I’m older than the internet, which means I remember what it felt like to be bored… and to dream.
This is about growing up before everything got faster—and trying not to lose myself in it.

Quick disclaimer before you read this: I’m not in the same headspace as my last post. This one is…much lighter.

We got third place.
Out of three.

It involves a red carpet at a movie theater, a suspicious amount of popcorn, and a brief period where we collectively agreed to feel like winners anyway.

If you’ve ever believed “this is it” a little too early—you might enjoy this one.

Not how I feel right now—just something I wanted to put into words.

I have strong opinions about things I do not understand.

This is one of those moments.

I could have Googled all of this. I chose not to.

The line between truth and noise isn’t as clear as it used to be. At least, not to me.

Featuring: reversing at red lights, a permanently damaged T.V., and a very short-lived trumpet career.

“I know my rights!” I screamed.

That’s how it started.

This is a story about becoming someone you don’t recognize.

I wrote about my time in a psychiatric ward.

My pants started falling down in public and I had to pretend everything was fine.

Anyway, here we are.

AI can write something that sounds like me.
That’s the problem.

It can get very, very close.
It’s still not me.

Another confession:
I can follow instructions. I just don’t know which ones apply to being a person.

Another confession:
I tried to break up with myself.

Turns out I’m harder to leave than I thought.

This one’s about overthinking, identity, and all the versions of us we almost become.

OK, confession time: I’ve been using AI to help me write.
I think it’s making me better.
I also think I’m cheating.

So… who’s the real author here?

I went to Whole Foods to return a computer I never even opened.

I left wondering if there’s a return policy for anxiety, bad decisions, and misplaced self-worth.

My computer died yesterday, and I sat there staring at the blank screen like it might come back to life. Outside, the tulips were already up—even though it’s barely spring. I noticed them, but I didn’t get up to look.

It made me realize how often I do that—stay just outside my own life. Close enough to see it. Not close enough to be in it.

Okay, I need to say this very loudly. Are you listening? Are you there, or just staring into the same void I am? Is this thing on, or am I talking to myself again like a person who’s one step away from narrating her own life in third person?

I’m tired.

We pay our bills, but we don’t pay ourselves.
Maybe it’s time to stop being so aggressively normal—and start asking, “Am I alive?”
There’s a debt you can’t clear with productivity.
Only honesty. Maybe a little weirdness.

I catch myself thinking about him watching over me. He was blind for so long, but I like to believe that wherever he is now, he can finally see—really see. Not just the surface of things, but through them. Through me. The way you can see through water. I think he can see through my grief and recognize it for what it really is: love.

I like to imagine that the people we lose can somehow see the truth of who we are, beyond all the noise and performance.

And yet, if I’m being honest, I also feel like I don’t have my sh#t together at all. Like I’m still pretending to be an adult instead of actually being one. Everyone else seems more solid, more certain. Meanwhile, I’m over here improvising, hoping no one notices I’m just making it up as I go. I have an almost comically high level of impostor syndrome when it comes to being human. I don’t feel like an alien exactly—but I also don’t quite feel like everyone else either.

Listen, I recognize I’m the most inconsistent fool on the interwebs. I mean, who gave me permission to have my own website? Who allowed this? Who signed off on this level of public spiraling?