My whole life I have sort of done my own thing. I rarely ask

Host: The bar was one of those places where time liked to linger — not stop, but hover, somewhere between memory and possibility. Dim lights hung from copper fixtures, casting soft halos over half-empty glasses and old stories. The low hum of a blues guitar drifted from the jukebox, and the faint smell of whiskey, leather, and rain-soaked pavement clung to the air.

Jack sat in a cracked red booth, his elbows on the table, his fingers drumming idly beside a glass of bourbon. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back, her eyes bright and sharp, the kind that saw more than people admitted. A crumpled napkin between them bore the quote — scrawled in Jeeny’s careful handwriting:

“My whole life I have sort of done my own thing. I rarely ask permission; I sometimes ask forgiveness.” — Paul Walter Hauser

Jeeny: “I like it. It’s raw. There’s a kind of dangerous freedom in those words — the kind most people are too afraid to taste.”

Jack: “Freedom? No. That’s recklessness dressed up as philosophy. Doing your own thing without asking permission — that’s how chaos starts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s also how change starts. Every person who’s ever done something meaningful had to break a rule first.”

Host: The bartender passed by, setting down a fresh bowl of peanuts, their scent faintly salted and human. The light flickered for a moment, throwing their faces into contrast — her defiant calm against his weary logic.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing rebellion. People like Hauser talk about ‘doing their own thing’ as if it’s noble, but most of the time it’s just selfish. Rules exist for a reason.”

Jeeny: “Yes — and so do instincts. Sometimes you don’t need permission to follow your own voice. Asking permission means you already doubt yourself.”

Jack: “Or that you respect the consequences.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It means you’re afraid of them.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they burned. Jack looked away, watching the reflection of the bar lights in his drink — like small fires in amber.

Jack: “You think fear’s the enemy. But it’s not. Fear keeps you alive. It’s the boundary between action and regret.”

Jeeny: “No. Fear’s the boundary between existing and living. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Spoken like someone who’s never watched their risks explode.”

Jeeny: “Spoken like someone who’s forgotten how to gamble on themselves.”

Host: The music swelled slightly — a slow, smoky riff winding its way through the room like smoke through memory. Outside, rain began to fall against the window, each droplet like a tiny punctuation mark in their growing argument.

Jack: “You know what asking forgiveness means? It means you knew it was wrong, and you did it anyway.”

Jeeny: “No, it means you believed it was right, but the world wasn’t ready to agree yet.”

Jack: “You sound like every rebel who ever wrecked something good.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like every conformist who ever watched history happen without touching it.”

Host: The tension hummed now, electric and intimate. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice lower, her words deliberate.

Jeeny: “Hauser’s not glorifying defiance — he’s talking about authenticity. About living without waiting for approval. That’s terrifying to people who build their lives around permission slips.”

Jack: “You think the world rewards authenticity? It rewards obedience, Jeeny. People who play nice, who stay in line. Try telling your boss you ‘did your own thing’ and see how long your paycheck lasts.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the paycheck isn’t the prize. Maybe it’s the price.”

Host: The bar grew quieter. Someone in the back laughed softly, the sound like a bubble rising and bursting in the still air. Jeeny’s eyes softened slightly, her tone shifting from fire to something gentler.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was nineteen, I turned down a scholarship to study law because I wanted to write. My father said I was throwing my future away. I told him I’d rather ask forgiveness later than live a life that didn’t belong to me.”

Jack: “And did he forgive you?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. But that wasn’t the point. The point was — I forgave myself first.”

Jack: “That’s brave. Or foolish.”

Jeeny: “They’re the same thing until you see how it ends.”

Host: Jack’s smile flickered — slow, almost reluctant. He swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light like liquid gold.

Jack: “You really believe that? That living on your own terms is worth the fallout?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because the cost of not doing it is worse. You can survive mistakes — but you can’t survive regret.”

Jack: “Regret teaches you boundaries.”

Jeeny: “Regret teaches you where you stopped being yourself.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, tracing blurred rivers down the glass. The neon sign outside flickered OPEN, then OP, then nothing. Inside, the bar felt timeless — as if they were the only two left awake in the city.

Jack: “You make rebellion sound like a religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The oldest one. The first act of creation was rebellion — something dared to exist where nothing wanted it to.”

Jack: “You think forgiveness is easy to get?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s worth earning. Because forgiveness means you did something — something real enough to need it.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous way to live.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only honest way to live.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling where the light bulb hummed faintly. The look on his face was somewhere between surrender and recognition — like someone remembering what it felt like to believe in themselves before the world told them to stop.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like that — like Hauser. People who move through life as if permission’s an afterthought. I used to think like that. Then the consequences started stacking.”

Jeeny: “Consequences are proof you were alive. Only the dead escape them.”

Jack: “You think he ever regrets it — that kind of life?”

Jeeny: “Probably. But he probably forgives himself faster too. That’s the trick — to not let guilt last longer than growth.”

Host: The guitar on the jukebox changed — a slower song now, filled with longing and rhythm. The world beyond the window blurred into streaks of color.

Jeeny: “People like him, people like us — we walk the line between chaos and purpose. Asking forgiveness means you still care. Not asking permission means you believe.”

Jack: “You really think forgiveness redeems everything?”

Jeeny: “Not everything. But it redeems intention. It redeems trying.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights further, signaling last call. The air smelled faintly of rain and whiskey — of endings that felt more like beginnings.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe you’re right. Maybe the difference between cowards and creators is that cowards ask permission, and creators risk asking forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Permission builds fences. Forgiveness builds stories.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I stopped asking either. I just live.”

Host: The last light flickered over them, casting their reflections on the window — two silhouettes blurred into one moment of honesty. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the city breathed again, reborn in quiet shimmer.

Jack raised his glass slightly, his voice low but warm.

Jack: “To forgiveness, then.”

Jeeny: “No. To courage.”

Host: They clinked their glasses softly, the sound echoing like a promise through the empty bar.

And as they stepped out into the damp, electric night, Paul Walter Hauser’s truth lingered in the air like the faint smoke of a closing cigarette —

that life isn’t about waiting for permission,
but about having the audacity to live,
to stumble, to scar, and to say —

I did it my way. And if I must,
I’ll forgive myself for it later.