You ever have one of those moments where everything goes wrong in the dumbest way possible? I swear, my life is just a series of minor disasters, and I’ve somehow survived all of them.

Like, take last summer. I was watering the plants on my balcony, minding my own business, when I accidentally tipped the entire watering can over the railing. No big deal, right? Except below me was a man walking his tiny, fluffy dog. The poor little thing got an unexpected shower, and I swear, it looked at me with such betrayal, like I had personally ruined its day. The guy was just confused, staring at the sky like he thought it had spontaneously rained in one single spot. I wanted to yell, “Sorry!” but instead I just slowly backed away from the railing like I had never been there.

Then there was the time I got stuck in a revolving door. Have you ever been trapped in one of those things? It was in a hotel lobby, and for some reason, I mistimed my step and ended up in that weird gap between the glass panels. Couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back, just stuck in my little human terrarium. I had to wait until someone else pushed the door again, freeing me like I was some unlucky contestant in a very low-stakes escape room.

Speaking of escape, I once got locked inside my own bathroom. Not proud of this one. The door handle just… fell off. I stood there, holding the broken piece, like “Well, guess this is my life now.” I had to text my friend, who was thankfully in the living room, and ask him to rescue me. He found the whole thing way too amusing, and before fixing the door, he took a photo of me peeking through the crack, looking defeated. I still haven’t forgiven him.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on my battle with technology. I once spent an hour trying to figure out why my TV remote wasn’t working, only to realize I was holding the wrong remote the whole time. Just pressing buttons aggressively, wondering why nothing was happening. In my defense, all remotes look the same after a certain point.

But you know, life is just a series of these ridiculous little moments. I figure if I keep messing up in funny ways, at least I’m giving myself good stories to tell. Honestly, that’s all anyone really wants—some decent stories and a few good laughs along the way.

Anyway, I should probably go check on that dog and make sure it’s forgiven me.

You ever notice how toast always lands butter side down? I know, it’s one of those old sayings, but I swear it’s true. I dropped a slice the other day—real fancy bread too, some kind of artisanal sourdough my wife brought home—and boom. Butter side down, right on the rug. And it wasn’t even clean butter, either. Had a bit of marmalade on there. Orange marmalade. Not my favorite, but I was trying to eat healthier, you know, cut down on the grape jelly. They say bitter things are good for your gut.

I read that in a magazine at the dentist’s office. I always seem to get there early, and then they’re always running late. I don’t even mind the dentist, not like some people. I actually kinda like the smell of a dentist's office. All that fluoride and latex gloves. Makes me feel like things are under control, you know?

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about time. How it slips past. One minute you're twenty-five, drinking beer in a parking lot with your buddies, and the next you’re forty-eight and comparing cholesterol meds with your barber. The older I get, the more I realize most people are just kind of winging it. Even the folks who act like they’ve got it all together. Especially them, actually.

There’s this guy at work—Ron. He’s always got a fresh-pressed shirt and one of those watches that looks like it could survive a nuclear blast. But you know what? I caught him crying in the break room once, just staring into a yogurt cup. Didn’t say anything, just let him have his moment. Later that day he gave me half his sandwich. Real good one too. Turkey, brie, cranberry sauce. We never talked about the crying. Some things you don’t need to talk about.

People think conversations need to have a point. I disagree. Some of the best talks I’ve had didn’t go anywhere. Just two people bouncing words off each other like ping pong balls in the wind. No scorekeeping. Just sound.

I used to fish a lot. Haven’t gone in years. Still got the gear in the garage though—well, except the tackle box. I think my nephew took that. Little rascal’s always borrowing stuff and not bringing it back. I don’t mind. He’s a good kid. Reminds me of me at that age, full of questions and snack wrappers.

Speaking of questions—did you know octopuses have three hearts? That just blows my mind. I can barely keep one heart working and they’re out there with a backup and then another backup. Maybe that’s why they’re so smart. I read somewhere they can open jars and recognize people. Sometimes I wonder if octopuses are aliens. Like actual ones. Think about it. Eight legs, no bones, changes color like a disco light, lives underwater... They’re basically from another dimension.

You ever see something in the sky and just know it isn’t a plane? I have. Twice. Once when I was a teenager, and once last year in my backyard. I was out there, just standing around like I do sometimes when the dog’s doing her business, and there it was—this light, zig-zagging like a bug on a window. Then it just shot up. Straight up. Planes don’t do that. Neither do drones, not like that.

Now I’m not saying it was a UFO, but... well, maybe it was. Unidentified, flying, object. Fits the bill. I think the government knows more than they’re letting on. Too many leaks over the years for it all to be nothing. You remember that guy—what’s his name? Bob Lazar. Claimed he worked at Area 51 and saw spaceships? They tried to discredit him, but I’ve seen enough interviews to believe he at least saw something. Maybe not aliens playing poker or anything, but something not from around here.

I think about stuff like that more than I probably should. But then again, everyone’s got their thing. Some folks play fantasy football. Some collect spoons. Me, I like to think about the unexplained. It gives life a little spice. Like sriracha for the soul.

My wife says I get too caught up in my own head. She’s probably right. She's a good woman. Always keeps the house smelling like cinnamon or lemon. I think she’s secretly trying to train me like one of Pavlov’s dogs. I smell lemon, I clean the counter. I smell cinnamon, I put on socks. It’s subtle, but effective. Smart woman.

She’s big into puzzles now. Not the crosswords—those are mine. She does the jigsaw ones. Last week it was a 2000-piece picture of an English garden. Took her three days. I helped with the sky part. All the blue pieces. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, so I had to squint and hold each one up like it was a diamond or something. But we finished it. That’s the important part.

I’ve always liked things with a clear end. Books, puzzles, sandwiches. Real life doesn’t always work that way. There’s no music cue when you finish a chapter of your life. Just… on to the next thing. I guess that’s why I like mowing the lawn. You can see your progress. Row after row. Neat little lines in the grass like you're actually doing something right for once. Then the dog runs through it and it's chaos again.

You ever notice how birds seem to know when you’re watching them? I’ll be sitting out back and they’ll be doing their thing—pecking around, flapping—and as soon as I start watching, they just stop. One even stared right at me the other day. Like he knew something. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe I’m just projecting. Still, makes you wonder.

I wonder a lot. About space, mostly. I don’t think we’re meant to know everything, but I do believe we’re meant to ask questions. The asking is what makes us human. That and opposable thumbs.

Oh—and laughing. That’s the big one. You show me a creature that can laugh at a fart joke and I’ll show you a creature with a soul. You can keep your philosophy books. A good laugh at the wrong time? That’s sacred.

I laughed during my mom’s funeral. Not at her, of course. But my cousin Dale tripped over one of those folding chairs and dropped a whole tray of sandwiches, and something about that moment—grief and mayonnaise just colliding—it hit me like a wave. And I laughed. Quietly, but still. I think she would’ve understood. She always said the world was a cosmic joke anyway.

You know, I still think about her when I smell lilacs. She used to wear a lilac perfume. Sometimes I’ll catch a whiff of it walking past someone in the grocery store and it’s like she’s there for a second, looking at the canned peaches.

Funny how the mind works. Brains are weird. They’re like basements. You can clean them out, organize them, but there’s always that one corner full of old junk you can’t quite throw away.

I keep all my cords in a drawer. You know the kind—phone chargers from the 2000s, mystery USB cables, that weird three-prong thing that came with the camcorder I used once. I don’t know why I keep them. I think part of me believes that as soon as I throw one out, I’ll need it. That’s how they get you.

Anyway, I should probably get going. I’ve got to check the mail. Even though it’s mostly ads and bills. Still, you never know. Might be a letter from someone I forgot existed. Or maybe an envelope with no return address and a strange key inside. That’s how the best stories start, right?

Well, maybe not. But it’s nice to pretend.

You know, I was sittin’ on the porch the other day, watching a squirrel wrestle a slice of bread bigger than its own body, and it got me thinkin’. We humans might be the smartest creatures on the planet, sure, but you give a squirrel a bit of toast and it turns into an action hero. That little guy climbed up the fence, dropped the bread, chased off a bird twice his size, and then vanished into the neighbor’s bushes like he owed someone money. Nature’s little comedian, if you ask me.

I guess I’ve always liked animals. Grew up with a basset hound named Elmo, believe it or not. My sister named him after the Sesame Street guy—back before Elmo was even famous. She says we invented Elmo. Not sure how much credit you get for naming a dog after a puppet, but I let her have it. Elmo the basset hound used to howl at passing trains like he was auditioning for some opera. I never understood that. What’s a train ever done to a dog?

Anyway, I’ve been tryin’ to eat a little better lately. Doctor says I need to cut back on the bacon and maybe walk more than just from the recliner to the fridge. Fair point. I did try kale once. Tastes like lawn clippings if you ask me. No offense to kale lovers out there—I’m sure your taste buds are built differently. I mean, I respect the effort, I really do. But if I’m gonna eat something green, I’d rather it be mint chocolate chip ice cream. That's a plant too, right?

I remember when I used to be a jogger. Back in my twenties, I ran every morning, rain or shine. Then I discovered the magic of breakfast burritos and Saturday morning cartoons and, well, let’s just say the running shoes got demoted to lawn-mowing duty. I still have ’em though. They're in the garage, next to the toolbox I don’t use and the broken lamp I swore I’d fix in 2007.

Speaking of cartoons—do kids still watch Saturday morning cartoons? I feel like that was a whole event when I was little. You’d wake up early, cereal bowl in hand, and there’d be Bugs Bunny, eating carrots and roasting people with Shakespeare-level sass. Now it’s all streaming and algorithms. You can watch whatever you want whenever you want, which I guess is better… but there’s something about waiting all week to see your favorite show that made it feel more special. Kind of like pizza night. Remember that? Fridays meant pizza. Now you can get it delivered at 3am, half asleep, and still be annoyed it takes 20 minutes.

Technology, man. I still remember dial-up internet. You’d click to connect, and that screeching noise would start up like R2-D2 was choking on a kazoo, and everyone in the house would yell, “Are you using the internet?! I need the phone!” Now I’ve got a phone in my pocket that can tell me the weather in Argentina, translate Klingon, and play chess better than any human. But it still can’t make a decent cup of coffee. Funny, isn’t it?

You know what I miss? Letters. Handwritten ones. There was something about seeing a person's handwriting that made it feel more… I don’t know, real. Now it's all texts and emojis. I got a message from my nephew last week that was just a string of five fire emojis and a goat. I had to call my sister to translate. Apparently, that means I’m “the greatest of all time.” I said, “Kid, I just sent you twenty bucks for gas money.” I guess that qualifies me for legend status now.

That reminds me—my dad used to say you could tell a lot about a person by how they treat waiters and animals. I think that’s true. If someone’s rude to a server but nice to their boss, I don’t trust ’em. Same goes for folks who kick at pigeons or yell at dogs for barking. I mean, c’mon. They’re just doing their job. Barking’s what dogs do. You don’t get mad at a saxophone for playing jazz.

I’ve worked with all kinds of people. Did HVAC for twenty years. You meet a lot of characters crawling around attics and under porches. I remember this one time, I was fixing a unit in a trailer and a raccoon popped out of the ductwork. Just stared at me, like I’d interrupted his afternoon nap. I offered him a granola bar and backed out real slow. Never saw him again, but I like to think he appreciated the snack.

Life’s full of weird little moments like that. Like how I can remember the jingle from a shampoo commercial in 1989, but I forget why I walked into the kitchen. Or how I used to think adults had it all figured out, and now that I am one, I realize we’re all just winging it and hoping nobody notices.

Music helps, though. I still have all my old CDs in a box somewhere. Garth Brooks, Queen, a little Springsteen when I’m feeling dramatic. My wife says I’ve got the musical taste of a confused time traveler. She’s more into podcasts now. True crime and self-help stuff. I listened to one about organizing your life and ended up cleaning out one drawer before getting distracted by a paperclip shaped like a giraffe. I kept it, by the way. It’s on my desk now. Little things matter.

Oh, and speaking of giraffes—you know they only sleep like 30 minutes a day? Something like that. They do it in little naps, standing up, just looking majestic and confused all the time. Honestly, I relate. I’ve had nights like that. You toss and turn, and then the alarm goes off, and suddenly you're a giraffe in a coffee shop, wondering why the world is so loud.

Coffee. Now there’s a subject I could talk about for hours. My morning cup is like a religious experience. The gurgle of the drip machine, the smell of roasted beans—it’s the closest thing to poetry I live by. I tried giving it up once, lasted two days. Day three, I was bargaining with the toaster. I think I told it I’d mow the lawn if it gave me espresso.

But that’s the thing about routines. They anchor you. I don’t mind a little change now and then—keeps things interesting—but I like my breakfast eggs runny, my socks matching, and my Saturdays slow. Some people chase thrills, I chase a decent pancake. We all have our thing.

