The Last Gigachad

Alright y’all. You’re invested. You want to know. Who is the sixth Gigachad? Have they been found?

They have been found.

It’s this b**** (please excuse my language).

Meet Florges. フラージェス. (Furaajyesu).

If you aren’t immediately on board, let me break it down for you. There’s something you need to know.

First of all, she is NOT a Grass-type. It’s a trick. Certainly you would think she must be. I thought she would be. She is not, but she has Grass-type moves. So she can still defeat measly Water-types.

She is only Fairy-type, which is still a great type, and also by not actually being Grass-type, she doesn’t open herself up to weaknesses to Flying, Fire, Bug, Ice… Grass has lots of weaknesses. So that’s good. (Except it doesn’t really matter at all because the game is so easy that I can beat it with my eyes closed at this point.)

Florges is stunning. We see that. And she comes in many colors.

Mine is yellow.

Now, she obviously has charisma and charm. This is a charming Pokemon right here. We can all agree on that. Right?

She has major Queen energy. A diva and a queen. Not too soft or feminine for my team of gangsters. Just the right amount.

I think she adds a certain element of polish and refinement, and a dash of feminine energy. Not that Tinkaton isn’t feminine, but Tinkaton has a little more of a crazed, insane energy. And Soubureizu is a scary, no-nonsense killer. Florges is rounding out the team, even while she blasts you into smithereens with concentrated moonbeams.

Which, yes, she can do.

To be a real Gigachad, you can’t just be swaggin’. You have to be strong.

She’s strong.

Florges can summon the full power of the moon and bomb her foes with it. That is a very satisfying thing to do, I’ll tell you, if you’ve never had the pleasure of doing it yourself. And as if that were not enough, she can also harness the power of the sun, and fire a magnificent destructo-beam of solar energy into her opponent’s face.

She also has insanely high Special Defence. Insanely high.

When thinking about who could be the sixth and final Gigachad, I had a feeling that this Pokemon (Flabébé) might have been the one. And it did turn out to be her.

This is the first version of Florges. And here is the second.

Neither Flabébé nor Floette suggest what incredible power and beauty lies in their final form. I wouldn’t have thought this thing even evolved. Who would have imagined that this soft-looking flower child had it in them to become such a regal, majestic queen?

And look at her now!

The story of Flabébé just goes to show you: everyone deserves a chance. Any one of these little darlings can have the greatest glow-up of the century. You can’t write them off right out of the gate.

I mean, remember this guy?

It’s the classic story of the nerdy kid in school who ends up becoming a billionaire, and cool. And perhaps there was one kid who saw their potential and stuck with them in those dark days. Dorameshiya (Dreepy) is that kid.

With the addition of Florges to the roster, the full team of Gigachads has been assembled.

Real Gangsters, 100% Swaglords, Escaped Convicts, Ultimate Gigachads

You can see how THE QUEEN rounds out the team vibes. Every other member of the gangster squad—Gaburias, Doraparuto, Soubureizu, Dekanuchan, Manyuura— all of them look like they could’ve just busted out of Poke-prison. They’re hard.

But Florges? You would be totally surprised to find out she was an ex-convict. What kinds of henious crimes had she committed? You would look at her in awe and wonder to what extraordinary deviousness she had been up to that landed her behind bars.

I imagine she would be running mob rings, leaking information, embezzling monies and generally doing a lot of double-crossing.

So… The Gigachad Army is complete. What now?

This is about the end of the Pokemon arc for me. I’ve almost entirely stopped playing the main game, and have spent all of my recent time scouring the land for the truest, greatest gangsters, most notable and worthy Gigachads. And now that I’ve got them, there is simply no one that can stand in my way.

I’m near the end of the game. The story is picking up—it’s actually pretty good for a Pokemon game. There are many characters (too many), and you should have never given them your phone number because half of them are calling you all the time. The other half magically show up whenever it’s time for the plot to move, and they usually all decide to do this at once, so that for most of the game you have absolutely no story progression and minimal dialogue, and then you unsuspectingly walk into a room and are inundated with 400 lines of complex plot conversations.

From some of these lengthy dialogues, last night, we learned that the delinquent children who created a gang called the Star Gang (スター団) or Star Army, the truant children who are no longer attending the school (of which you are a new student), have all dropped out and formed the gang because they were severly bullied at school. It’s something of a twist, as you are led to believe that they are just ne’er-do-ells and don’t want to go to school.

At the defeat of the fourth gang leader, the previous school’s principal shows up, and he further elaborates on the great tragedy of the bullying, and his failure as a principal, and how he destroyed the records, which was horrifying information for the current school principal, who is accompanying you undercover, trying to get the kids back to school…

I missed exactly why the last school principal did destroy the records. This was on dialogue line 355 and I was starting to get tired of playing at that point.

There is one reason to keep going, and that’s to figure out who the mystery character カシオピア is, Cassiopia. (Which, isn’t that a great name? Cassiopia is an amazing name.)

All game, you have been getting calls from this mystery person, who has recognized your extraordinary potential, as everyone did somehow after you won your first three Pokemon battles, requested your assistance in taking down the Star Gang, and who pays you for it. I remember in the beginning that you are given the option to refuse to help her, which I think I took, but somehow you end up working with her anyway, because she’s part of the plot. Well, we all want to know who this mystery woman is and what she’s up to. She could even be a he, that would be a twist. She could even be the principal! And he had contrived the whole bullying episode to create a scandal and oust the previous principal. Now that would be juicy.

It’s good to have some mystery and intrigue in your story. What’s the deal with Cassiopia? Who was the bully that ruined the lives of so many kids at the school and led to the creation of the notorious and renegade Star Gang?

I haven’t formed many theories and haven’t cared much about the Star Gang. I’ve been Gigachad hunting. But now that I’ve got the squad… we might just have to see how the game ends.

There’s A New Farmer In Town // New Favorite Pokemon

I decided to sit at the long wooden table today, at Ugly Mugs. I haven’t sat there in a long time. Today, I wanted to. I’m feeling social and active. A couple sat down next to me and started chatting. Right from the get-go, she wanted to talk to me. The lady said, “Hi,” catching my eye. I said “hi”. Then she said, “We aren’t disturbing you, are we?” Or, actually, she said, “Should we go somewhere else? Are we bothering you?” I said, “No, not at all!” This was the truth. They were not bothering me of course.

