 other episodes that are out there and the 280 plus, you know, series or series episodes that we have out there. Second one is going to be through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom. And then, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram is my gents journey. And again, guys, I appreciate you guys for listening today. Thank you so much for your love and support and remember this you create your reality. Take care.