I had a friend once who was obsessed with skydiving. Every weekend, jumpin’ out of planes like gravity owed him money. He said it made him feel alive. I told him I felt alive just fine on the ground, preferably in a recliner with a sandwich. To each his own, right?

Funny how some folks need the extreme to feel the moment. I get it, I do. But there’s something to be said for the quiet stuff. Watching your kid fall asleep. Hearing your wife laugh in the other room. That first bite of something you made from scratch. Those are the moments that sneak up on you and stick around.

I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately. Happens, I guess, when your hair starts turning gray and you start making grunting noises when you get off the couch. You look back and realize how fast it all went. One minute you’re buying cassette tapes, the next you’re explaining to your kid what a cassette was. And heaven help you if they ask about floppy disks.

I used to think 40 was old. Now I think it’s young with a little creakiness. I’ve earned every wrinkle and bad knee. They’re like badges. Proof I’ve lived. Laughed. Tripped over at least one rake.

You know what else ages you? Kids. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but they turn you into some kind of strange hybrid between a motivational speaker, a human vending machine, and a sleep-deprived philosopher. I asked my daughter to clean her room last week and she said, “What’s the point? Entropy always wins.” I don’t even know where she learned that. Probably TikTok.

But she’s smart. Smarter than I was at her age. And I was no slouch. Got a C+ in woodshop because I made a wobbly chair and called it “modern art.” My teacher wasn’t impressed, but my mom kept that chair until it finally collapsed during Thanksgiving dinner. Aunt Susan was fine, though. Said it was the most excitement she’d had in months.

Holidays are a whole thing, aren’t they? All the cooking and planning and pretending you don’t mind when your cousin Todd starts talking about crypto for the fiftieth time. I don’t even know what blockchain is. Sounds like a pirate punishment. “Ye failed to swab the deck, now ye’ll face the BLOCKCHAIN!”

Man, I ramble. But I think it’s okay to ramble. There’s too much pressure these days to be efficient, productive, optimized. Sometimes your brain just needs to wander. Like a dog off the leash, sniffin’ trees and chasing butterflies. That’s what I’m doing now. Brain butterflies.

You ever notice how people always say, “time flies”? I think it’s more like time jogs at a casual pace, until one day you look up and it’s already ten years later. Like, I swear I blinked and somehow I’m a middle-aged guy who knows the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, but still can’t fold a fitted sheet properly.

Fitted sheets! Why are they so complicated? They’re like the Rubik’s Cubes of bedding. I tried once, got frustrated, and now my bed looks like a crumpled mess. My wife gave me the side-eye and suggested maybe I should stick to coffee-making. Fair.

Speaking of coffee—did I mention my wife? She’s the best. She laughs at my dumb jokes, even when no one else does. She listens to my rants about squirrels and kale. And she makes the best pancakes. I swear, it’s some kind of pancake wizardry. I asked her for the recipe once and she said, “Magic.” I believed her.

Love’s funny like that. You spend years together and the big moments blur into everyday stuff. But then there’s a glance, or a shared look over a burnt casserole, and it hits you that you’re lucky as hell. Or maybe just lucky enough.

Anyway, I’m supposed to be telling you all this as if it’s a grand story, but really it’s just me talking to myself and you’re lucky enough to listen. Life’s like that. A long, rambling conversation with a lot of detours. The key is to enjoy the ride, keep your sense of humor, and maybe, just maybe, keep an eye out for those squirrels.

Thanks for hanging out with me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a raccoon to bribe and a kale salad to pretend to enjoy.

Alright, since you asked for more, I guess I’ll keep yappin’. You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like if animals could talk. Not like parrots repeating “Polly wants a cracker,” but real conversations. Imagine sitting on the porch with a squirrel, chatting about the meaning of life while it’s hoarding acorns like it’s the stock market crashing. I bet squirrels have more secrets than the CIA.

Maybe they’d tell us to chill out a bit. Like, “Hey humans, you’re always rushing, stressing. Ever tried just sitting in a tree and watching the clouds?” I think they’d be onto something. Clouds are pretty wild when you look at them—shifting shapes, floating free. Last week I saw one that looked like Elvis with a pompadour made of cotton candy. Made me smile, so I stuck around until it turned into a giant doughnut. I don’t know why I find clouds funny. Maybe it’s the same part of the brain that laughs at knock-knock jokes.

Speaking of jokes, here’s one for you: Why don’t skeletons fight each other? Because they don’t have the guts. Yeah, I’m proud of that one. I’ve got a whole arsenal of dad jokes. My daughter groans and says, “Dad, no.” But secretly, I think she’s waiting for me to drop a good one so she can pretend to laugh.

Dad jokes are like comfort food for the soul. Maybe that’s what this whole monologue thing is—comfort food for the brain. Easy to chew, nothing too spicy, but somehow satisfying. I like that.

I’ve also been thinking about dreams. Not the “I want to be a rockstar” kind, but the weird, wild ones you have when you’re asleep. Last night, I dreamt I was a detective in a city made of cheese. Yeah, cheese. I was chasing a suspicious wedge of Swiss through alleyways filled with mice in trench coats. I woke up laughing and wondering if I should lay off the cheddar before bed.

Dreams are strange little movies your brain makes when you’re not looking. Some people say they reveal your deepest fears or desires. I think mine mostly reveal that I’m hungry or stressed about that one time I forgot to turn off the stove. Or maybe I’m just a fan of cheese-themed noir flicks.

You know what else is strange? How people talk about the weather like it’s some kind of cosmic mystery. “Oh, it’s raining again.” “Looks like we’re in for a heatwave.” We act surprised every time, like Mother Nature is throwing a surprise party. But honestly, weather is just weather. Rain is just clouds crying, sun is just a giant fireball, and snow is like nature’s glitter. Makes the world look festive, but also slippery.

I was walking the other day and got caught in a sudden downpour. No umbrella. Just me and the sky having a moment. Got soaked to the bone, but you know what? It felt good. Like the world was giving me a rinse, washing off the worries. Maybe that’s why some people love rain so much—they get to hit reset without even trying.

Resetting—that’s a big deal. I wish life had a reset button sometimes. You make a mistake, you hit the button, and boom, no awkwardness, no mess, just a fresh start. Unfortunately, it’s more like “undo” on a keyboard—sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes you just end up deleting your whole essay by accident.

But mistakes are part of the deal. I mean, look at me—I’ve burned more meals than I can count, told more bad jokes than I can remember, and made a fool of myself plenty of times. And here I am, still standing, still talking. That’s gotta count for something, right?

Oh! Speaking of standing—have you ever noticed how when you’re in a hurry, everything suddenly seems to move slower? Like the world’s conspiring against you to make you late. You get stuck behind a slow walker, the traffic light turns red, your shoelace unties itself… It’s like the universe is testing your patience, or maybe just having a laugh at your expense.

Patience. Another virtue I’m still trying to master. I swear, if patience were a muscle, mine would be flabby and unused. But I’m learning. The other day, I was waiting in line at the grocery store behind a lady who was paying with coins. Every single one. Nickels, dimes, pennies. I wanted to groan, but then I thought—maybe she’s having a rough day. So I smiled, tapped my foot, and hummed a little tune. By the time it was my turn, I felt calmer than I had all day. Small victories.

You ever find yourself people-watching? I do. It’s like a live soap opera with strangers. The way people walk, talk, hold their coffee cups like it’s a lifeline. I saw a guy the other day wearing socks with sandals. Bold choice, if you ask me. He owned it though. Walked like he was on a runway, head held high. Maybe that’s the secret to confidence—just pretend you belong on the runway, even if you’re in aisle five at Walmart.

Confidence, now there’s a slippery fish. Some folks have it in spades, others have to borrow it from a friend. I’m somewhere in the middle. I’ve learned it’s okay to not have it all figured out. Heck, most days I’m winging it with a coffee cup in one hand and a to-do list in the other. Sometimes the list wins, sometimes I do. Usually the dog steals the list and chews it up.

Dogs. I could talk about dogs forever. They’re the best judges of character. My old buddy Elmo, he used to wag his tail like a metronome whenever I walked in the door. You can’t fake that kind of love. I miss him sometimes. But then I see a dog chasing its tail or giving me the “I’m not allowed on the couch, but I’m trying anyway” look, and I smile.

There’s something pure about dogs. No drama, no scheming. Just lots of slobber and unconditional affection. Humans could learn a thing or two. Although, now that I think about it, maybe dogs don’t need to learn much—they’ve got the right idea. Eat. Sleep. Love. Repeat.

Oh! And food. How could I forget? Food is one of life’s greatest pleasures. I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of simple things. A good burger, crispy fries, a slice of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting just right. I’m not a fancy guy. I once went to a five-star restaurant and ordered the mashed potatoes. The waiter looked at me like I’d just asked for a rocket ship.

Mashed potatoes are underrated, by the way. Creamy, buttery, and if you add a little garlic, they become downright magical. Comfort food at its finest. I even tried making them once from scratch. Let’s just say it involved a lot of butter, some spilled potatoes, and a near kitchen disaster. But hey, practice makes perfect. Or at least edible.

I think that’s what life is—trying to make something edible out of whatever potatoes you’re given. Sometimes it’s a feast, sometimes it’s a flop, but you keep cooking. Keep stirring. Keep tasting.

You know, I read somewhere that the oldest known recipe is for beer. I found that oddly comforting. Humans have been brewing beer for thousands of years. Maybe that’s why it tastes like happiness in a glass. Or maybe that’s just my opinion. Either way, cheers to the little joys.

Speaking of cheers, I toast to the weird, wonderful, and sometimes downright silly journey we’re all on. To the squirrels stealing our bread, the clouds turning into Elvis, the raccoons we bribe with granola bars, and the people who keep us laughing even when the jokes are bad.

Thanks for sticking around. I think I’ll go see if I can convince the raccoon to share some of his stash. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make some pancakes. Or at least pretend to enjoy that kale salad.

Catch you later.

Alright, funny personal stories coming right up. You want laughs? I’ll try not to disappoint. Although, fair warning: my life is a bit like a sitcom written by a confused squirrel—unexpected, a little clumsy, but mostly entertaining if you squint.

So, there was this one time I decided I was gonna impress my wife with a fancy dinner. Thought I’d channel my inner chef, you know? I found this recipe online that looked straightforward—“Seared salmon with lemon butter sauce.” How hard could it be? I got the salmon, I got the lemons, I even bought fresh herbs, which was ambitious for me.

Step one: “Pat the salmon dry.” Easy enough, I thought. Until I realized I didn’t own paper towels. Used a dishcloth instead. That might’ve been my first mistake.

Step two: “Heat the pan and add butter.” I grabbed the biggest frying pan we had and cranked the heat up. Butter melted, started sizzling. Then, the smell. Burnt butter. I hadn’t realized butter could burn so fast. Smoke alarm went off. I fanned it with the dishcloth. That, my friend, was mistake number two.

Step three: “Place salmon skin side down and cook for 5 minutes.” I did that. Then I tried to flip the salmon. Let’s just say the fish didn’t want to cooperate. It stuck to the pan like it was glued on. When I finally pried it loose, it fell apart in three pieces. Three sad, soggy pieces. I put them on the plate anyway, arranged them like modern art. My wife took one look and asked if it was “abstract salmon.” I told her yes, inspired by the chaos of life.

Dinner was a disaster, but hey, we laughed. And we ate frozen pizza after. Sometimes love is knowing when to admit defeat and order pizza.

Then there was the time I tried yoga. Heard it was good for stress and flexibility. Signed up for a class, feeling optimistic. The instructor was this calm, zen-like woman who made everything look easy. “Breathe deeply,” she said. “Find your inner peace.”

I found inner pain. That’s what I found.

The first pose was “Downward Dog.” I’m supposed to look like a stretching dog? I ended up more like a confused elephant who forgot how to stand. I fell over trying to balance on one leg. Someone behind me giggled. I pretended I was stretching extra hard.

Then came “Warrior Pose.” I looked less like a warrior and more like a person trying to avoid stepping on a LEGO. By the end of the class, I was sweating, shaking, and wondering if my inner peace was hiding under the mat.

I didn’t go back. But I did learn that yoga mats make great makeshift nap spots.

Speaking of naps, there was this one Sunday afternoon when I was so tired I decided to take a “quick” nap on the couch. Woke up three hours later, disoriented, with the TV still on some wildlife documentary about penguins. I swear, those little tuxedoed birds looked at me like they judged my life choices.

And you know how sometimes you wake up with a crick in your neck? Well, this nap gave me a crick in my soul.

Kids and naps don’t mix, by the way. My daughter once tried to wake me up by singing “Let It Go” from Frozen. Not once, not twice, but full volume, over and over. She thought it was hilarious. I thought about charging her rent for noise pollution.