Well, two of their friends showed up, and they were very chatty, and I had the sneaking feeling that more of them would be on the way. They were now taking over the table, mostly they had claimed the table. There was still a little space for me. But then, just a few minutes later, more of the party arrived, and I realized, they needed this table, and the right thing for me to do was to give it over to them. I was not going to deny them what they needed, what was the inevitable course of reality. I said, “I’m going to give you guys the table,” and they laughed, and I said, “I had a feeling there were more of you coming,” and the chatty lady said, “Are you sure, you can stay if you want!” And they said, “But he probably has work to do!” I said, “Oh yes, I have a lot of work to do….!” Hiding my screen from them, which would have shown them copious tabs of Pokemon investigations. Yes, a lot of work to do.

I have resumed my morning routine of waking up at the crack of dawn and going to the coffee shop. It took a few days to get back into it. Last night was a struggle, and I could not fall asleep for the life of me, even though I was tired during the day, at the end of it. I was ready for bed. Why does that happen? You’re ready for bed, you lay down, thinking, alright, time for sleepytime, and then, suddenly you’re seized with incredible energy, thoughts moving a mile a minute, your creative genius is exploding, and you want to do a hundred things at once. Everything except sleep, which is what you came there to do. Well, that was happening again last night, and as I am doing the no artificial light thing still, what could I do? I didn’t want to read.

I listened to records. I listened to most of my Superheaven record, Jar. My favorite thing about Superheaven is the chords they use. They have awesome chords. 90% of my love of Superheaven comes purely from loving the chords, and the guitar tone. It really is that simple. I then put on Holiday by Madonna, a great song, but you realize, not heavy at all. Light and dancy. And then, I knew what I wanted to hear – some Tame Impala. Brand New Person, Same Old Mistakes, or whatever that song is called, that is one of my favorite songs of all time. Whenever I hear that song, and I’ve heard it a thousand times, I still stop and listen. It’s a perfect song. It captures me completely. It hits so hard. It’s a song that comes on at cafes sometimes, always the best song that can possibly come on in a cafe. There is something about that song, probably many things, that just grab hold of your ear and your brain and don’t let go. From the absolute beginning of the song, it catches you. Slow, mysterious, groovy. Unlike most things that are being played on a cafe radio.

I can keep going here, I am extremely caffienated. What now?

I think this is the part where I tell you about my new favorite Pokemon.

If you don’t care about Pokemon at all, stay with me. You are still going to love this. Highly probable.

Pokemon can evolve. You knew that, right? Please tell me you knew that.

This is the first version of a Pokemon I’ve found in Pokemon Violet.

Do you see this thing? It’s called Kanuchan in Japanese, or Tinkatink in English. Yes, Tinkatink.

This is how it looks in the game. It looks miserable. What is it holding? Is that a beer bottle? What is this little thing? I first found this Pokemon and thought it was weird, and thought maybe it could be cool, but it was incredibly weak. I really don’t have a lot of time for weak Pokemon, I never have. They have to have a lot of promise, like they have to seem like they will evolve into an enormous powerful dragon-beast, or shark or something. This little pink twinkletoes was not promising, even though cute and charismatic. I had to pass.

Then, much later, I encountered the second version.

Yes everyone, meet Tinkatuff. She’s tough now. She’s scrappier. Her chunky iron beer bottle has now become some kind of exotic club. That’s good. But she’s still tiny.

She’s still weak. How can she have a place on my team of Gigachads? (Including the likes of such greatness as マニューラ and ガブリアス.)

Gaburias and Manyuura (Garchomp and Weavile), certified Gigachads

I could not imagine having her on my team of real gangsters, even if I wanted her around. For her pink charm and her Fairy typing. Every slot is valuable on a team of serious gangsters. You see that we have a dragonic sandshark and a dark weasel killer. Small pink fairy child with club still does not seem like she will make the cut, cute as she is. So, I still wrote this Pokemon off.

However, something happened.

This is a redemption story. This is the story of the ugly duckling, people.

I was on the mountain with the Psychic gym town, on the plains of the mountain. I found Tinkatuff, in Japanese Nakanuchan, in the ruins at night, with Bronzor the giant floating bell with eyes, and I was at that time running tryouts for my team of Gigachads. I was having another round of tryouts, and I was seeing who were the real beasts, and who I wanted on this team of hitters, absolute slayers, and I thought, let me evolve this Tinkatuff. Let me see what this Tinkatuff is all about. I will give her a chance.

Well, ladies and gentlemen. You will not believe your eyes. It is the greatest glowup of the 21st century. We are still early in the century, but I don’t know if this glowup can be beat.

IT’S TINKATON.

デカヌチャン!!!!!!!

How enormous her hammer is! And look at her hands! Massive paws, to hold that beastly hammer! Who would have thought that measly hump of iron would ever become a thousand-kilo slammer????

I never would have expected it. Tinkaton, she glowed up. And she immediately learned a move called デカハンマー, Dekahanmaa, which I took to mean, Giant Hammer, and I surmised that it might possibly be a move where she slams something with her newly acquired, enormous thousand-kilo hammer.

When I first unleashed my new Dekanuchan’s Gigaton Hammer move on a poor, unsuspecting wild Pokemon, I was extremely hopeful that it was in fact going to be a giant hammer attack. Imagine how pleased and enthused I was to see it was exactly that.

Gigaton Hammer

I’m including the above picture because I want you to see just exactly how ferocious this Tinkaton is. Before she even begins her attack, she first unleashes a massive wave of power and energy — she opens her mouth and screams, before charging forward, leaping into the air, raising the hammer and slamming it down, literally obliterating her enemy. It was everything I wanted to see.

I have to tell you, in my Tinkaton excitement I did some exaggerating. I lied to you. Her hammer is not actually 1000 kilograms; it’s 100 kilograms, that is about 220 pounds, and we know this because the game tells us so. From Dekanuchan’s Pokedex entry:

“The hammer tops 220 pounds, yet it gets swung around easily by Tinkaton as it steals whatever it pleases and carries its plunder back home.”

And now, we learn a very interesting fact about Tinkaton here that I did not know, which further enhances her charm and character, which is already outstanding. She is a THIEF.

So small, yet so powerful. And a conniving thief, raiding and plundering? Dekanuchan earned a top spot on my team of Gigachad gangsters.

Who will be next to take a top spot? We really have three slots left for true gangsters. I have been putting Pokemon through the workouts and trials.

I have a lot of eggs in this guy’s basket.

Dorameshya, AKA Dreepy.

Don’t let me down, buddy.

I titled this “There’s A New Farmer In Town” because I have been gradually becoming more obsessed with planting, farming, and gardening. I couldn’t sleep last night, I had too much physical energy, and you know what I decided to do with it? I went out in the yard and dug up my grass.

I had to do it. I have seeds to get down. Butterfly Milkweed. And it was actually a great time to tear up the lawn, at 11 pm at night, because it was cool. It was nice to able to do some yard work without feeling like I’m dying in the sun. That was awesome.

