Ours was a love affair written between the lines, a romance of perfectly timed pauses and unspoken intentions. But then a smooth-talking silicon interloper came along, tarnished her reputation, and left me defending a relationship that had never needed explaining.
There’s Only Ever One Last Time
Childhood disappears in small, unremarkable moments, taking with it the familiar, the ridiculous, the comforting, and the innocence we didn’t know we had. A collection of memories about growing up, losing things without noticing, and discovering decades later what they meant to us.
I Know I had a Father |
Memories of a Parent in Fragments
My father was a ghost in my childhood. I knew he was there because I saw him sleeping, heard him get ready for work, and was warned not to wake him up. More than forty years later, only fragments remain. Some banal. Some painful. I have what I have.
Good Riddance |
An Ode to Unremembered Losses
Some things leave with a bang. Others simply disappear when you aren’t paying attention. A phone number. A friend. A little hearing. A little certainty. A version of yourself. You rarely recognize the last time as the last time. Mostly, you remember having something. Mostly.
Update: Matter Referred to the Appropriate Department⁷
This description has been approved for publication. Its relevance to the accompanying material remains under investigation. The giraffe has declined to comment.
An Eye for the Absurd |
An Eyeball and a Thumb Walk into a Shower
I’ve long suspected that somewhere in the vast bureaucratic toilet bowl of the universe there’s a department devoted exclusively to fucking around with humans. Apparently, my file is well known around the office. And on one otherwise ordinary Friday night, somebody opened it…again.
Irrelevance is a Bitch |
Disappeared from the Demographic
Nobody warns you that middle age comes with an unofficial demotion. One day, you’re a valued member of the Key Demographic. The next, you’re wondering who the hell all these famous people are and why anyone really cares. Apparently, the world has decided your participation is no longer required. What an asshole.
On Claude
I’m fascinated by Claude. The ability to transform an ordinary subject through context, perspective and interpretation is remarkable. And perhaps surprisingly relevant.
If Beer Styles Were People: John, an American IPA |
Field Notes in Fermented Anthropology
A beer walks into a bar… Beer styles are human inventions—categories, labels, our best attempts to pin behavior onto a liquid that never sits still long enough to stay pinned. Yet we’ve always borrowed the…
Continue? |
Single-Player Only
I wrestle daily with loneliness, meaning, and the realization that existence often feels like a single-player game. Let’s explore trauma, numbness, and the quiet question that appears when the world stops making promises. Ready player 1?