Oh, here’s a good one. I once went on a date that I swear was straight out of a comedy sketch. Met this lovely lady at a coffee shop. We hit it off, had great conversation. Then I went to order my coffee and accidentally walked up to the counter behind the barista, bumping into her. Dropped my wallet, papers everywhere. She helped me pick them up, smiled, said “Smooth.”

Then, as we sat down, I tried to open the cream but ended up squirting half the carton into my lap. I sat there, soaked in dairy, trying to play it cool. She laughed so hard I thought she might fall off her chair.

It was embarrassing, sure, but also kind of perfect. We’ve been married ten years now. So maybe a little cream in your lap isn’t the worst way to start.

And speaking of love, here’s a gem: one Christmas, I wrapped a gift for my wife that was way too big for the box I had. I tried to cram it in, tape it up, and present it like nothing was wrong. When she unwrapped it, the gift was all squished and bent. She laughed and said, “Well, at least it fits your personality.” I laughed back and said, “I was going for abstract art, remember?”

Life’s too short to take seriously all the time. Sometimes you just gotta laugh at the mess.

Then there was the time I tried to assemble a bookshelf. The instructions were a single piece of paper with pictures that looked like hieroglyphics. I spent two hours trying to figure out if a “side panel” was the left or right one. Spoiler: I was wrong. Ended up with a lopsided shelf that held maybe two books before collapsing.

I called my son over for help. He looked at the instructions once and said, “Dad, you’re doing it upside down.” Turns out, he was right. I spent another hour fixing it. But hey, at least now the shelf is slightly crooked but standing.

My wife says it adds character.

See? Even the furniture is quirky in this house.

Oh, and let me tell you about the time I tried to impress my in-laws with homemade chili. Thought I’d bring the heat. I loaded it up with spices, chili powder, and maybe too many jalapeños. Served it proudly.

They took one bite and started reaching for the water like they were drowning. I realized I had forgotten to take the seeds out of the peppers. Rookie mistake.

The evening ended with ice cream, a lot of apologizing, and a new rule: leave the spice to the experts.

I guess the takeaway is, it’s okay to fail spectacularly sometimes. It makes the stories better. And you get good at apologizing.

Now, I’m not saying I’m perfect—far from it. But I like to think I’ve got a good sense of humor about my mishaps. Life’s a bit like a blooper reel, really. You just gotta keep filming, and every now and then, enjoy the laugh track.

Alright, that’s enough of me embarrassing myself for one day. But if you want, I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Trust me, the highlights reel is endless.

You ever notice how time feels different depending on what you’re doing? Like, you sit in a waiting room for five minutes, and it feels like an eternity, but spend an hour talking with a friend, and it’s gone before you know it. I swear, time is just some flexible thing we don’t totally understand, and clocks are just lying to us. Speaking of time, when I was a kid, summers lasted forever. I’d wake up with nothing planned except maybe riding my bike down to the convenience store for a popsicle. And now? Summers come and go faster than a sneeze.

I once read that there's a word for that—"chronostasis." Ever hear of it? It’s when time feels like it’s stretching or pausing, usually when you're really engaged or surprised by something. I think it happens when you see an old friend after years apart and your brain just kind of stops for a second, recalibrating to the moment. Or maybe that’s just me.

People say life is about the little things, but I think it’s actually about the slightly bigger things. Not the grand milestones—those come and go—but the medium-sized moments that don’t seem big at first but end up defining you. Like, I remember this random road trip I took when I was in my twenties. No plan, no destination, just driving with a few friends, stopping wherever looked interesting. Best decision ever. That was the first time I realized freedom isn't about having no responsibilities; it's about letting yourself get lost sometimes.

Speaking of getting lost, I have a terrible sense of direction. If I ever end up in a maze, I’m just accepting my new life there. I read somewhere that pigeons navigate using Earth's magnetic fields. Imagine being a pigeon and just instinctively knowing how to get where you're going. Meanwhile, I need GPS just to find my way home from a new restaurant.

Oh, food—that’s another thing I think about a lot. There’s something oddly comforting about cooking, even when you’re bad at it. I tried making homemade bread once. You ever try that? Sounds easy—flour, water, yeast, patience—but my loaf came out looking like something you'd find in an archeological dig. Rock-hard. I could’ve used it as a doorstop. But I still ate it, because if I spent all that time making something, I’m not throwing it away.

One thing I’ll never understand is people who don’t like breakfast. Breakfast is sacred. Eggs, toast, pancakes—pure joy. They say breakfast is the most important meal, and while I don’t know if that’s strictly true, I do know that it makes mornings a whole lot better. There was a time I skipped breakfast because I was always in a rush, but that just made me grumpy. Now, I take my time with it. Coffee’s essential too—I don’t trust anyone who wakes up completely functional without caffeine. That’s unnatural.

Speaking of unnatural, have you ever seen those deep-sea fish? The ones that glow in the dark with terrifying teeth? Nature really went wild with those. There’s one called the gulper eel that inflates its mouth like a big balloon to trap food. Imagine if humans could do that—just unhinge their jaws and swallow an entire pizza in one bite. Actually, that would be kind of amazing.

You ever think about how some of the most interesting people are the ones who never had a plan? Just wandered through life, picking up stories and skills without even trying. I met a guy once who had been everything—chef, musician, truck driver, beekeeper. He said he never meant to do any of it, just fell into things. Kind of makes you wonder—are we trying too hard sometimes? Maybe life is best when it’s a series of happy accidents.

And speaking of accidents, I once dropped my phone into a bowl of soup. Don’t ask how, but there it was—submerged in tomato bisque. Ruined it completely. On the bright side, I learned that phones do NOT like soup. Technology is amazing, but also fragile. We live in an age where we can send messages across the planet instantly, but one bad fall and your device turns into an expensive paperweight.

Paperweights, now there’s something I don’t understand. Who uses those? Who has so many loose papers in the wind that they need a decorative rock to hold them down? And yet, I kind of admire them—the people who have desks covered in paper, just living in organized chaos. I’m more of a "shove everything into a drawer and hope for the best" kind of person.

You know what’s weird? How socks disappear in the laundry. It’s like they slip into a parallel dimension. Scientists need to stop focusing on quantum physics for a second and figure out where all our missing socks go. Maybe there’s a secret vortex in the dryer, or maybe socks are just evolving beyond us, learning how to escape on their own.

Ah, but life’s full of little mysteries like that. And I guess that’s the fun of it—just moving along, picking up odd facts, making mistakes, and learning that, in the end, it’s all just part of the ride. Anyway, I think I’m done rambling now. Time to go find that missing sock.

You ever have one of those days where you wake up and just feel like doing absolutely nothing? Not in a lazy way, but in a “the universe should let me rest” kind of way. Today feels like one of those days. I got up, made coffee, stared out the window for a solid ten minutes like I was contemplating life’s deepest mysteries, but really I was just watching a pigeon.

Speaking of pigeons, did you know they can recognize themselves in a mirror? There’s this test called the "mirror test" where scientists put a mark on an animal and see if it realizes the mark is on itself when it looks in the mirror. Pigeons passed the test. Meanwhile, my dog barks at his own reflection like it’s a home intruder.

Dogs are funny, though. They have no concept of personal space. My old dog used to sit directly on my feet every time I stood still for more than a second, like I was some kind of living foot warmer. And don’t get me started on how they sleep. Sprawled out, upside down, sometimes twitching like they’re chasing dream rabbits. Honestly, must be nice.

Sleep is a weird thing. We spend a third of our lives unconscious, and yet if you don’t get enough of it, everything in your body starts malfunctioning. I read once that dolphins sleep with only half their brain at a time. One side shuts down while the other keeps them alert enough to keep swimming. Imagine if humans could do that—just rest half the brain while still functioning. Might make mornings easier.

Mornings aren’t my strong suit, which is ironic because I love watching sunrises. There’s something calming about them, like the world is resetting itself for another chance. I remember one particular sunrise years ago when I was on a beach, totally unplanned. Stayed up all night talking with friends, and then the sky started turning pink, and suddenly everything felt quiet and meaningful. You ever have moments like that? Just completely ordinary but somehow unforgettable?

Life's strange that way. Some days feel like background noise, others feel like they belong in a movie. I used to think excitement only came from big moments, but now I think it’s hidden in the small ones—like a really good cup of coffee or laughing too hard at a bad joke. I heard somewhere that people tend to remember emotions more than facts. Makes sense. I barely remember high school history, but I still remember how funny it was when my friend tripped over his own shoelaces during graduation.

Shoelaces are another mystery. Why do they come untied no matter how tightly you knot them? You’d think after centuries of shoe innovation, we’d have solved this problem, but nope. It’s like they have a secret will of their own.

Speaking of secret wills, I’m convinced my refrigerator is plotting against me. Every time I go looking for a snack, it hides the thing I want behind something else. Like, I know I bought yogurt, but where is it? Behind the gallon of milk? Under the leftovers? It’s a game of hide and seek, and I always lose.

But that’s life, huh? Searching for things, sometimes finding them, sometimes getting distracted by something else entirely. That’s okay. I think wandering is underrated. People rush too much. Maybe we should all take more time just staring out windows, watching pigeons, and contemplating nothing in particular.

Anyway, I think I’ll go do exactly that.

Funny how the past sneaks up on you, huh? Some days, I catch a smell or hear a song and suddenly, I’m right back where I was ten, maybe twenty years ago. Like that summer when the air was thick with cut grass and cheap sunscreen, and my biggest worry was whether I’d get home in time to watch my favorite show. Back when a whole afternoon could be lost to lazy bike rides and gas station slushies, the kind that stained your tongue electric blue.

I miss how simple joy used to be. The way a single arcade token felt like endless possibility. The way waiting for a call—on a landline, no less—had its own kind of thrill. And back then, I was convinced adulthood meant freedom, meant finally getting to make my own rules. Turns out, freedom’s got its own price tag. Rent, bills, responsibilities—they all creep up like shadows at sunset. But still, there are moments when I catch myself feeling that same brand of joy—the kind I had as a kid. Like when I stay up way too late laughing with old friends, or when I taste something that reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen. Some things don’t fade.

And speaking of things that don’t fade—ain’t it funny how places hold memories? I drive past my old high school sometimes, and it’s like the ghosts of who I used to be are still hanging around there. The version of me who thought heartbreak was a tragedy, not a lesson. The version who thought time moved too slow, instead of too fast. The one who thought growing up meant knowing everything.

I wonder what my younger self would think of me now. Would he be proud? Would he laugh at how much I don’t have figured out? Maybe he’d be relieved to know that being an adult doesn’t mean you stop dreamin’, doesn’t mean you stop feelin’ that same rush when the sun sets just right or a song hits the perfect note.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize—I wouldn’t trade any of it. Not the mistakes, not the lessons, not the slow shift from one version of myself to the next. Every chapter leads to the next, and even though I don’t have the whole story yet, I think I’m startin’ to like the way it’s unfolding.

Well, I’ll tell you what… I was sittin’ on the porch this morning, just watchin’ the sun come up, and it hit me how loud birds can be when you’re tryin’ to enjoy a bit of peace. I mean, I like birds well enough, don’t get me wrong—but some of ‘em seem to think they’re auditioning for American Idol at six in the morning. There’s this one blue jay that’s got a screech like nails on a chalkboard. Pretty fella, though. Real proud, like he owns the yard.

Funny thing about birds—you ever think about how pigeons, those city-dwelling rats with wings, can find their way home from like five hundred miles away? Homing pigeons, they’re called. Scientists say they use the Earth’s magnetic field or smells or maybe even the stars. And here I am, gettin’ lost in a shopping mall I’ve been to twenty times.

I reckon memory gets funny as you get older. I used to remember every phone number, every birthday. Now I walk into a room and forget what I came in for. The other day, I went to the fridge for mustard and came back with pickles, cheese, and a yogurt I didn’t even like. No mustard. I stood there starin’ at the pickle jar like it was gonna explain itself to me.

My name’s Ray, by the way. Raymond if you’re mad at me. I’m forty-nine—will be fifty this November, if the good Lord’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Grew up in a little town with two stoplights and one decent diner. You know the kind—red vinyl booths, jukebox in the corner, waitress named Dot or Flo who’s been there since Eisenhower. Place like that’s where you get the real news. Someone gets a new truck, Dot’ll know before they drive it off the lot.

I got three kids. Well, they’re grown now. Two boys and a girl. My youngest just moved to Chicago to study architecture. She says the buildings talk to her. Not literally—I hope—but I know what she means. I always liked old buildings myself. There's something honest about ‘em, y’know? Brick and stone, real solid. These new places go up in two weeks and look like cardboard boxes stacked together. No personality.