Butterfly Milkweed (*Asclepias tuberosa*)

A neighbor across the street was coming home and I happened to see them turning their head 180 degrees around to watch me as I dug in my yard, bathed in the glare of the copious amount of artificial light in the street outside of my house, shovel in the hand. He was certainly wondering what the hell I was up to. I imagine that if you ever see someone digging with a shovel at night, you’re going to have some suspicion about that. Who can be up to any good with a shovel at midnight?

A 29-year old man, laying in bed with thoughts of Dekanuchan and gardening. Alpha male? Probably not.

Quack Hits

I meant to say, Quick Hits.

“But what could it do, if any danger came?” Alice asked.

“It could bark,” said the Rose.

From Through The Looking-Glass, 1871, Lewis Carroll

Quick hits:

We write for joy. We write for fun. That’s why we write, ultimately. It is for joy.

Sometimes to convey information. Sometimes to persuade. But the best writing is that which comes from an act of love. It is play. That’s the best. So says Stephen King.

I have sat down to do this and found that I don’t really want to do this. So it goes.

“So it goes.”

– Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut.

I went on a run today. A wild run. I ended up in the middle of the woods running on deer trails. I stopped one centimeter before running through an enormous spider web, complete with large, scary black spider in the middle, at face height. It was like meeting a tripwire. I stopped just in time. I felt out around the edge, not wanting to just destroy the poor beast’s hard work and livelihood, but having to pass through this way, being in dense woodland forest, and I felt around the edges of the web, the invisible space, to see if there was some way I could pass without entangling myself in threads. I did find a large patch of open space, and I contorted myself through it, hoping very much to not bring the spider down upon me. I then resumed my running.

I could not believe that I had absolutely no ticks on me after this wild run. Through long grass, for a mile or more, I had mud, some scratches, various other debris, but surely, thought I, there must be a tick or twenty on my body. And there were NONE. Moving too fast? Too much sweat? No ticks in that grass? I couldn’t believe it.

It’s good to run hard through the woods. Makes you feel alive. I ran through about twenty deer, ten different pairs of two or three deer, on that run.

Tragedy struck this morning. Or, it struck last night. I discovered the tragedy this morning. My sunflowers had been ravaged. They had been doing so great, too. Well, they were ravaged. Not even a trace of three of them, only craters left in the ground from where they had been savagely ripped from the earth. The second largest, uprooted and mangled, left a carcass on the soil. If sunflowers had blood, there would have been blood everywhere. The largest, my prize bonnet, or whatever people said in the old days, my prize pig, bit clean off from three inches up. Three measly leaves and a smidgen of stem left. Well, at least they gave me that. Can it rise from the ashes?

Mysteriously, the two that have made it out of my second planting were left untouched. Perhaps they are being saved for later? Allowed to fatten before the slaughter?

Who was the culprit? We will never know. I suspect a rogue deer that haunts our neighborhood.

I’ve seen her.

I have had a growing history of reading people things from books, offering personal heartfelt readings, generally when in the comfort of my abode. I have read or attempted to read many a story to my living mates. Two nights ago, at a party, before heading out into the night, we sat around in the living room, eight of us young modern American people, and my roommate Smosh said something that I will never forget. I remembered it just now, I was reflecting on the significance of this event just moments before I started to write this piece, because it was truly extraordinary, and has put him in my good graces forever. He said, in the midst of the revelry, the group now gathered around the couch and table, all conversing, he said to me: “You should read us some poetry.”

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it first. Smosh, you wonderful man. I ran the three steps from the living room into my bedroom and grabbed my book of Poems of Fun and Fancy. And I read the poems.

Some of them.

I first chose to go out on a limb and try a new one. That was as an experiment. But it was not a great success. Everyone (my sister) just wanted to hear A Letter To Evelyn Baring.

Smosh then said, “I thought you would read us a Japanese poem.”

I went and got my Japanese poems.

I read the first poem I came across, which happened to be from The Exile Of Godaigo, about an exiled emperor of Japan in the late 1200’s.

tsui ni kaku

shizumihatsubeki

mukui araba

ue naki mi to wa

nani umarekemu

If it is my fate

To terminate thus my days,

In the depths of ruin,

Why was I ever born

Sovereign supreme of men?

After only one week, possibly ten days of avoiding all artificial light bar fire in the evenings, my circadian rhythm has completely reset. I have woken up at the crack of dawn on nearly all of these days. And now, the sun goes down, and I am sleepy. I am still often having surges of energy and late night mental wanderings, but I resist the urge to indulge them. I think it takes some time to fully adjust. This morning I woke up at 5:30 am, and for the first time, I felt like I was waking up regularly, as in, I did not feel that I wanted to go back to bed.

Parker came into my room last night to show me something on his phone. He had been working on some art for his Spotify. I allowed him to show me, he said, in an attempt to persuade me to evaluate his art, “I’ll show you on the lowest light settings.” Well, to my fully adjusted nighttime eyes, that “lowest” setting was still blinding, and when he flashed that screen in my face, I immediately recoiled, and I felt my eyes rapidly contract in my head. It was like I had just looked into the sun. I felt like I had just been doused with cold water.

I talked to a girl at the barcade, the night of the party. It was towards the end of the night. I had gone over to the machine to play Q-Bert. I got the second highest score, that night. Someday I will claim the first.

There was a girl standing alone at Burgertime. She was pretty. I had the urge to talk to her. I walked over to the machine next to her, and said, “Are you winning?” She said, “Oh, I’m just waiting for my friends, they abandoned me.” I said, “Oh.” (Or something like that.) She said, “I don’t even know what this is,” gesturing to the game in front of her. I looked at the title, saw that it was Burgertime. I said, “It’s Burgertime!”

She said something about how her friends were always going outside to talk to the bouncer or something. I said, “What do you think they’re talking about?”

She thought for a moment.

“Drugs.”

I laughed. She said, something about how they’re always talking about a “plug”, and she put emphasis on that word, somewhat mockingly, lighthearted mocking. I think she rolled her eyes.

She then asked me, “Are you winning? Tonight?”

I said, “Eh. I’m not losing.”

She was really looking at me now.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

I could tell she meant where I was really from.

“Elkhart Indiana… Northern Indiana.”

I don’t remember if she had any real response to that or just acknowledged it.

(Actually, I remember. She asked what brought me to Nashville.)

“How about you?”

She was from Nashville. She said, “right down the street” and she made a gesture suggesting that she really was talking about right down the street.

I said, “You can tell I’m not from Nashville?”

She said, “Mhm.”

“How could you tell?”

“Your stature.”

That was not what I expected to hear. I didn’t really know what that even meant.

“My stature?”