Speaking of cardboard—did you know the cardboard box was inducted into the National Toy Hall of Fame? Dead serious. Alongside Legos and Hot Wheels. Makes sense, really. As a kid, I once turned a refrigerator box into a spaceship, a fort, a bakery, and an underwater submarine all in one week. Didn’t cost a dime, either. Imagination was cheaper back then.

Now, everything’s got a screen on it. Even my fridge has Wi-Fi, which I’m still not entirely sure is necessary. My son asked me the other day if I’d ever played Minecraft. I told him no, but I once spent a whole summer diggin’ a trench for a garden and that felt close enough.

You know, summer used to feel longer. I remember the days stretchin’ out like lazy dogs in the sun. You’d wake up, grab your bike, and be gone until the streetlights flicked on. No phones, no GPS. Just your gut and a couple of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. We used to put baseball cards in the spokes so it’d sound like a motorcycle. I ruined a Mickey Mantle card that way. Could be worth a fortune now, but I wouldn’t trade those summer days for all the Mantles in the world.

Speaking of motorcycles—I never owned one. Always wanted to, though. There's just somethin’ about ‘em… that feeling of freedom, wind in your face, not a care in the world. My buddy Joe had one. He wore one of those leather jackets with the patches on it and had a mustache that looked like it could pick up satellite signals. He let me ride it once. I went twenty feet, stalled, and tipped over into a bush. Felt like a rebel for those twenty feet, though.

Joe moved to Arizona last I heard. Said he couldn’t take another Michigan winter. I get it—snow’s beautiful until you’re shovelin’ it at six a.m. with a frozen nose and wet socks. Then it loses a bit of its charm.

I still like fall the best. There’s just somethin’ about the air. Crisp, clean, smells like woodsmoke and apples. My wife makes a mean apple pie that could win blue ribbons if she’d ever enter a contest. She says she bakes for love, not competition. That’s a good way to be, I think.

We’ve been married 26 years now. She still makes me laugh, which is no small feat given how many dad jokes I’ve burned through. Last week I told her I was reading a book on anti-gravity. “It’s impossible to put down,” I said. She just rolled her eyes and said, “You’re lucky you’re cute.” I don’t know about cute, but I’ll take lucky.

Marriage is like a garden, I think. You gotta tend to it. Sometimes it rains too much, sometimes not enough. Sometimes there’s weeds. But if you stick with it, give it attention, and pull out the weeds before they get too thick, you’ll get something beautiful. Or at least edible.

I tried actual gardening once. Grew tomatoes the size of golf balls and cucumbers that looked like question marks. But there’s somethin’ satisfying about eating something you grew yourself, even if it’s lumpy and confused.

I don’t watch much TV anymore, but I got a soft spot for those old game shows—“The Price Is Right,” “Wheel of Fortune,” “Jeopardy.” That’s real entertainment. None of this “reality” TV nonsense where people scream at each other over who ate the last protein bar. Give me Bob Barker and a spinning wheel any day.

You know what I miss? Handwritten letters. Email’s convenient, sure, but there’s nothin’ like opening an envelope with your name on it, seein’ someone’s handwriting. My grandma used to write me once a month when I was in college. Her letters smelled like peppermint and fabric softener. She always included a stick of gum and a dollar bill, “for coffee,” she’d say. Best coffee I ever had was bought with grandma’s dollars.

I still carry a pocketknife. Not a big one—just enough to open boxes or cut a loose thread. My dad gave it to me when I turned twelve, said, “A man oughta have a good knife, good boots, and a good story.” I got all three now, though the boots could use new soles.

My dad was a quiet man. Didn’t say much, but when he did, you listened. I once asked him how he knew mom was “the one.” He said, “She laughed at my jokes and didn’t mind the smell of fish.” He was a fisherman, worked the lakes most of his life. I tried it, but I get seasick in bathtubs, so that didn’t go far.

But I do like fishin’ from the shore. There’s peace in it. You cast out a line and wait. Sometimes you catch somethin’. Sometimes you don’t. But either way, you get to sit and listen to the water and think about things. Or not think at all, which is sometimes better.

You know, I read somewhere that octopuses—octopi?—are incredibly smart. Like, open-a-jar smart. One escaped an aquarium in New Zealand by unscrewing a drain cover and slithering down a pipe to the ocean. Makes you think what they’d do if they had opposable thumbs. Probably run for office.

I don’t trust anything with more than four limbs, to be honest. Spiders, centipedes, politicians…

Anyway.

The thing about gettin’ older is you start noticin’ small things more. Like how good toast smells. Or how dogs always seem to know when you need a friend. Or how the wind sounds different through pine trees than it does through maples. Little things. Big heart.

I saw a rainbow last week, a full one, stretched across the sky like it was drawn with a giant crayon. I pulled over just to look at it. Cars whizzed by me like I was crazy, but I don’t care. Some things deserve to be stopped for.

Well… I suppose I’ve rambled enough for now. Funny how thoughts just wander, like kids in a field—no path, just curiosity. If you sat with me long enough, I’d probably end up tellin’ you about the time I got stuck in a revolving door or the mystery of the disappearing socks.

Pass the iced tea, would ya?

You ever find yourself thinking about places you’ve never been? I do. Like Japan. Always fascinated me. Not just the sushi or the bullet trains, though those are pretty cool. It’s the idea of a whole culture shaped by mountains and sea, ancient temples nestled next to skyscrapers, and people who somehow make everything look effortless—whether it’s bowing or making a cup of green tea.

I was watching this documentary the other night—somewhere between falling asleep and being awake—about a Japanese village that has no crime. None. Zero. They say it’s because of how tight-knit the community is. Everyone knows everyone, and there’s this respect you can’t fake. It got me thinking about how much of the world we’ve lost that in. Here, people barely know their neighbors’ names. Doors stay locked not because of bad people, but because we don’t trust strangers. Maybe if we cared more, or paid attention, we’d feel safer. Or maybe I’m just being an old fool.

Speaking of Japan, I heard something wild the other day about how some Japanese scientists were studying earthquakes by listening to the “earth’s heartbeat.” Sounds like something from a sci-fi movie, but apparently, they record tiny vibrations underground, kind of like how a doctor listens to your chest. I wonder if they’ve found anything unusual. Or maybe the earth is just trying to tell us something.

That reminds me—remember how I was saying the Earth might be hollow? Well, imagine if those vibrations were like echoes from an inner world. A hollow core humming with life we can’t see. Maybe the reason no one’s explored it fully is because the entrances are hidden in plain sight. Like deep underwater caves or secret tunnels beneath old cities. Sometimes I wonder if those stories about UFOs are just people catching glimpses of those hidden entrances. You ever think about that?

I know it sounds crazy. Maybe that’s why I don’t talk about it much in public. People look at you funny when you bring up flying saucers or hollow planets. They’re too busy worrying about the stock market or whether their kid passed that math test. But I think there’s room for a little wonder. Like a crack in the day where the universe leaks out and reminds us there’s more than meets the eye.

Japan also has those little forest spirits, the kodama. I love that. The idea that trees have souls or guardians. When I go hiking, I sometimes pretend the trees are watching me, judging whether I’m worthy of the trail. My wife thinks I’m nuts for talking to trees. Maybe I am. But it makes me feel connected. Like I’m part of something bigger.

I haven’t been hiking much lately. The knees aren’t what they used to be. I tried to climb that hill near our place last summer and halfway up I was panting like a dog in July. Still, there’s something about the fresh air and the quiet that no TV or smartphone can replace. You ever just stand at the top of a hill and look out over the world? It’s humbling. Makes your problems seem small. And that’s a good thing.

Oh, and speaking of Japan again—have you ever had matcha? That powdered green tea stuff? It’s kind of bitter but in a good way. Like life. You have to sip it slow, appreciate the flavor, or else you’ll miss the whole point. It’s not just a drink. It’s a ceremony. Maybe we could all use a little more ceremony in our lives. Something to slow us down and remind us to breathe.

The other day I tried making it at home. Didn’t do it right, of course. Used too much powder and whisked it like I was trying to start a tornado. Ended up with this weird green foam that looked like swamp water. My daughter took one look and said, “Dad, are you trying to poison us?” I laughed so hard I almost spilled it all over the table.

Family’s a funny thing. They drive you crazy but they’re also your anchor. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. How even when you want to run off and live on a boat or in a cabin in the woods, there’s something about family that pulls you back. Like gravity, but softer. More forgiving.

I remember my dad used to say, “Son, life’s like fishing—you gotta be patient, pay attention to the little signs, and sometimes just wait for the right moment.” He never really explained what the signs were, exactly. Just said I’d know when I saw them. Guess I’m still waiting.

Maybe those signs are in the things we overlook. Like the way the sunlight hits the kitchen floor in the morning or the way my dog wags her tail when she thinks no one’s watching. Or maybe it’s in the UFOs and the hollow Earth theories—little nudges to remind us that the world’s a lot bigger and stranger than we think.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in two worlds. One where the everyday stuff happens—work, bills, mowing the lawn—and another where mysteries swirl just beneath the surface, like currents under a calm lake. Most days, I stick to the surface. But every now and then, I dive in and let myself wonder.

You ever do that? Let yourself wonder?

If not, you should try it. It’s free and better than TV.

Well, I better get going. The kettle’s boiling, and I think I hear my wife calling me for dinner. She made that stew I like—something with potatoes and carrots and that secret ingredient she never tells me about. It tastes like home. Like belonging.

I’m lucky, I guess. Even with my crazy thoughts about hollow planets and flying lights, I’ve got a place to come back to. And sometimes, that’s enough.

You know, I never did figure out where all the socks go. I mean, you put two in the washer, and somehow you end up with one. It’s like there’s a little sock goblin living in the dryer, and he’s got a mighty fine collection by now. Somewhere out there is a lonely drawer full of unmatched socks, just waitin’ for their partners to come home like long-lost lovers in a country song.

And don’t get me started on Tupperware lids. You got a drawer full of containers and a separate drawer full of lids, but none of ‘em match. It’s like a Tupperware singles mixer in there and nobody’s findin’ their soulmate. I swear, organizing a kitchen should count as cardio.

I used to be real organized. Had a planner, checklists, the whole deal. These days, I just write things on sticky notes and hope for the best. There’s one on the fridge right now that says “CALL BOB.” I don’t know who Bob is, but I hope he’s not waitin’ on me for anything important.

You ever notice how dogs stretch first thing in the morning? Big ol’ yawn, front legs out, back legs up, like they’re doin’ yoga. I started doin’ that too—some mornings I creak like an old barn door, but I swear it helps. If I could reincarnate as anything, I’d be a golden retriever. They live simple. Run, nap, eat, love everybody. Seems like they got the whole thing figured out.

Speaking of reincarnation, I don’t know what I believe about all that. I think there’s more goin’ on than we understand, for sure. The universe is too big and weird for this to be all there is. I read once that jellyfish are basically immortal. They can revert to an earlier stage of life and start over. Meanwhile, I throw out my back sneezin’.

Time’s a funny thing. My twenties felt like a long road ahead of me—stretchin’ out forever. Now it feels more like I’m walkin’ through a field and the sun’s startin’ to set, and I’m just tryin’ to enjoy the view. Not in a sad way, mind you. Just... different. Better, even. Like now I know which flowers are worth bendin’ down to smell.

When I was a kid, I thought being an adult meant you had all the answers. Turns out, it just means you know how to pretend you do. Half the time I’m wingin’ it, makin’ educated guesses and hopin’ for the best. I think the real grown-up skill is knowin’ when to admit you don’t know squat and just ask someone.

I used to ask my grandpa all kinds of questions. “Why’s the sky blue?” “Why do cats purr?” “What’s the point of broccoli?” He didn’t always have the right answers, but he always had an answer. Like, he told me the sky’s blue because that’s the color God had leftover after paintin’ the ocean. Didn’t make much scientific sense, but it stuck with me.

Cats purr when they’re happy, sure, but did you know they also purr when they’re sick or scared? It’s like their own little healing mechanism. Nature’s clever that way. Makes me wish humans had something like that. Closest we get is hummin’, I suppose. My wife hums when she’s workin’ in the garden. Says it keeps the weeds from feelin’ too comfortable.

You ever sit in total silence? I mean real silence—no TV, no phone, not even music. Just you and the world. It’s kind of uncomfortable at first, like your brain doesn’t know what to do with itself. But then it settles, like a snow globe after you shake it. I did that once when I went camping by myself. No cell service, just trees and a lake and one very nosy raccoon. That little bandit tried to unzip my tent in the middle of the night. Thought he was a bear at first. Nearly wet myself.

I like nature in small doses. I admire the folks who can hike for weeks, live off trail mix and river water, but me—I need a mattress and access to coffee. Instant coffee in a tin mug is fine, though. I’m not fancy.

Coffee. Now there’s a gift from the heavens. I didn’t start drinkin’ it until I was about thirty. Before that, I thought it all tasted like burnt dirt. But then I had a cup made by a guy from Colombia—said it was his grandmother’s roast. Changed my life. Still don’t understand how people drink it black, though. I need a little sugar and just enough cream to make it look like caramel.

You know what else is underrated? Flannel shirts. Warm, soft, and they got pockets. Real pockets. Not like those decorative ones they put on jeans now. What’s the point of a pocket if you can’t fit your hand in it? They oughta test that before sellin’ ‘em. Like a “pocket capacity standard.” I nominate myself as chairman.

I also think cereal tastes better at night. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s the nostalgia. As a kid, I’d sneak into the kitchen after bedtime, pour myself a bowl of Corn Pops and feel like a criminal. Still feels a little rebellious. Like I’m gettin’ away with somethin’.

Oh, and speaking of criminal—have you ever seen a raccoon with a slice of pizza? I saw one once, downtown near the dumpsters behind a pizzeria. He held it like a little person, sittin’ back on his haunches, just munchin’ away like he was at a food festival. I swear he even wiped his paws after. They’re too smart, raccoons. We should be keepin’ an eye on them.

I don’t get into politics much, but I do think everyone should be required to work a customer service job once in their life. Just one summer. That’ll teach you all you need to know about patience, kindness, and the proper volume to use when speakin’ to another human being.

The world could use a little more grace. Not the fancy kind—just the regular kind. Like lettin’ someone merge into traffic or holdin’ the door open even if they’re twenty feet away and now you’re both stuck in that awkward half-jog thing. That kind of grace. Small kindnesses.

I’ve made my fair share of mistakes. Said the wrong thing, didn’t say the right thing when I should have. But I try to make up for it. Learned the value of a good apology. “I’m sorry” and “I was wrong” go a long way. So does “How can I help?” and “Want the last cookie?”

I think life’s a lot like a jigsaw puzzle. You don’t always know where the pieces go, and sometimes you lose one under the couch, but if you’re patient and you keep tryin’, you end up with a picture that makes a kind of sense. And sure, there’s always that one weird edge piece that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere—but maybe that’s just you. And maybe you’re the piece someone else is missin’.

Anyway, I should probably stretch my legs. Been sittin’ here talkin’ your ear off like an old record player with a stuck needle. But it’s good to talk, y’know? Sometimes just hearin’ your own thoughts out loud helps you understand ‘em better.

Let me refill this tea, maybe grab a peach from the basket. They’re finally ripe—the good kind, the ones that drip down your chin when you bite into ‘em. Life’s too short for dry peaches and bad coffee.

Thanks for listenin’. We’ll pick up again sometime. Maybe I’ll tell you about the time I entered a pie-eating contest and discovered the limits of human dignity.

And the funny thing is, nobody tells you that wingin’ it? That’s the whole game. You grow up thinkin’ there’s some big moment when you finally arrive, when you figure it all out. But all you really get is a collection of half-learned lessons and a tolerance for uncertainty. And maybe that’s a good thing. Keeps life from gettin’ stale. Keeps you on your toes.

Used to think adulthood meant a tidy little checklist—degree, job, house, family, retirement. Now I know it’s more like a playlist full of songs you never planned on lovin’. Some days, you wake up hummin’ a tune you didn’t even know you liked. And others, well... you hear one you can’t stand but gotta listen to anyway.

Take work, for example. I thought a job was supposed to define you, supposed to be who you are. Turns out, it’s just something you do. And half the time, it’s doin’ it for a paycheck so you can afford the parts of life that actually feel like living. And that’s not cynicism—it’s clarity. Makes it easier to shake off the nonsense, to quit worryin’ about climbin’ some imaginary ladder when I’m perfectly happy just walkin’ my own trail.

Funny thing about people, too. When I was younger, I thought friendships were forever by default. You meet someone, you get along, and that’s that. But life moves, and people do too. Some folks stick around, but others fade out, like songs on a jukebox you used to play on repeat. And it’s not sad—it’s just the way things go. Now, instead of tryin’ to hold on too tight, I just make sure I appreciate the good people while they’re here. Laugh a little harder. Show up when it matters. Because time moves, whether I like it or not.

And love? Well, that’s a whole other chapter, ain’t it? Thought I knew what love was when I was twenty, but the older I get, the more I realize it’s not the grand gestures or the poetic speeches. It’s the quiet consistency. The way someone shows up in the small ways—the way they remember how you take your coffee, or how they tuck you in when you fall asleep on the couch. Used to think passion was the fire that kept love alive, but now I know it’s trust. It’s patience. It’s the willingness to stand beside someone even when life throws you off balance.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson of all—balance. I spent so much time chasin’ after more—more success, more answers, more certainty. But now? Now I just want more peace. More sunsets, more good meals, more belly laughs. More moments where I’m not tryin’ to figure everything out, just lettin’ life be exactly what it is.

Today’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? The sun’s out, the birds are chirping, and I’ve got a cup of coffee in my hand. Life’s good, you know? But sometimes, you just gotta sit back and let your mind wander, and that’s what I’m gonna do today. So, grab a seat, get comfortable, and let’s chat.

You ever notice how the world can be both incredibly vast and incredibly small at the same time? Like, you can travel to the other side of the planet and still find someone who listens to the same music as you or has the same quirky sense of humor. It’s amazing, really. I remember one time, I was on a business trip in Tokyo, and I walked into this little café, and the barista was playing this old jazz record. I couldn’t believe it! It was the same album I used to play all the time when I was in college. We ended up chatting for hours, and it felt like we’d known each other forever. It’s moments like those that remind me how connected we all are, no matter where we are in the world.

Speaking of connections, have you ever had one of those days where everything just seems to click? You wake up feeling great, the traffic isn’t bad, and you get that promotion you’ve been working towards for months. Those days are rare, but they’re worth every bit of the wait. I had one of those days last month. I woke up, and my wife had made my favorite breakfast—pancakes with real maple syrup. Then, I got a call from my boss, and he said I was being considered for a big project. I was on cloud nine all day. It’s funny how a few good things can turn your whole outlook around.

But then, there are those days when nothing seems to go right. You spill coffee on your shirt, your car won’t start, and you’re late for work. Those days can be a real drag. I had one of those just last week. I spilled my coffee, my car wouldn’t start, and to top it all off, I got a flat tire on the way to the mechanic. I was so frustrated, but you know what? Sometimes, those days are the ones that teach you the most. They remind you to take a deep breath, slow down, and appreciate the good stuff when it comes.

Now, let’s talk about food for a minute. I’m a bit of a foodie, if you will. I love trying new recipes and experimenting in the kitchen. One of my favorite dishes to make is a good old-fashioned lasagna. There’s something about layering all those ingredients—noodles, sauce, cheese, and veggies—that just feels satisfying. And the smell of it cooking in the oven? It’s heavenly. I remember the first time I made lasagna for my family. It wasn’t perfect, but everyone loved it. My son even asked for seconds. That’s when I realized that cooking isn’t just about the end result; it’s about the process and the joy of sharing a meal with people you care about.

Speaking of family, I’ve got two kids, a boy and a girl. They’re growing up so fast, and it’s hard to believe they’re already teenagers. My son is into sports, and he’s got a real talent for basketball. He’s always practicing, and I try to make it to as many of his games as I can. My daughter, on the other hand, is more artistic. She loves painting and drawing, and she’s got a real eye for detail. I’m so proud of both of them, but sometimes I worry about how quickly they’re growing up. One minute they’re little kids, and the next, they’re making their own decisions and starting to spread their wings. It’s a bittersweet feeling, but I know it’s part of life.

You know, I’ve always been a bit of a dreamer. When I was younger, I wanted to be an astronaut. I used to spend hours looking up at the stars, wondering what it would be like to explore the vastness of space. I even applied to NASA a couple of times, but it didn’t work out. Life took me in a different direction, and I ended up in a corporate job. But you know what? I don’t regret it. I’ve had a good career, and I’ve been able to provide for my family. Plus, I still get to look up at the stars and dream. It’s not the same as being an astronaut, but it’s pretty darn close.

You know, I was sittin’ on the porch this morning, drinkin’ a cup of coffee that was just on the edge of being too strong — you know the kind that makes your eyes twitch a little, like the coffee is whisperin’ secrets directly to your nervous system — and I started thinkin’ about paper towels.

Yeah. Paper towels.

Don’t ask me why. That’s just how my brain works these days. One minute I’m lookin’ at the clouds, the next I’m wonderin’ who decided to make paper towels quilted. Was there a board meeting where someone said, “You know what this paper needs? A pattern that says ‘grandma’s spare bedroom.’” I mean, they do soak up spills better now, but still. Quilting. On paper. What a time to be alive.

I turned fifty-two last November, by the way. I only know that because my niece made a big deal about it — bought me this novelty mug that says “Officially Vintage,” which I guess is cute in an insulting sort of way. I don’t feel vintage. I mean, maybe the knees are a little creaky and I grunt involuntarily when I sit down, but mentally? Mentally I’m still about twenty-five, just with a slightly better sense of consequences. I used to think jumping off the garage roof with an umbrella was “testing physics.” Now I know it’s just “testing your deductible.”

The thing about gettin’ older, though — and I’ve told this to my buddy Mike, who refuses to admit he’s aging despite the fact that he now makes a noise when he picks up a pencil — is that you start noticing the little things more. Like, how birds seem to have arguments. You ever watch two robins in a tree goin’ at it? I swear they were fightin’ over a worm like it was the last slice of pizza at a family reunion. Real animated. Bobbin’ their heads like tiny, feathery lawyers.

Oh, and speaking of birds — did you know pigeons can recognize themselves in mirrors? That blew my mind. I read it somewhere in a waiting room magazine that I wasn’t supposed to take home, but did anyway. They call it the “mirror test,” and apparently if an animal can recognize itself, it’s a sign of self-awareness. So pigeons, dolphins, elephants, some apes… and yet here I am, still talking to myself in the shower like it’s a TED Talk.

I talk to myself a lot, honestly. It’s a habit I picked up during the pandemic. When you live alone and you’re stuck inside for months, your internal monologue sort of stages a coup and becomes your external monologue. I even gave it a name. I call him “Porch Dave.” He’s basically just me, but with more opinions about squirrels.

Squirrels, man. Have you ever noticed how smug they look? Like they know you can’t catch ‘em. I swear one of ‘em winked at me once after raiding my bird feeder. I was standin’ there, half-asleep in my bathrobe, and that little punk just looked at me, stuffed one more seed into his cheek, and bounded off like he was late for a nut conference.

I guess I should get rid of the bird feeder, but then I’d miss out on all the squirrel drama. Plus, there’s a blue jay that comes around every day at 9 a.m. sharp. Like clockwork. I named him Kevin. He’s kind of a jerk, always scaring off the smaller birds, but I respect the consistency. You could set your watch by him, if you’re the kind of person who sets their watch by birds, which — I’ll be honest — I kind of am now.

Funny how you change. When I was in my twenties, all I wanted was noise and people and stuff to do. Now I get excited when I find a really good pen. I mean a really good pen. One that just glides across the paper like it’s flirtin’ with you. I found one like that last month. Black ink, fine tip, no smudging. I almost wrote a letter to my cousin just to use it. Then I remembered my cousin only texts in emojis now, so I just ended up making a grocery list that looked like a love poem to canned soup.

Soup’s another thing. People don’t appreciate soup enough. It’s the food equivalent of a warm hug from someone you trust not to ask how you’re really doing. My favorite’s split pea, but only the kind with ham in it. Otherwise it tastes like someone liquefied a lawn. I used to make soup from scratch on Sundays, back when I thought I’d be one of those people who “meal preps.” Now I just rotate through the same five meals and pretend it’s a culinary adventure.

Speaking of culinary adventures, have you ever tried durian? That’s that fruit that smells like a gym sock mated with an onion in a hot car. I tried it once, just to say I had. Tasted like custard with emotional baggage. Not for me, but I respect anyone who can eat that and smile.

You know who would’ve eaten it and smiled, though? My Uncle Ray. That man would eat anything once. He said life was too short to be picky. I remember he once ate a scorpion on a dare in Mexico. Came back with a sunburn, a hangover, and a souvenir mug that said “¡Picante!” I miss Uncle Ray. He smelled like Old Spice and car oil and gave the best advice, usually while fishing or fixing something.

He used to say, “If you can’t fix it with duct tape, WD-40, or a good night’s sleep, it probably wasn’t worth fixin’ in the first place.” I’ve tried to live by that. Only real exception is relationships. Those take more than duct tape. Sometimes they take compromise. Sometimes they take distance. And sometimes they take walking away with your pride and your copy of Die Hard on DVD.

Love is strange. You ever notice how nobody really teaches you how to do it? You just sort of fumble through it like you’re trying to assemble IKEA furniture with mittens on. I’ve been in love three times, maybe four if you count my 7th-grade obsession with Jessica Langley, who once let me borrow her ruler and I thought we were engaged.