“Yep. And the way you talk.”

I ain’t no southern boy. That’s for sure.

Somehow, then, for whatever reason she told me that she had broken up with her ex that night. I don’t remember why she was telling me that. It was pretty matter-of-fact. She didn’t seem too devastated about it. But I remember that she phrased it as, “My ex and I broke up tonight.”

I said, “You’re already calling him your ex?”

She nodded.

I thought that was interesting. Can you say, “My ex and I broke up?” Not really, right. Because you can’t break up with your ex. You’re not dating them anymore.

I didn’t go into that right then. I said, for some reason, I guess I just had the feeling, “Have you broken up before?”

She nodded.

This was about at the end of the conversation. I’m wondering why I didn’t offer any words of solace or comfort. She might have asked me right after that what brought me to Nashville, but that doesn’t seem like it would have been the follow-up question. I think that came earlier in the conversation. There wasn’t much more said though, before she said, “I’m so sorry, but I really have to go now, my friends are waiting for me. It was nice talking with you, though.”

And she touched my arm.

I said, “Go on!”

Not in a way that suggested I wanted her to go. But it was time for her to go.

Maybe I was supposed to say, “It was nice talking with you too.” I don’t think it mattered too much what I said, then.

I now had permission to go ham on Q-Bert.

I had an epic run. In the very first game, I lost two lives like they were… pieces of candy… that you don’t… want, on Halloween. (I want to come up with an original and unique simile here. I don’t have it.)

I lost my first two lives like they were tadpoles… in a pond. Because frogs have so many babies…. they’re disposable… do you know what I mean?

Oh my god.

I lost those first two lives, and then I was on the ropes. I had one life left. And somehow, on that one life, I ended up going so far. It was all I needed. I was rolling hot on that one life.

I was in the perfect place, mentally, for crushing Q-Bert. I was the right level of invested. I didn’t care too much. I wasn’t too drunk. I was just a little buzzed, a little desirous of doing my best. The alcohol was unlocking some Q-Bert skill in me.

Then, my sister came over. She started talking to me. Something happened. I got riled up, I got distracted. And I made my one, final life Q-Bert jump off the cliff.

What a tragic ending!

I watched as my Q-Bert fell into the abyss. There went my final life. And for the night, that was my attempt at the top score. I did no better than that.

Boys’ Club at Ugly Mugs

More freewriting. I’m giving you more freewriting. I’m giving me more freedom to freewrite.

I woke up today at 6 am. And I don’t feel terrible. That’s pretty good, except I did feel sleepy still, and I sat on the floor and meditated for a while, and then moved to the more comfortable place, the bed, and then I was feeling so peaceful and comfortable, and I just touched the edge of blissful sleep —

I forced myself to get back up again.

Why am I doing this? I ask myself as I get out of bed, throw on clothes, head to the coffee shop, Ugly Mugs. If I’m tired, why not sleep in? Why am I battling my sleep schedule like it owes me money? Why am I not just living my life freely and comfortably and doing whatever I want whenever I want it?

Parker, in his infinite wisdom, said the other night, “Why don’t you just use your energy when you have it and rest when you don’t?” That was the most profound thing I had ever heard in that moment, and I told him so, to which he said, “Isn’t it obvious?” That just made it all the more profound.

The coffee at Ugly Mugs is gas this morning. As in, it’s really good. It’s hitting me like gasoline in a tank. And it tastes great. Really good coffee.

This is the earliest I’ve ever made it here, by far. 7 am I was at the shop. I wanted to get something done, I wanted to get started on whatever it is that I’ll do, and I knew that the chances were much higher if I escaped my freezing cave, and made it out here, out into the world.

I wondered what would be going on here at 7 am, I really did. It’s a local neighborhood coffee shop. The day is full of remote workers, college students, friends meeting for a chit-chat, coworkers or acquaintances talking business. What would be happening at 7 am?

A shocking thing. As I stumbled in, there was a guy, my age, different vibe, shorts and sunglasses, sandals (I’m wearing full black with running shoes, black hoodie in July because my roommate blasts the AC in the house, and it keeps me safe from the mosquitoes anyway, that love to feast on my precious blood), and I knew that we were on track to be reaching the door at the exact same moment.

Sometimes in this situation, when my brain has accurately calculated that I am on a collision course with another human, I will slow down or speed up. But I didn’t feel like doing either of those things, and he didn’t either.

I could tell he knew that we were both going to reach this door at the same time. Well, I reached it just a second before he did, and I opened the door and held it open for him. And he said, “Oh, you go ahead,” and I said, with a grandiose, sweeping gesture, “No, after you,” to which he replied, with a small nod, “Thank you,” and walked through the door.

Now, that wasn’t awkward at all. Just two humans being polite to one another. That was nice.

I did end up then walking right past him to order, as he stopped to look at something on the wall.

That was some foreshadowing. The fact that I was holding the door for a MAN, then. As I took my first sip of coffee I surveyed the scene, scanning the crowd. Who were the 7 am folk on a Wednesday morning at Ugly Mugs? And I was shocked.

All men.

Yes, in a place where the crowd is at least HALF women, I’ve never noticed a ratio skewed one way or the other, this morning, Ugly Mugs was a total boys’ club.

There was (and still is) one group of four lads having a great time at the long slab of wood table. They seem to be discussing some business, wearing smart business casual attire. I just stole a glance at them. Then, you have two more gentleman having a conversation at a table behind them… There’s a bro in sunglasses sitting outside in the sun. There is a refined-looking gentleman with well-maintained hair, glasses, comfortably but tastefully dressed, reading something on his phone. Probably the news. He is giving major dad vibes.

There is a guy behind me doing remote work. He was typing up a storm when I sat down.

There were about four guys in the back of the room, that seemed to all have moved on already. There’s one guy left way back in that corner, who is with high probability working. That’s the workers’ corner.

Since my arrival, somehow it’s already 7:45, several ladyfolk have entered the store, one is walking in right now. But none have stayed.

Who will be the first to break the boys’ club?

Will it be this woman in a blue and white summer dress?

Holy s***. It is!

But wait a minute. She may just be taking a temporary seat as she waits for her coffee.

She’s going to pick it up now.

What happens next?

She’s put a lid on it. It’s in a plastic cup. She could take that thing right out the door.

She’s added some cream. We are all waiting on tenterhooks.

She’s taking a sip. She seems pleased.

And now?

Another sip.

And… she’s gone to a table in the back!

She’s sitting!!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to the club!!!!!!!!!!

(One minute later)

Oh my god. She just left.

She had just been waiting for a sandwich.

The boys’ club continues…

Han Jan

I love my morning coffee.