But yeah, real love — it’s messy, and it doesn’t always feel like the movies. It’s quieter. More like the comfort of watching someone make tea exactly how you like it. I had that once, for a while. We made it eight years, and I’d say five and a half of them were good. The rest were just… life. And life, man, life gets in the way if you let it. Bills, jobs, dishes, forgetting birthdays, remembering things you wish you hadn’t said. But we tried. And we learned. And now she’s married to a guy named Todd who sells insurance and apparently makes excellent risotto. I wish them well. Mostly.

Anyway, I didn’t mean to get all sentimental. Just happens sometimes when I talk for too long without a dog to interrupt me.

I’ve been thinkin’ about gettin’ a dog again. Had one years ago, a mutt named Charlie. He had these ears that looked like satellite dishes and the heart of a saint. Used to follow me around like I was the most interesting man in the world, even when I was just unclogging the sink or watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote. I still miss the way his tail would thump against the couch whenever I said his name.

There’s a shelter nearby with a three-legged beagle named Cinnamon. I keep looking at her picture online like I’m reading a classified ad from fate. Maybe I’ll go visit her this weekend. Maybe not. We’ll see how the weather goes. I’ve reached that phase in life where the weather determines my social plans. Rain? I’m out. Too hot? Nope. Slight breeze and partial clouds? Let’s party.

I wonder if clouds get bored. Just floatin’ around all day, shapeshifting and blocking sunlight. There was one this morning that looked exactly like a chicken on a skateboard. I tried to take a picture, but by the time I got my phone out, it had turned into something less majestic. Isn’t that always the way?

Time’s funny like that. It moves like molasses until suddenly you look up and twenty years have passed and you’re thinking, “How the hell did I get here?” Not in a bad way, necessarily. Just in a “I was twenty-five five minutes ago” kind of way.

I don’t know what the point of all this rambling is. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe the point is just to be. To sit with your thoughts like they’re old friends, even the weird ones. To remember that life doesn’t always have to be loud or grand or important. Sometimes it’s just a cup of coffee, a squirrel staring you down, and the sound of your own voice echoing off the kitchen walls.

Anyway, I should probably get up and do something with my day. Or at least pretend to. Maybe I’ll water the plants. Maybe I’ll visit Cinnamon. Maybe I’ll just sit on the porch and wait for Kevin the blue jay to show up, right on schedule.

Whatever happens, I think I’m okay with it.

You know, sometimes I think life’s a bit like a lazy river. You just float along, sometimes the current picks you up a little, sometimes you get stuck behind a branch or two, but mostly you just go with the flow. I’m just a regular guy, nothing fancy, just someone who’s been around the block a few times and likes to think about stuff now and then. Like the other day, I was sitting on my porch, sipping a cup of coffee, watching the birds flit around the bird feeder. It’s funny how birds don’t seem to worry much. They just hop from branch to branch, peck at seeds, and occasionally squawk at each other like they own the place. I bet they don’t even know what tomorrow’s gonna bring. Maybe that’s the secret to being happy — just living in the moment, not stressing about the future.

Speaking of birds, did you know that pigeons can recognize themselves in a mirror? Yeah, it’s true. Scientists did a test where they put a little mark on the pigeon’s head and then showed it a mirror. If the pigeon tried to peck or scratch the mark on its own head, it meant it understood that the reflection was itself. Pretty wild for a bird most people think of as just city rats with wings. Makes you wonder what other animals are smarter than we give them credit for. I mean, dogs are obviously clever — my old buddy Max could open the fridge door if you left it cracked just right. He wasn’t trying to steal food, just curious, I guess. Or maybe he was just hungry. Either way, it was impressive.

Now that I think about it, curiosity is a funny thing. When I was a kid, I was always poking around, asking questions, trying to figure out how stuff worked. I remember once I took apart my dad’s old radio just to see what was inside. Of course, I couldn’t put it back together, and it never worked again. Dad wasn’t too happy about that, but he just laughed and said, “Well, at least you’re learning.” I guess that’s the thing about curiosity — it can get you into trouble, but it also keeps life interesting.

On the topic of learning, I’ve been trying to teach myself a bit of guitar lately. I’m not very good, but there’s something soothing about strumming chords and trying to make music. It’s a slow process, though. Fingers get sore, and sometimes my strumming sounds more like a cat walking across the strings than anything melodic. But it’s fun. Plus, I read somewhere that playing an instrument can help keep your brain sharp as you get older. That’s a nice bonus. I figure if I can’t be a rock star, at least I can keep my mind from turning to mush.

Music itself is such a strange thing. It can change your mood in an instant. I remember once I was feeling pretty down — nothing major, just one of those days where everything seems a bit gray. Then I put on an old Beatles record, and suddenly the world seemed a little brighter. There’s something magical about the way music taps into emotions. Maybe that’s why people have been making music for thousands of years. It’s like a universal language that connects us all.

Speaking of connections, I sometimes think about how much the world has changed since I was younger. When I was a kid, we didn’t have smartphones or the internet. If you wanted to talk to someone, you picked up the phone — the kind that was attached to the wall with a cord. And if you wanted to know something, you had to look it up in a book or ask someone. Now, everything’s at your fingertips. It’s amazing, but also a bit overwhelming sometimes. I catch myself scrolling through my phone just to pass the time, and then I realize I’ve wasted an hour looking at pictures of cats or reading random news headlines. Not that I don’t enjoy a good cat video, but sometimes I miss the simplicity of just sitting and thinking.

Thinking about simplicity reminds me of gardening. I started a little vegetable patch last year, just some tomatoes, peppers, and herbs. It’s surprisingly rewarding to grow your own food, even if it’s just a handful of cherry tomatoes. There’s something grounding about digging in the dirt, watching seeds sprout, and nurturing plants as they grow. Plus, fresh herbs from the garden taste so much better than the ones you buy in the store. I read that gardening can reduce stress and improve your mood. I believe it — there’s nothing like getting your hands dirty to remind you that life keeps growing, no matter what.

Sometimes I wonder if people today are too busy to notice the little things. Like the way the sunlight filters through the leaves in the afternoon, or the smell of fresh rain on the pavement. I try to stop and appreciate those moments when I can. It’s easy to get caught up in work, bills, and the endless to-do list, but those small pleasures are what make life sweet. I guess that’s why I like to take walks around the neighborhood. It’s a chance to clear my head, stretch my legs, and maybe say hello to a neighbor or two.

Neighbors are a funny bunch. Some you barely know, others you chat with regularly. I’ve lived in the same neighborhood for over twenty years now, and it’s changed a lot. New families move in, old ones move out. But there’s still a sense of community. I remember last winter when the snowstorm hit hard, and a bunch of us got together to shovel each other’s driveways. It was a small thing, but it made a big difference. It’s nice to know that people still look out for each other.

On the topic of weather, I’ve always been fascinated by how unpredictable it can be. One minute it’s sunny and warm, the next you’re caught in a downpour without an umbrella. I heard that the average raindrop falls at about 7 miles per hour — slower than you might think. It’s like nature’s gentle tap on your shoulder, reminding you to slow down. I don’t mind the rain much, actually. There’s something peaceful about listening to it patter on the roof or watching it ripple across a puddle.

Speaking of slowing down, I’ve been trying to take life a bit easier these days. When you’re younger, it feels like you have to rush all the time — get a job, make money, start a family. But now that I’m middle-aged, I realize it’s okay to just be. To enjoy a quiet evening with a good book or a movie, or to sit outside and watch the stars come out. I don’t know if it’s wisdom or just getting tired, but I’m learning that happiness doesn’t have to be complicated.

Books have been a big part of my life, even if I don’t read as much as I used to. I like stories that take me somewhere else, whether it’s a mystery, a bit of history, or even science fiction. There’s one book I read a while back about the history of coffee. Did you know that coffee was originally chewed, not brewed? People in Ethiopia used to grind the beans and mix them with animal fat to make an energy snack. I thought that was pretty interesting. Now, I can’t imagine starting my day without a cup of coffee. It’s like a little ritual that helps me wake up and face whatever the day brings.

Rituals are important, I think. They give structure to our days and something to look forward to. For me, it’s the morning coffee, a walk after dinner, and sometimes calling my sister just to catch up. We don’t talk every day, but when we do, it’s like no time has passed. Family is funny that way — even when you’re not close, there’s a bond that never really goes away.

Speaking of family, I sometimes think about my dad. He passed away a few years ago, but I still catch myself thinking about things he used to say. He had a way of making even the simplest advice sound like a life lesson. Like when he told me, “Son, don’t sweat the small stuff.” I didn’t really get it back then, but now it makes a lot of sense. Life’s too short to get worked up over little things that don’t really matter in the long run.

And that’s probably the biggest thing I’ve learned — to not take life too seriously. Sure, there are responsibilities and challenges, but if you can find a way to laugh at yourself and enjoy the ride, it makes everything easier. Like the other day, I tried to fix the kitchen sink myself. Long story short, I ended up flooding the floor and had to call a plumber. But you know what? I laughed about it. Sometimes, you just have to roll with the punches.

Anyway, I guess that’s enough rambling for now. Life’s a mix of little moments, some good, some not so good, but all part of the story. I’m just a guy trying to make sense of it all, one day at a time. So next time you see a bird hopping around or hear a song that makes you smile, take a moment to enjoy it. Sometimes, that’s all you need.

You know, it’s funny how, once you hit a certain age, you start to notice how many stories people tell are just a little bit stranger than you remember. Maybe it’s because I’ve got more time to sit and think, or maybe it’s just the world getting weirder, but lately I’ve been hearing more about UFOs and government secrets than I ever did when I was a kid. Back then, the wildest thing I believed in was that my neighbor’s cat could teleport, since it always seemed to show up wherever I was, especially if I had a sandwich in hand.

But UFOs, now that’s a topic that’s been around for ages. I remember when I was a teenager, there was this big fuss about flying saucers. People would gather in the backyard with binoculars, scanning the sky for anything that moved funny. My uncle swore he saw a bright light zip across the sky one night, and for years he’d tell anyone who’d listen that it was “definitely not an airplane.” He was convinced the government knew more than they were letting on. I used to laugh, but now, with all these stories popping up in the news again, I wonder if maybe he was onto something.

The thing is, UFOs have always been a bit of a mystery. There’s something about the unknown that just draws people in. I read somewhere that the whole obsession really kicked off in the 1940s and 50s, back when folks first started talking about “flying saucers.” There was that famous incident in Roswell, New Mexico—rancher finds some weird wreckage, Air Force says it’s a weather balloon, and suddenly everyone’s convinced the government is hiding little green men in a bunker somewhere

I guess it’s easier to believe in aliens than to accept that sometimes, things just don’t have an easy explanation.

And you know, the government not telling us everything isn’t exactly a new idea. There have always been rumors about secret bases out in the desert, strange lights in the sky, and scientists working on things they won’t talk about. I heard about a guy named Donald Keyhoe who, back in the 1950s, wrote a book claiming there was a “silence group” in the government covering up knowledge of flying saucers

He said the Air Force knew all about them and just didn’t want to cause a public panic. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Maybe they’re just trying to protect us, or maybe they’re hiding something wild, like a spaceship in a hangar in Nevada.

Of course, most of the time, there’s a perfectly ordinary explanation. I read about a journalist who saw a huge, triangular craft hovering in the sky—silent, with blinking lights, moving in ways no plane should. For years, he thought he’d seen a UFO, maybe even a secret military jet. Turns out, it might have just been a couple of advertising blimps flying in formation

Imagine that—years of mystery, and it was just blimps. Still, I can’t blame him for wondering. Sometimes your eyes play tricks on you, especially when you want to believe in something exciting.

But that’s how it goes, right? People see something strange, and suddenly everyone’s got a theory. Some folks are quick to say it’s just Venus or a reflection off a roof, while others are sure it’s proof of alien visitors or secret government projects

I guess I fall somewhere in the middle. I like to keep an open mind, but I also know that sometimes a weird light in the sky is just a weird light. That said, if a flying saucer ever lands in my backyard, I hope they come in peace—and maybe bring a universal remote that actually works for all my devices.

I suppose conspiracy theories are just part of human nature. We like to think there’s more going on behind the scenes, that there’s a grand plan or a hidden truth waiting to be uncovered. Maybe it’s because life can feel a bit mundane sometimes, and the idea of secret aliens or hidden technology spices things up. I mean, wouldn’t it be something if we found out tomorrow that we’re not alone in the universe? I’m not sure if I’d be scared or just excited to finally have an answer to all those late-night questions.

Speaking of late nights, I sometimes find myself sitting outside, looking up at the stars and thinking about how small we really are. There’s a comfort in it, somehow. The universe is so big, and we’re just tiny specks, floating around on this blue marble. Makes you appreciate the simple things, like a good cup of coffee or a quiet walk in the morning. And if a UFO ever does decide to drop by, I hope they like coffee too.