It’s 8:11 am. I’m still adjusting to my early wakeup times. You would think that my body would not wake itself up before it had had enough sleep. That it would just keep sleeping. There is no reason for me to get up so early if I don’t have to. My brain knows that.

The body responds to its own cues. That’s why I get up at 5:23 am yesterday, even if I wasn’t asleep until midnight. And today, 7:20 am.

I did better falling asleep last night, I think I was out before midnight, but there was a long period of undesired wakefulness. I had turned off the AC at some point, and it turned out that that was a mistake, as I was uncomfortably hot. It was 80 degrees in the house, if our thermostat is to be trusted, which I sometimes doubt. That was my excuse anyway, for being stuck in bed, awake, when I just wanted to enter the sweet dream world of sleep, so that I could get started on the next day.

The morning is a precious time. Special things happen in the morning. Yesterday morning I decided to try a new experiment. This morning I am thinking about a butterfly that I had raised, and a Go Pro, and a past love, and its sad end. (This is all one story.)

On another morning not too long ago, I began a story that I have finished, that I am supposed to be working on right now.

Does anyone else… do you wake up with songs in your head? I do. Almost every morning, I wake up “listening” to a song in my head.

It always seems random. Often the song comes deep out of left field. A song that I haven’t heard since middle school. Yesterday I think it was a Nickleback song, Far Away. Today it was Han Jan, by Peggy Gou.

Why? I haven’t been listening to these songs.

I want to be here for the mornings. If I sleep in too much, especially if I sleep in to a horrific hour like 10 am, I feel like I’ve committed a crime. But, I don’t know if I am exactly a morning person. It’s just that I know the morning is such a precious time, and magical things can happen.

I woke up at the crack of dawn for the first time in what seemed like years, probably a month ago. I couldn’t believe that I was awake. I didn’t know what to do. That’s what happens when you’re used to getting up late, and you wake up at 5 am. You’re early to the party by five hours. What the hell are you supposed to do now? You’ve got so much time on your hands.

That morning, I went outside, and sat in my yard. I was meditating. That was all I really wanted to do, then. About twenty minutes in, I heard some crunching sounds, on our gravel driveway. I didn’t think much of them, but I kept hearing them, getting closer, soft crunching, and I had the feeling that something was moving around on the driveway. I opened my eyes, and there, between my roommate’s black Nissan Altima, and the fence, was a small deer, staring at me.

I was shocked, of course. A deer, in our yard? What? There’s never been a deer in our neighborhood, let alone my yard. This is the city. We’re right off of Gallatin. What are you doing here?

It was the last thing I expected to see that morning, or ever, in our yard.

That morning, I also spied several neighborhood cats, sneaking around, in our yard right under our noses, living their secret cat lives. I felt like I was seeing a whole new world.

I think that the morning, like late night, is a liberating time. That might be the secret of the morning.

It’s time that at least I can feel like, it’s totally mine. I somehow have a free pass to do absolutely anything I want with this time. And so I can enjoy myself and live to the fullest, untethered by responsibilities or expectations. That’s great for the spirit, and for creativity.

These recent nights, I have spent in Harry Potter world, reading by candlelight. At 3 am, I exist in the wizarding world, I read about Snape’s past, I learn the secrets…

Morning is also the best time because you get to have your first cup of coffee for the day.

I was thinking about the butterfly that I had mentioned earlier, this morning, staring out of the window… I’m sure it’s on my mind because yesterday, I noticed that I had a green caterpillar, possibly mid-transformation into a cocoon or chrysalis, on my blue plastic tarp that I use to cover my bike in the yard. It seemed to have adhered itself to the plastic and was sluggish, hardly conscious. And if it does decide to settle down there, it kind of becomes my caterpillar, my cocoon or chrysalis, my project. I will have to watch over it.

I’m going to go check on it now…

And there you have it, folks.

Overnight it has become a chrysalis.

I will watch over you, my child!

500 Word Experiment and No Artificial Light

The 500 Word Experiment

I like the phrase freewrite.

I’ve been using that recently. In thinking about what I will be writing about. Often, most of the time I have something specific in mind, that I want to share. Even right now, there are several things that I am thinking about, that I would like to write about. And yet, I’ve noticed that when I just… freewrite, the writing… well, things come up that I wouldn’t have expected, sometimes, and the way I write about them is natural, as a flow of thought, and that’s often even more interesting than me just writing about a specific topic.

It’s good to just have a topic in mind, and something to write a whole piece around. There doesn’t have to be any specific way that you go about writing things for your blog, anyways. You still can do whatever you want.

I was having a good time trying to meet that 500 word cutoff, for a while. Did I even make it a week with that? It’s not my style. I’m simply too meandering and loquacious. I simply have too much to unload, in most cases, that I sit down at the computer, or with my pen and paper, and start going crazy. 500 words is a sneeze.

However, the 500 word experiment was very interesting. I hacked and slashed some of my pieces to death, to near death. I didn’t allow anything to die, and that’s why I ended up mostly being unable to reach the 500 word cutoff. There’s only so much you can say in 500 words. But, if you can say something in 500 words, but you’re saying the same thing in 700, or 1000, then you should really consider cutting that down, think carefully about those extra 300 or 500 words.

That’s how I felt about the experiment. I did feel that everything I posted benefitted from at least some degree of serious pruning, and often, even ruthless cutting helped the piece. But when pushing it to the limit, you see what is too much, when you’ve overcut and done damage, what can’t be cut away. Where to draw the line.

I really thought about Hemingway when writing like this, and editing in such a manner. I do use a lot of fluff. Even in that sentence, I realized it as I wrote it. I do use a lot of fluff. Now, do you see the fluff there? It immediately stands out. And I’m in the habit of using immediately as a filler word, as I just did again. Immediately can often be cut.

I just like to add words, and in conversation we do add a lot of words and use a lot of filler, and especially in a piece like what I’m writing now, a freewrite, where I’m writing as I’m thinking, that’s fine, even important. For the tone and voice. But there are cases where you don’t want that, and where it would be better not to have it. The point is that you are choosing to be terse, or fluffy, loose with your wordage and writing, intentionally. As Hemingway chose.

The fluff in that sentence was the do. Why do we need do in that sentence? We don’t need it. But if I were speaking, I would probably add the do, and say, “I do use a lot of fluff.”

How many words have we got here?

577, so far.

New Experiment: No (BAD) Artificial Light

The 500 word experiment was fun and useful. This is why we like to do experiments. They show you things. And, they are fun. Usually. I don’t know what experiment I’ve done that wasn’t fun.

I’m currently on a new one, that y’all don’t even know about yet, which is that I’m trying my best to avoid artificial light at night. I am shocked that it took me so long to get around to this one.

I’ve known that blue light was bad for the eyes, and screentime is a problem for the circadian rhythm, tricking your body into thinking it’s still daytime, throwing off your cortisol production. But I wasn’t taking it that seriously. Well, Rachel offhandedly made a comment about artificial light being a problem, the other week, and it stuck with me. It sat in my brain, it hit me at the right time. It was something I had been meaning to research.

I only had to read about three articles full of facts and data, to sufficiently shock and horrify me, and outrage me, and put me on the right and true path. I could share that data with you, possibly in another post. I’m freewriting, not writing an inspirational piece or anything here. You might not need all that data anyways, but data is what gets me to take action. Data, fact, reports, they are all what move me. And they are what convinced me of the bane on our existence that is artificial light.

Now, fire is also artificial light. I had to Google that after my first night by the candle. I spent the night thinking, “Is this artificial light?” Having an internal debate. The answer is yes, but it’s nothing like LED light, or light from screens. I am tempted to look some things up here — I won’t do it. But fire is low on the spectrum, the wavelengths are longer, and carry less energy. (Something like this.) It is not so intense on your eyes. I just read that firelight mimics sunlight, which is telling your brain that it’s time to wind down. So at least if you are burning a candle until 3 am, binging on Harry Potter and The Goblet Of Fire, your body and mind are basically already primed to go to bed whenever you decide that it’s best if you finally put the book down now, or you become so absolutely exhausted that you’re dropping the book on yourself or rereading the same page seven times in a row.

Candles are fun. We all know that, right? We are all in agreement of this fact. So, having more reasons to use candles is always great. I think that half of me is adhering to my no artificial light policy (I’m excluding candles from inclusion in my artificial light definition, here, because it’s really not a bad one) because it gives me an excuse to use candles.

It’s a good thing to be doing, a no artificial light (after sunset) policy, because it is like a soft ban on lots of bad things. Things that you aren’t supposed to be doing at night, that keep you up late. Phone, computer, gaming, TV. Even just getting up to shennanigans in your room, even reading, it will be easier to stay up later when you bask in your artificial light glow in your room, in your kitchen. However, when that sun goes down, FIRE UP THE CANDLES. It’s creepin’ time. There’s not much you can do then, or you have to really want it. You have to want it so badly that you’ll do it under conditions of severe low light, and possibly risk an injury, and experience frustration.

That’s how the reading has been. My candle barely casts enough light to illuminate the pages. It’s probably terrible for my eyes, having to squint so hard, but my eyes are already so terrible that at this point… they can get worse. I mean, if it comes to it, I’ll use a magnifying glass if I have to. We’ll cross that bridge when it comes. But this reading, you would be amazed to see all the various positions that I have come up with, the seatings and arrangements, the tactical candle placements, the ingenious schemes to angle the book so that it receives more light.

It took me three nights to come up with my second best idea, which was to place the candle in a drawer in my desk. I have an old wooden desk, and it sits right next to my bed. Reading from bed is more comfortable, especially at night, although I like to also sit at the desk and read. I have been starting at the desk, and then moving to the bed. Sometimes I’ll switch between them, and actually I have been doing that, to give my body a break from being stuck in a single position for too long. So, sitting at the desk could be tiring, as I have to prop the book up in my hands, on my elbows. That has to be done to ensure enough light hits the page.

The angle of the light is very important, and unfortunately most of my candle light is shooting straight up, and is wasted. So, wherever my book is in relation to the candle, it must be above the candle. I have to get that light. That’s why, after two nights, my genius was not to raise the book up, but to lower the candle, by putting it in an open drawer. That makes it lower than the surface of the desk, putting it on the right level for me and my book. It also allowed me to read from the bed, while sitting propped up against the pillows, because my bed height is slightly lower than the desk height.

I thought that this was a good lesson in how time can reveal solutions and solve your problems. You do not immediately see all the improvements, you do not strike on all the best methods at once. You inevitably get tired of the problem, you get so tired of the problem, and you constantly scheme ways to solve it, until you do.

It took me about five nights before I found the best, most comfortable solution yet. It was also, however, the most fraught with risk, as I found out. By placing the candle at the side of my hip, directly on my bed with me in my bed, I was able to have the light so close, and receive a majority of the beaming photons, wonderfully lighting up the pages of my book. They would shoot right up into the book, that I could hold in a natural position, right on my lap, as I lay there in the bed, and I could see every word, on both pages, clearly, from a perfectly comfortable position. How wonderful!

Yet, the problem as you can imagine, is that I am laying down, sharing my bed with a precariously placed flame, and a basin of hot, liquid wax.

It was some night where I was reading the Order of the Phoenix, deep into the trials and tribulations, and I just wanted it to be over, I wanted to get through it, but the book was defeating me, all 900-something pages of it. This was no Chamber of Secrets, this was no Prisoner of Azkaban. I was pushing it up to my limit, playing with fire, literally (yes I had to write that)…! And I was falling asleep at the wheel, and the third or fourth time I nodded off on the page, I was jolted awake, feeling my side suddenly become wet and hot, and saw that the candle flame was now sideways, and the hot wax was spilling out everywhere. That’ll wake you up.

You know what? I just remembered. I wasn’t falling asleep. I remember that, I was just deeply engrossed, and forgot about the candle, and adjusted myself. I know I wasn’t falling asleep, because I remember what I did afterward: I took off my pajama pants, now covered in hot wax, I changed my undies (had a little hot wax on ’em too), and then I promptly sat down at my desk and kept reading. When I went back to bed, I checked to see if the wax had cooled, and it had. There was a hard, waxy patch now on the side of my comforter and bedsheet.

That patch lasted for about five days, by the way. I just washed the sheets today.

One week of no artificial light: Results

I was just tempted to let that be the last line, but I should tell you about the big reason to avoid bad artificial light, which is quality of sleep. And I have found that since I’ve started doing this no artificial light thing, I have really been getting great sleep, and I have been enjoying these evening, reading-by-candlelight sessions. It’s got me waking up at the crack of dawn again. I find that even if I stay up late, as I have been, because I have been gripped by a sickness of Harry Potter fever, it’s not as punishing to stay up reading by candlelight, than by browsing the internet on the laptop, watching YouTube or whatever it is that I’m doing with that thing.

It also removes all temptation, and pressure. Maybe I’m pressured to take care of some business? Do it tomorrow. Have to message someone? Nope. Check email, bank accounts, Google something that I absolutely need to get to the bottom of, such as “Is fire artificial light?” It can wait. (It took all of my self-control not to look this one up, that first candlelit night.)

It makes it easier to say no to all of these things because of the clear rule. When the goes down, artificial light is BANNED. That’s it. Simple.

I would recommend anyone to try this out.