You ever notice how some topics just bring people together? UFOs are like that. Doesn’t matter if you’re a scientist or a truck driver, everyone’s got an opinion. I remember a barbecue a few summers back where the whole conversation turned to aliens. My neighbor, who’s usually pretty quiet, suddenly started telling us about a time he saw strange lights while camping in the woods. He said he never told anyone because he didn’t want them to think he was crazy. But that night, with the fire crackling and everyone swapping stories, it didn’t seem so crazy after all.

Maybe that’s what we’re all looking for—a little bit of wonder, a break from the everyday routine. Life can get so predictable, and it’s nice to think there might be something out there we haven’t figured out yet. Whether it’s aliens, secret government labs, or just the neighbor’s drone flying a little too high, there’s always something new to wonder about.

And you know, sometimes I think the real conspiracies are just the little mysteries of everyday life. Like how socks disappear in the laundry, or why the grocery store always rearranges everything just when I’ve finally memorized where the peanut butter is. Maybe there’s a secret society of missing socks, plotting in the dryer. Or maybe I just need to pay more attention.

At the end of the day, I guess I’m happy to let some things stay mysterious. It keeps life interesting. I’ll keep watching the skies, just in case, but I won’t lose sleep over it. There’s enough to worry about down here on Earth—bills to pay, gardens to weed, and guitars to practice. But if you ever see a strange light in the sky, give me a call. I’ll bring the binoculars and a thermos of coffee, and we’ll see what we can find together.

Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll be the ones with a story to tell. And if it turns out to be just a blimp or a weather balloon, well, at least we’ll have a good laugh. But if it’s something more, something truly out of this world—well, that’s a story worth waiting for.

You ever get hit with a smell that just yanks you backward through time?

Happened to me the other day. I was walking through the hardware store — one of those locally owned ones with creaky floors and a guy behind the counter who looks like he’s been part of the building since it opened — and I passed by a shelf with those old-fashioned lawn fertilizers, the kind in the thick paper bags. And just like that — boom — I was ten years old again, sittin’ on the back steps at my grandma’s house, smellin’ that same earthy, chemical-whatever scent while my uncle spread it across the yard in his undershirt, cigarette dangling from his mouth like it was glued there.

You can’t plan for memories like that. They sneak up on you. Some folks spend a fortune on therapy or guided meditations to get in touch with their inner child — me, I just need to wander past a shelf of fertilizer and suddenly I’m back in 1982, watching ants climb over my sneakers and wondering if they had a little ant grocery store in their ant world under the sidewalk.

My grandma made the best iced tea, by the way. Not sweet like they do it in the South — more like the kind you pour into a glass mason jar and leave on the windowsill to cool. She’d put a slice of lemon in it and hand it to me like I’d earned it, just for being alive and not breaking anything. I miss that. Not just the tea — the feeling. That feeling that nothing needed to be accomplished to be loved. You were just… there. And that was enough.

Funny how rare that is as an adult. Everyone’s so busy performing — for their jobs, their social media, even their pets. I caught myself narrating my morning routine to no one the other day like I was filming a YouTube tutorial. “Step one: turn on the faucet. Step two: try to look like someone who’s got it all together.” It’s exhausting. No wonder people daydream about running off into the woods and living off-grid. Of course, I’d last about eight hours without a coffee grinder and reliable Wi-Fi. But it’s a nice thought.

You know what I miss? School lunch trays. Not the food, mind you — that was a crime against cuisine. But the trays themselves. Big plastic ones with little compartments like you were about to get served a mystery dinner on a spaceship. There was something comforting about having everything in its place. Meatloaf? Slot A. Corn? Slot B. Weird cube of Jell-O with a piece of canned fruit in it? Mystery slot.

And recess. Remember recess? Back when thirty minutes of running in circles solved everything. Now if I run in circles for more than three minutes, my knees file a formal complaint and my lower back starts staging a mutiny. But man, back then — I was king of the monkey bars. Thought I was invincible. I had a scab on each knee like a badge of honor.

We used to play a game called “Wall Ball,” which I’m convinced was invented by kids with a mild death wish. All it involved was hurling a rubber ball at a brick wall and trying not to get hit. Simpler times. No apps, no Wi-Fi, just a ball, a wall, and a healthy disregard for safety.

And summers? Don’t even get me started. I swear summers used to feel longer. Endless. Like they stretched out in front of you forever. Probably ‘cause time moves slower when you’re not paying bills. I remember lying on the roof of the shed at night, looking at the stars like I might see the face of God, or at least a UFO. One time my cousin Tommy swore he did see a UFO, but it turned out to be a streetlamp reflected in his glasses. Still, we spent half the night drawing alien blueprints on notebook paper, just in case we had to design a spaceship in a hurry.

I wonder what ever happened to Tommy. Last I heard he moved to Portland and started a kombucha company. Didn’t see that one coming. He was the kind of kid who used to eat crayons just to prove a point. I guess we all grow up eventually, some of us just ferment tea while we do it.

Sometimes I think about writing a book. Not anything fancy, just a collection of stories and random thoughts. I’d call it something like Mostly True and Slightly Confused. I’d throw in stuff like my theory that socks disappear in the dryer because they're reincarnated as Tupperware lids that don't fit anything. Or how every small town has at least one guy who wears suspenders and a belt, just in case the laws of gravity change mid-day.

I’d write about the time I got locked in a Porta Potty during a Fourth of July fair because my little brother thought it’d be hilarious. I was in there for ten minutes, but I swear it felt like an hour. Smelled like despair and corn dogs. I came out looking like I’d just survived a prison sentence. Still have a mild panic whenever I hear fireworks and smell hand sanitizer at the same time.

I guess that’s part of why I ramble so much. It’s like my brain’s attic — full of old boxes and dusty souvenirs, and every now and then I climb up there, open a lid, and out comes a memory I didn’t even know I’d kept. Some are sweet. Some sting a little. But they’re all mine, and they remind me that life’s been full, even if it’s also been weird and uneven and occasionally ridiculous.

Like that time I joined a community bowling league thinking it’d be relaxing. Spoiler: it wasn’t. Turns out, people take bowling very seriously. One guy brought his own wrist brace and had a towel with his initials embroidered on it. I brought store-brand cheese puffs and an optimistic attitude. I lasted three weeks before quietly retreating into the shadows of the snack bar, where I belonged.

Still, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret most things, honestly. Even the dumb stuff — especially the dumb stuff — has shaped me. Like that road trip I took in college with no map and no plan. I ended up sleeping in the car in a Walmart parking lot somewhere in Kansas. Woke up to a flock of geese staring at me like I owed them money. But man, I felt free. Hungry. Confused. Possibly mildly sunburned. But free.

And now? Now I feel… content. Not every day, mind you. Some days I still feel like I’m chasing something I forgot how to name. But there’s a peace in slowing down. In not needing to impress anyone. In letting yourself just be. Sometimes I sit out on the porch and watch the sky change colors, and it’s like the world is exhaling. And I exhale with it.

I think a lot about the people I’ve lost, too. Not in a sad way — well, not always. More like a quiet acknowledgment. Like when I see an old car that looks like the one my dad used to drive, or when I hear a song that played at my high school dance and I remember the way my friend Rachel laughed when I accidentally spilled fruit punch on her shoes. She’s gone now. Cancer. Too young. But her laugh lives somewhere in my head, untouched by time.

I like to believe we leave little pieces of ourselves behind in the people we knew. Like emotional fingerprints. That maybe someone somewhere hears a dumb joke and remembers you laughed at it once. That maybe all the tiny kindnesses, the half-meant smiles, the shared sandwiches — they add up to something real. Something that lasts.

Anyway. That’s probably enough philosophizing for one afternoon. Porch Dave’s gettin’ a little too wistful, and I’m down to the last sips of my second cup of coffee — the dangerous kind of caffeinated where you start thinking you should take up pottery or buy a ukulele.

Maybe I’ll go see Cinnamon after all. She probably won’t care about my memories or my monologues, but she might let me scratch behind her ears and wag her tail like we’ve known each other forever. And that sounds like the kind of conversation I could really use today.

But first… I think I’ll just sit here a little longer.

The sun’s warm, the birds are out, and Kevin the blue jay is back — perched right on the railing, lookin’ at me like I’m late for something important.

Maybe I am. Or maybe this is the important thing.

Either way, I’m here.

And that’s enough for now.

You ever do somethin’ so stupid, so unforgettably ridiculous, that you know instantly it’s gonna live in your personal highlight reel forever?

For me, that was The Great Hammock Incident of 2009.

Now, I know what you’re thinkin’ — “How much trouble can a grown man get into with a hammock?” Well, let me paint you a picture. It was a sunny Saturday, one of those deceptively perfect afternoons where the breeze is just right and the sun's warm without turning your face into beef jerky. I had just bought this fancy new camping hammock online — you know, the kind with straps and carabiners and a whole instruction manual like I was assembling a small aircraft.

I was feelin’ confident. Cocky, even. I slung that thing up between two maple trees in the backyard, gave it a test tug — seemed solid. So I climbed in.

And for about 3.5 seconds, it was solid. Real peaceful. Birds chirping. Squirrels mindin’ their own business. I even had a glass of lemonade balanced on my chest like I was some kind of hammock aristocrat.

Then — pop. One of the straps slipped. I went down like a sack of flour tossed off a truck. Spilled lemonade, lost a flip-flop midair, and landed flat on my back, staring up at the sky like I had just been reborn and didn’t particularly enjoy the experience.

Neighbor Larry saw the whole thing from across the fence. Didn’t even ask if I was okay. Just hollered, “Gravity’s undefeated, Dave!” and went back to watering his roses like nothing happened.

I couldn’t sit comfortably for three days. But I learned something important: always read the part of the manual that says “weight capacity.”

Now, don’t get me wrong — I’ve had my triumphant moments too. Once fixed a leaky sink using only a bent paperclip, two rubber bands, and a sense of reckless optimism. Felt like MacGyver. My ex said it was “a temporary solution at best,” which is fair. But it held for six months, and I’ll take that win.

Funny how life is just a string of those little victories and disasters, all stitched together into whatever this patchwork quilt of existence is. You never really know what’s gonna stick — what’s gonna become a story you tell a hundred times or a memory that pops up out of nowhere, like an old friend knocking at the door of your brain.

Like, I remember this one night in high school — we’d snuck out to go watch a meteor shower. Just four of us — me, Tommy, Rachel, and this kid named Benny who swore he was allergic to moonlight, which probably explains why he wore sunglasses at night like he was in a lost 80s music video.

We drove out to this open field, laid on the hood of Tommy’s car, and just stared up. It was freezing, our breath foggin’ up the air, but nobody complained. For once, nobody was trying to be cool or funny. Just quiet. In awe. I remember Rachel whispered, “Isn’t it weird how we’re all just floating on a rock in space, trying to figure out taxes?” And we all laughed, but it stuck with me. Still does.

That’s the thing about those teenage nights — they feel like they’re gonna last forever. Like time doesn’t apply when you're fifteen and full of sugar and possibility. But then one day, you wake up and realize you haven’t spoken to Benny in twenty years, Tommy’s kombucha business has a TikTok account, and Rachel’s voice only exists in old cassette tapes you keep in a shoebox under your bed.

It’s not sad, exactly. Just… bittersweet. Like the last bite of pie you didn’t want to end, but you know was never meant to last.

You know, I think that’s why I like talking out loud like this. Even if nobody’s listenin’. It’s a way of keeping the people and places alive in your head a little longer. Like, if I say their names, they stay real. If I tell their stories, I get to visit them again for a little while.

And hey, if you say enough stories out loud, some of 'em stick around for company.

I’ve got a neighbor kid now — name’s Elijah. He’s maybe ten or eleven, sharp as a tack and always got a million questions. Shows up on my porch sometimes after school with a juice box in one hand and a fidget spinner in the other like he’s got an appointment. The other day, he sat down next to me, real serious, and said, “Dave, how do you know if someone’s the one?”

Now, I was not prepared for that. I thought he was gonna ask about squirrels again.

So I said the first honest thing that came to mind. I told him, “Well, if they laugh at your dumb jokes and don’t mind your weird habits — like talkin’ to your coffee or naming birds — you hold onto 'em. The world’s got plenty of people who’ll tolerate you. But someone who likes your kind of strange? That’s rarer than a left-handed spatula.”

He didn’t totally get it, I don’t think. But he nodded, sipped his juice box like it was fine scotch, and said, “Cool.” Then he went back to practicing backflips in the yard and almost took out a gnome.

Honestly, I like having a kid around. Makes me feel like I’ve still got something useful to say. Or at least something vaguely entertaining. Plus, he doesn’t roll his eyes when I bring up cassette tapes or encyclopedias. Mostly ‘cause he has no idea what they are. I told him once we used to have to go to the library to look stuff up, and he looked at me like I said we hunted our own food with sharpened rocks.

Speaking of libraries — there’s one downtown I still visit sometimes. Old brick building, smells like dust and hope. There’s this one table by the window where I used to study in college. I went there last month, just for nostalgia’s sake, and the table’s still there. Scratched up, covered in initials and doodles. Mine’s there too, faint but still visible. A little “D.H. 1992” carved into the corner. I sat down and ran my fingers over it and felt like I’d just shaken hands with my younger self.

He was a strange kid, that younger me. Hopeful. Lost. Trying to impress people who probably didn’t even notice. But he was doin’ his best. I try to remember that when I look in the mirror now — that I’m just a slightly older version of that confused, idealistic guy with bad hair and big dreams. I still don’t know what I’m doing, really. I just fake it with a bit more style and fewer hangovers.

Anyway, it’s startin’ to cool off now. Porch Dave’s thinkin’ about switching from coffee to tea — maybe chamomile, maybe mint, maybe just hot water with lemon if we’re feelin’ fancy. I’ll probably sit out here until the light fades and the sky turns that in-between color — not quite night, not quite day. That’s my favorite part. The edges of time.

If Kevin the blue jay shows up again, I’ll nod like old war buddies do. If Cinnamon’s still at the shelter come Saturday, I might just bring her home and let her sleep on the couch, even though I’ll swear I won’t. And if Elijah asks me another impossible question, I’ll give him the best answer I can come up with — even if it’s just a story that sounds true enough.

Because maybe that’s what life is — a bunch of stories that sound true enough, shared on porches, in libraries, and over the occasional poorly timed hammock collapse.

And if you’re lucky, someone’s listenin’.

Even if it’s just the squirrels.

Funny how life doesn’t come with a syllabus. No “Intro to Mortgages 101” or “Advanced Techniques in Not Losing Your Damn Mind While Grocery Shopping on a Budget.” They just hand you a stack of bills, a few passwords you forget the second you type them in, and expect you to build a life outta that mess. And somehow... you do. Piece by piece. You fumble, you fail, you figure a few things out. Then you trip over something else. Rinse, repeat.

There’s this myth they sell you early on—like life’s some kind of ladder. You climb it, step by step, and eventually you hit some summit where everything just makes sense. But that ain’t it. It’s more like a spiral staircase in the dark. You go ‘round and ‘round, hear your own footsteps echoin’ behind you, and you’re never quite sure if you’re goin’ up or just back to where you started. But the view does change, little by little. Same problems, new angles.

I’ve learned that the loudest people in the room usually have the least to say. Confidence and competence aren’t twins. Hell, they’re barely cousins. Some of the smartest folks I know speak soft and listen hard. That’s the trick, isn’t it? Listening. Not just hearin’, but listenin’. To yourself, to other people, to that small, stubborn whisper in the back of your mind tellin’ you when somethin’s off. Took me years to realize that voice wasn’t weakness—it was wisdom. Quiet kind.

I used to think growth was this big, dramatic thing. Like one day you’d just wake up, stretched out and enlightened, with all your past mistakes neatly filed away. Truth is, growth looks a lot more like makin’ your bed even when the rest of your life’s a disaster. Or callin’ your mom just to say hi. Or tellin’ someone, “Hey, I messed up,” instead of tryin’ to dodge the blame. It's small. It’s boring sometimes. But it sticks. Builds a foundation you don’t even realize is there until you’re standin’ on it, weatherin’ the storm a little steadier than last time.

There’s peace in not needin’ to impress folks anymore. Used to chase that hard. Wanted to be liked, respected, needed. Now I’d settle for bein’ understood. Or maybe not even that—just seen for who I am, not who I’m performin’ as. It’s exhausting, wearin’ masks all the time. Eventually, you forget which face is yours. These days I try to keep it simple: show up, be kind, tell the truth even when my voice shakes. And when I screw up—which I do, often—I own it, fix what I can, and move the hell on.

You get to a point where you realize not every battle’s worth pickin’. Not because you’re afraid to fight, but because peace has started to matter more than bein’ right. I’ll let someone be wrong in peace if it means I get to sleep at night. That ain’t weakness. That’s knowin’ the value of your time, your energy, your sanity. Some hills just ain’t worth dyin’ on, especially if the view up there sucks.

I still get angry. I still mess up. I still say things I regret, still have days where gettin’ outta bed feels like climbin’ Everest in flip-flops. But I don’t hate myself for it like I used to. I’ve stopped expectin’ perfection and started lookin’ for effort. Am I tryin’? Am I showin’ up? Am I learnin’ from yesterday instead of lettin’ it bury me? That’s enough. That’s more than enough some days.

And man, let me tell you—joy’s in the weirdest places now. Like a cup of coffee that hits just right. Or catchin’ a green light when you’re late. Or sittin’ in silence with someone and not feelin’ the need to fill it. Used to think I needed big moments—fireworks, grand gestures, somethin’ Instagram-worthy. Now? I’m thrilled if my back doesn’t hurt when I wake up. That’s real magic.

Love’s changed, too. Used to think love was this big, sweeping thing that knocked you off your feet and turned your whole life upside down. And yeah, sometimes it is. But the kind that lasts? That kind feels like comin’ home. It’s quiet, sturdy. It’s someone savin’ you the last slice of pizza without sayin’ a word. It’s rememberin’ how they take their coffee. It’s fightin’ fair, apologizin’ quick, and never usin’ their insecurities as ammo. That’s the real stuff. Doesn’t always look romantic. But it’s real.

Loss hits different now, too. I’ve lost people I thought I couldn’t live without. And yet, here I am. Breathin’, workin’, laughin’ at dumb jokes on the internet. Grief doesn’t go away—it just makes room for itself. You carry it, like a rock in your pocket. Heavy some days, barely noticeable on others. But always there. And strangely, it keeps you grounded. Reminds you what matters. Who matters.

I think we spend too much time tryin’ to curate our lives like museum exhibits. Only show the highlights. Only tell the stories where we come out lookin’ good. But I’ve learned the messy bits—the parts you’d rather hide—those are the ones that make you human. That make you real. You ever talk to someone who’s been through some stuff and come out the other side? There’s a weight in their words, a kind of quiet clarity. That’s the kind of person I wanna be. Not perfect. Not polished. Just present. Just real.

And look—I don’t have it all figured out. Never will. But I’ve stopped seein’ that as a failure. Life’s not a puzzle to solve, it’s a story you tell. Sometimes with a shaky voice. Sometimes with a drink in your hand and a tear in your eye. But you keep tellin’ it. Day after day. Breath after breath. That’s the gig.

So yeah—time’s a funny thing. It softens you, sharpens you. Teaches you which fires to put out and which ones to let burn. I’m not tryin’ to be young forever. I’m tryin’ to be here while I am. Watch the sky change colors. Laugh ‘til my stomach hurts. Love people like it’s a choice I get to make every damn day. ‘Cause it is.

And if I screw it all up tomorrow? Well... I’ll try again the next day. Ain’t that what we’re all doin’, anyway?

You ever sit in the bath long enough that your fingers start looking like raisins and you start thinking about life a little too deeply? Happens to me now and then. I like a hot soak—Epsom salts, maybe a candle if I’m feeling wild. My wife laughs at me for the candle thing, but I tell her, “Hey, if lavender can calm a horse, it can calm me.” Not that I’ve ever tested it on a horse. I did pet one once at a fair though. Big gentle face. Smelled like hay and time.

But yeah, when I sit in the bath too long, my thoughts start to drift. Like one of those leaves that floats in a puddle after the rain—no direction, just wherever the ripples go. Sometimes I think about how strange it is we’re all just walking around on this big spinning ball of rock, acting like we’ve got everything figured out. People arguing about taxes and side dishes at potlucks when we don’t even really know what’s under our feet.

I mean, sure, we’ve got maps and seismographs and core samples or what-have-you—but how do we know they’re telling us the whole story? You ever think maybe there’s more down there than molten lava and old dinosaur bones?

Not saying I believe all those wild theories—you know, about ancient civilizations living inside the Earth or a whole inner sun or whatnot—but then again… maybe I’m not not saying it either.

I mean, if I had a secret civilization, I wouldn’t exactly put it on Google Maps.

But look, I’m not trying to be one of those people, the ones who shout into their phones wearing aluminum foil hats. I’m just saying—there are caves we haven’t explored. Caverns so deep we’ve only dropped cameras down them. What if there’s more? What if everything we know is just the upstairs of the house?

Anyway. That’s just my bath-time brain talking.

Sometimes I think my dog knows more than she lets on. You ever see a dog stop in the middle of the living room and just stare at nothing? Tail stiff, ears up, like something invisible just walked through the wall? Gives me the heebie-jeebies. I asked the vet about it once and he said dogs have sensitive hearing, they might be picking up distant sounds. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think she sees things. Maybe even knows things. Could be she remembers another life, you know? Something pre-dog. Like a librarian or a jazz musician.

We underestimate animals. I mean, look at ants. They have whole cities underground. Highways, farms, even garbage disposal. You ever watch a documentary on ants? Those little guys are organized. If they were the size of raccoons, we’d be in trouble. I read somewhere that an ant can carry fifty times its body weight. Imagine if humans could do that. You’d see a guy jogging down the street with a refrigerator strapped to his back, just because he can.

We’re capable of a lot more than we think, I believe. It’s just that most people are too busy or tired or distracted to push past the daily grind. I get it. Sometimes just making it through the day without spilling coffee on yourself is a win.

I spilled some this morning, actually. Right on the couch cushion. Tried to flip it over before my wife noticed, but I got caught. She said, “You always think flipping it makes it disappear.” I said, “Well, in a way it does.” That didn’t go over great.

She’s been watching all those Scandinavian crime dramas lately. Every night it’s snow and sweaters and stern-looking detectives. I try to follow along, but they all whisper and mumble, and half the time I don’t know who killed who or why everyone looks so cold all the time. I fall asleep and wake up thinking I’m in Oslo.

Dreams have been weird lately. Had one where I was on a bus that never stopped, just kept driving through fog. Nobody talked. One guy was eating popcorn, though. Just munching quietly, seat after seat. I tried to ask where we were going but my mouth was full of honey. Woke up sweating.

Maybe I need to cut back on late-night snacks. Been on a peanut butter kick. The crunchy kind. Smooth’s too predictable. You gotta have that little bit of resistance, that extra texture. It’s like life—you want some crunch in there or you’ll fall asleep standing up.

I got into a brief argument at the grocery store last week about bananas. This woman swore you had to store them in the fridge to keep them from going bad. I said, “Ma’am, that turns them gray.” She said, “Not if you wrap the stems in foil.” Foil again. It’s always foil with people. I said, “Look, maybe bananas aren’t supposed to last forever. Maybe they’re a lesson in enjoying things before they get mushy.” She didn’t appreciate the philosophy. She called me a fruit snob. I said, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s called me all week.”

I try to be kind. Even when folks get on my nerves. I believe in small kindnesses. Holding the door. Letting someone merge. Saying “thank you” to the lady at the deli counter even when she’s clearly having a rough day. That kind of stuff matters. More than we think.

Of course, sometimes you meet someone and you just know they’re an energy vampire. Not the fanged kind, but the kind that’ll suck the will to live right out of your chest with one long-winded story about their bunions or their cousin’s time-share in Idaho. You gotta nod and smile and wait for a natural escape. Like a fire drill or a well-timed sneeze.

But I don’t blame ’em. Not really. Everyone’s just trying to be heard. That’s the big secret of the world: people just want someone to listen. Even if what they’re saying makes no sense. Even if it’s about how the Earth is hollow and full of lizard kings playing jazz trumpet in a glowing underground city. And hey—maybe it is. I haven’t been down there. Have you?

One time, I climbed into a cave on a trip out west. One of those guided tours where the guide says stuff like, “If you listen closely, you can hear the earth breathing.” I didn’t hear any breathing, but I did hear a weird hum. Like a refrigerator in the sky. I mentioned it to the guide and he gave me a look like I was either very wise or mildly unwell. Maybe both.

There’s comfort in mystery. We need a little weirdness in life. Keeps the edges soft.

Like soup. Soup is soft. And comforting. My grandma used to say, “Soup is just a hug in a bowl.” I made some last Sunday. Threw in carrots, celery, barley, and a bone I found in the freezer. Could’ve been chicken. Might’ve been something else. Tasted fine either way.

That’s the secret to soup. Low heat, long time, and a willingness to accept the unknown.

Kind of like life, really.

Anyway, I should water the plants. They’ve been drooping like old socks lately. My wife says I talk to them too much. I say, “Well, maybe they just need someone to believe in them.” Besides, they’re the only things in the house that never argue back or hog the remote.

Except maybe the cat. But that’s another story.