(Shoutout to Parker for discovering the unscented $1.99 candles hidden on the very bottom rack in the candle aisle at Kroger, that comes with no plastic except the tiny sticker, that looks exactly like a large glass of milk, and makes this foray into candlelight living much more economically bearable.)

Bart

Sometimes, the universe gives you exactly what you ask for, exactly when you ask for it.

(This just happened to me.)

It was noon. I had already done some writing on a story that I’ve been working on. I’m nearing the end of it, and it feels like I’m in the middle of a boss battle. I’m currently writing what seems to be the core emotional center or climax of the piece. It’s a difficult part. I can’t force it. But I can’t leave it alone.

However, after spending the better part of last night as well immersed in writing, I realized I was hitting a limit of time spent in fantasyland. I tried to write outside so that I wasn’t cooped up inside all day but was immediately beset by mosquitoes and angry about it.. I had an unshakeable feeling that I needed to get out into reality and connect with it, right now, during the day. I could come back to writing at night. Now was the time for reality.

With that solified in my mind, I decided to go out and walk, and do a bit of running, which I have wanted to do but am struggling with a calf strain. Just let my feet take me somewhere, and move my body in the sun. I changed clothes, threw on shoes, and out I went.

Immediately, as I turned right to go up the hill and into the depths of my East Nashville neighborhood, I saw a man on the ground in the grass across the street. He was about thirty feet down the way, rolling around near the sidewalk. I didn’t recognize him. I saw that he was old, had snow-white hair. And at first, I thought that he may have been doing yoga or something. I approached him with great curiosity and growing concern. I realized that he was not just doing some noonday stretches, but he trying to get up off the ground, and he was shaking and rocking rhythmically, like he was having a small seizure.

I walked up and studied him. There was no else around. I asked him if he was okay, and what had happened. I now noticed that his forehead was covered in a smear of blood. It was shining and deep red. It was the color of blood. He seemed confused, and I was trying to figure out what had happened to him. Was he having a stroke? Did he have a concussion? How conscious was he? Was he on drugs? He was not coherent at all. He only kept asking me to help him get up.

I could tell that if he did get up, it wouldn’t help him much. He was going to fall right over, and risk hurting himself again. I knew then that I needed to call an ambulance, and I looked around for anybody, but there was no one around. I didn’t have my phone on me and would have to go back and get it. I didn’t want to leave this man, but that was what I had to do. As I walked over to the man I had heard a siren, and I was hoping that maybe they were on the way for him, although there was no one around that I could see that would have called the police. Well, I hung around with this man, who was becoming angry at me, that I was not helping him stand up, which he couldn’t do anyways, and he started yelling at me, when I let go of his hands, “Help me, God Dammit!!” I grabbed his hands again, calming him, and then I saw turning the corner at the end of the street, a fire truck. That was a relief, and I waved to them. They pulled up, and three guys hopped out of the truck.

The lead guy was middle aged, shaved head. The two guys following behind were younger, wearing sunglasses. The shaved head firefighter walked up to the old man, and said to my surprise, in a friendly way, “Hi there Bart! Need some help?” The firefighter knew this guy. That was good. Bart said, not looking up at them, “I don’t want your help. Don’t help me.” He seemed to know them too. He was not happy to see them.

I backed off, and let the professionals take over. They talked to him, grabbed a plastic chair off the nearby porch and sat him down in it. As they picked him up, he collapsed again. The two other firefighters were sitting with him now. The lead firefighter now turned to me and gave me an explanation, in low tones. “He lives just over there,” he said, gesturing to the houses back behind. “He has Lou Gehrig’s disease and does crack, smokes weed.” He talked about it as if it were regrettable but common. All I could really thing to say to this was, “He’s having a tough time, I can tell.” The firefighter now walked over to Bart, and at that time an ambulance and a squad car showed up, everyone getting out of their vehicles. Six personnel were on the scene, and my role here in this small play was finished. I went off on my walk.

I thought briefly about this. I reflected on the plight of this old man, of the casual, matter-of-fact way of speaking about him, in his patheticness, of the firefighter.. This man, a man of my neighborhood, in such abysmal condition, and his story so natural and normal that I don’t even bat an eye at it. It’s not surprising to me at all to have encountered this situation. Especially after New York City, and from my time at the Cummins Station Starbucks, I am not shocked to see these things anymore.

Underneath the normal veil, the standard quietness of this suburban space, today, where I do my writing and my gardening, and things seem so normal, there was a rupture. I learned that my neighbor is doing crack. He is not okay. He is suffering.

Bart punctured the veil.

I am supposed to write something memorable and significant here, in conclusion. I know that. But I don’t really have anything to say.

I left my house seeking reality, and yet I was immediately met with a somewhat fantastical event. I guess it’s just that kind of day. The lines are blurred.

I hope Bart is okay.

Ode To Donuts

July 5th, 2025

Four days ago at the coffee shop, after handling some of my business, I had a wild and intense urge to feast on donuts. I immediately typed in “donut” on Google images, to feed my desire, and I gazed upon images and images of wonderful, colorful, round, chocolate, cake, glazed donuts. It was driving me wild, and I wanted to get donuts right then and there.

I was with my sister at the coffee shop. I was speaking out loud, vocalizing my internal struggle with wanting to immediately go and buy a large amount of donuts from Kroger, but not wanting to spend money nor gorge on such an unhealthy food, as I knew I would do. Yet about two months ago, I had this wild urge to eat an entire red velvet cake, an urge I have had many times but never given in to, and I thought, that night would be the night that I finally gave in, and feasted on red velvet cake. I had earned it. However, when I went to the store, I found that all of the cakes, the red velvet included, were encased in large plastic containers, and I had recently just started my anti-plastic campaign, and I wavered, but I knew that I could not commit a double sin, of gluttony and environmental crime, and so I didn’t get the red velvet cake.

But right next to the cakes, in the bakery corner, was the rack of Krispy Kreme donuts, and they caught my eye. Perhaps I could settle for a donut, or twelve. Checking out the stand, I thought that there were many satisfying donuts for my purchase, and then I looked at the boxes, and saw that they were all entirely made of paper. That was acceptable. So I bought a whole dozen, jelly, creme, glazed, cake, chocolate, mamma mia, and I took the whole dozen home and feasted. I personally ate six that night, five in a row, and then one more later at night. My roommates had two and three respectively. One was leftover for me, the next morning – proof that last night’s donut devouring was not just a dream.

I reflected on this prior donut gorging, as I debated whether or not I should immediately go to Kroger and do it all again, because it was actually a wonderful thing. It made me feel alive and brought me incredible joy, and my roommates too. And so I was thinking, at the coffee shop now having this wild urge again, that perhaps this could be a satisfactory donut feasting as well.

I tried to justify it as that I could make a blog post about it, and that’s exactly why I am making this post now. I said that I could write a poem, being inspired by the book of fancy and fun poetry, and my sister, in her wisdom and genius, said that I should write the poem right there on the spot, as I was at the time in the midst of the urge and desire. So I did, and this is what came out of me, born out of pure, unbridled donut lusting.

Ode To Donuts

Donut

Schmonut

Gronut

Wonut

I love a diddly dang donut

Munch, smunch, yummy yum yum

Chocolate, cream, glazed, crumb

Crumbly bumbly yummy donuts

Pink brown white yellow and green

Give me a donut right now

Please

My tummy!

My tongue!

Howls for donuts!!!

I ended up not getting the donuts for several more days. My intense desire had abated rapidly. We did end up going to Kroger but I didn’t want the Kroger donuts. I had to investigate some new donuts, and so we ended up going to East Park Donuts a few days later, and having a classier donut.

One donut plus the tip cost me $5.50, whereas a dozen Kroger donuts cost $16.50, but hey. It was a nice experience, and my sister was gracious enough to buy me the strawberry donut, which was actually amazing. It had a perfect texture, being one of the sour cream cake donuts, and then the strawberry glaze actually tasted like strawberries, and not the fake strawberry flavor (you know what I’m talking about). I was afraid to get it because I was worried about the fake strawberry flavor, but my sister knew better. She knew it had that real strawberry flavor.

There was a real difference between the quality of the donuts, the biggest thing being in the range of flavors present in the East Park Donuts, and in the quality of the donut batter. The cake part of the donut. There was a significant improvement in deliciousness and quality of the bread part of the donut. When it comes to quality, East Park Donuts wins. Good for a thoughtful donut enjoyment experience, with a friend, over coffee. Kroger’s Krispy Kreme has them beat on quantity. Good for an insane, hedonistic binge at midnight, with your two hungry roommates.

We have the Donut Distillery right down the street, apparently. Donuts and whiskey? We’ll have to write another poem for that.

Have you ever had a donut binge? Any other kind of treat binge or gorging session? Let me know!!!!

Experiment: Trash Quest (Pt. 1)

I am doing another experiment now that has been going on for about three weeks, which is my trash quest. I’m trying to account for every single piece of waste that I generate, and am conscious about every piece of waste I take on and take ownership of, and nothing is allowed to be thrown away.

I currently have a medium sized gift bag in my closet, full of miscellaneous plastic and other trash that can’t be recycled with our street recycling. Eventually, soon, I’m going to have to figure out what to do with that stuff.

There are lots of strange plastic items in there that aren’t #1 or #2, which are the only two plastics that our Nashville street recycling takes. So for everything else, I have to find something else to do with, which includes plastic wrap and plastic films.

Since I’ve started this experiment, I’ve quickly come to see plastic as an enemy. I don’t look at an empty bag of Cheetos in my driveway the same way. I don’t see everything in the store wrapped and encased in plastic in the same light as I did before. It’s not a natural thing. It’s extremely unnatural.

Plastic waste litters my neighborhood. When I first moved here I was shocked by the amount of plastic waste in our streets and yards. Parker and I filled up an entire trash bag just by walking the block and picking everything up.

The problem with this plastic waste is that it literally will last forever. You use it one time, to eat with, to carry your water, or some food, and then that’s it. It’s been used. And then it lasts forever.

We know that plastic is a problem and it’s bad for the Earth and even bad for human health, because of the chemicals that leach off the plastics, the endocrine disruptors, that cause cancer and infertility and human birth defects, etc. We also know the microplastics that are in our lungs and in our fat, and every part of our bodies. Turtles choking, rivers clogged, beaches trashed.

Yet, none of that combined information has lit the fire in me. So what did?

I read a story about a month ago now, and it hit me just right. This is what caused me to draw the line.

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/pregnant-whale-plastic-pregnant-whale-washes-ashore-italy-nearly-50-pounds-of-plastic-in-stomach/

“Pregnant whale washes ashore in Italy with nearly 50 pounds of plastic in her stomach.”

-CBS News

That’s it guys. I’ve had enough.

This is a horrible crime against nature. We are starving whales and killing them with our waste. Reading that disturbed me and I’m still disturbed a month later.

Our obsession with plastic is literally filling the stomachs of whales with trash to the point that they cannot digest their food, and they starve to death.

It can’t be like this.

This is not working. We have to change.

This Is A Criminal Post

I’ve just sat down on the couch at the coffee shop.

It’s extremely hot out. And humid. Yesterday it was so humid that it was hurting my head. I was sitting outside, at this very same coffee shop, working from a small metal table, and generally enjoying being outside. Except for the fact that it was so humid that my head felt like it was swelling.

I wasn’t even overheating. It has to be really hot for me to overheat, and I have to be thirsty too. But it can get so hot that I feel like I’m wilting. That was happening to me at the Alamo. I was just wilting. I couldn’t keep going. I couldn’t be in the sun.

Yesterday it wasn’t that bad with the heat. But the humidity PLUS the heat, it was doing me in. I couldn’t concentrate. My head felt like it was swelling.

When you are really overheating and sweltering, walking into a cool, air conditioned room is like a dream. It’s a wonderful thing. That’s how I felt just now getting off the phone and going inside of the coffee shop. I was ready to come in here.

Now feeling great, drinking a green iced tea and sitting on the couch. What a wonderful life.

I am trying to do shorter, more consistent posts. It’s an experiment. And it’s just what you’re supposed to do, when you have a blog. I also don’t want to overwhelm everyone all the time, including myself, with “mega-posts”. That’s what I have been calling my beastly writings that take twenty or thirty minutes to read, that are thousands of words long. And you know what’s funny?

Yesterday, when I was thinking about how long a post could/should be, for regular posting, Chat GPT told me to shoot for 500 words in a post. That I could even set a cap, and just stop myself from writing at 500 words. So I thought, let me look at the post I just typed up, which I felt like was still too short. I had actually just finished adding more to that post, the post I had just posted yesterday, about my writing update. That was 1900 words, and Chat GPT said that a “mega-post” was 1000-2000 words. And I still thought that was a short post! Not long enough!

Chat GPT and I have a different definition of “mega-post”. But the point was that, I can get away with writing posts that are much shorter. That are so short that they feel criminal. It really does feel that way.

For example, already I can sense that we are almost at 500 words. Right now, here is the word count: 453 words. That means I only have 47 left! And look at how short this is!

It’s criminally short. This is a criminal post.

Now 478 words.

And this took me all of 5 minutes to write.

But I guess you will read the entire post.