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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man, when given the opportunity to showcase his wit, will almost certainly regret it. The truth was reinforced one evening as my wife and I embarked on the simple yet perilous task of creating a password for our household computer.

As a man of modest intelligence and endless mischief, I aimed to bring some lightness to the proceedings. With a flourish of fingers that would make Mozart weep, I typed, “My penis.”

The response was instantaneous and seismic.

My wife, ordinarily possessed of grace and decorum, collapsed onto the floor in a fit of laughter so violent I feared for her respiration. She waved one trembling hand toward the screen, wordlessly imploring me to witness what had felled her.

Turning my gaze back to the screen, where the computer, in its cold and unfeeling wisdom, had delivered its judgment: “Not long enough.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been humbled by many things–time, gravity, and my mother-in-law chief among them—but never before had I been so succinctly eviscerated by a machine.

If this is progress, I want no part of it.

In modern-day Nevada, where sprawling deserts meet neon-lit cities, Tuff found himself in the dim light of a desolate bar in Virginia City, far from the glitz of fancy casinos. The door swung open, and in walked Jackson, a figure from his past, rugged and relentless.

“You know, Tuff,” Jackson began, his voice a gravelly drawl, “I ain’t here for a social visit.”

Tuff looked up, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Don’t suppose you wanna hear my side?”

Jackson shook his head, eyes cold as steel. “Naw. Too late for that.”

Years of bad blood had led to this moment. Once partners, now adversaries.

Tuff stood, the creak of his worn leather jacket barely audible over the tense silence. He knew Jackson was a man of few words but many actions.

“Jackson, this ain’t gonna end well for either of us,” Tuff said, trying to diffuse the tension.

“Should’ve thought of that before you crossed me,” Jackson replied, hand hovering near his side where a gleaming piece of modern weaponry rested.

“You should’ve thought of that before you put me in that position,” Tuff returned. “I see jail didn’t do you no harm.”

The standoff stretched, an eternity packed into mere seconds. The neon lights flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced across the bar’s walls, accompanied by the faint hum of electricity.

In this new Wild West, it wasn’t just about survival but about reckoning.

Tuff glanced around the bar. The patrons sensed the tension, silently slinking out the back door, leaving an open space like a makeshift arena. The bartender, a grizzled old cuss with more secrets than wrinkles, quietly moved behind the counter, shotgun in hand, leaving the two men to their fate.

“Think about what you’re doing, Jackson,” Tuff pleaded, hoping to sway the inevitable. “We were friends once.”

Jackson’s eyes hardened. “Friends don’t betray each other, Tuff.”

In the blink of an eye, Jackson drew his weapon. But Tuff was no slouch; years of survival had honed his reflexes. Before Jackson could level his aim, Tuff’s hand darted out, knocking the gun aside.

The two men grappled in a furious struggle that spilled over tables and chairs, the bar filling with the sounds of breaking glass and grunts of exertion. Just as Jackson seemed to gain the upper hand, pinning Tuff to the ground, a loud bang echoed through the room.

Jackson froze, eyes wide with shock. Tuff looked up to see the bartender, shotgun in hand, standing protectively behind the counter.

“That’s enough,” the bartender said, his voice steady. “This ain’t the way to settle things.”

Jackson slowly released his grip, stepping back. Tuff scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. The tension in the room was palpable, but the immediate danger had passed.

Tuff looked at Jackson. “Maybe it’s not too late, after all.”

Jackson didn’t respond, his expression unreadable.

The bartender kept his shotgun trained on them, and each man knew their paths would never diverge. The echoes of the past were too strong, binding them together in a web of shared history and unresolved conflict.

Outside, the night was split by a woman’s scream, pulling both men from their personal vendetta to a more urgent matter. Without a moment’s hesitation, they sprang into action. Years of shared history and raw survival instincts kicked in, their differences momentarily forgotten as their past battles flashed before Tuff’s eyes.

“Get the driver!” Tuff shouted, his voice sharp.

Jackson nodded, eyes narrowing as he drew his weapon and fired at the van’s front tire. The tire blew, sending the van careening to a halt in a cloud of dust.

The kidnappers spilled out of the van, their faces masked but their intent clear. The leader, a burly figure with a menacing scowl, barked orders to his accomplices.

Tuff squared off against one of the kidnappers, his movements fluid and precise. His fists flew, each punch landing with the force of years spent brawling in rough bars and back alleys.

The kidnapper swung wildly, but Tuff dodged, his experience giving him the upper hand. With a final blow, Tuff sent the kidnapper sprawling to the ground.

Meanwhile, Jackson faced off against the leader. The man’s strength was formidable, but Jackson’s resolve was unyielding.

They exchanged blows, each strike echoing with the weight of past betrayals and old grudges. Jackson ducked a wild swing, coming up with a punch that connected with the man’s jaw. The leader staggered but didn’t go down.

The other kidnapper, seeing his comrade downed, lunged at Tuff with a knife. But Tuff was ready.

He sidestepped the attack, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting. The knife clattered to the ground, and Tuff delivered a swift, decisive kick that sent the kidnapper reeling.

Jackson, meanwhile, pressed his advantage against the leader. With a final, punishing blow, he knocked the man out cold. Breathing hard, Jackson stood over him, the fire of battle still burning in his eyes.

Tuff and Jackson turned to the woman, who was trembling but unharmed.

“You okay, ma’am?” Tuff asked, his voice gentle despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

She nodded, tears of relief streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Sheriff’s deputies arrived soon after, taking the kidnappers into custody. Tuff and Jackson exchanged a weary nod as they watched the woman escorted to safety.

Tuff turned to Jackson, “Maybe it’s not too late for us,” he said quietly.

Jackson didn’t respond, his face inscrutable. But for the first time in a long while, there was a glimmer of something other than anger in his eyes—perhaps, a slim chance for redemption in the unforgiving land of the modern cowboy.

A reddish moon hung low and lazy in the western Nevada sky, casting long shadows over the scrubland of Five Mile Canyon, south of Virginia City. Cole Anders and Jesse “Buck” Tanner moved with a quiet purpose, their eyes fixed on the cabin where the three killers holed up.

Suddenly, a figure darted from the shadows—a killer, young but hardened by the desert’s harsh lessons, already shooting. Cole reacted first, his hand flashing to his Colt.

The air filled with the sharp crack of gunfire. Cole’s bullet found its mark, and the killer crumpled with a grunt.

But there were more of them. From the cabin burst two more men, their faces twisted in grim determination.

Buck Tanner, his eyes glinting like cold steel, swung the butt of his rifle in a wide arc. The solid thunk of wood meeting flesh was satisfying.

The killer staggered back, clutching his face.

Cole moved with the lithe grace of a mountain lion, closing the distance between himself and the remaining man. They grappled, fists flying in a brutal dance.

Cole’s knuckles met bone, and he felt the give of the man’s jaw. But the kidnapper was no slouch.

He swung a knife, the blade catching the moonlight. Cole felt a sting as the blade grazed his arm, but his focus never wavered.

Buck, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of motion. He dodged a wild swing, delivering a punishing blow to his opponent’s ribs.

The killer gasped, his breath escaping in a painful wheeze. Buck’s rifle came up again, this time slamming into the man’s temple. The killer dropped, his eyes rolling back in his head.

The last man standing, bloodied and desperate, lunged at Cole. But Cole was ready.

With a swift, practiced motion, he disarmed the killer, sending the knife spinning into the dirt. A final punch, delivered with all the power of a seasoned brawler, sent the man sprawling.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. Cole and Buck stood amidst the fallen killers, breathing hard but victorious.

The thousand-dollar bounty hung like the promise of rain in a parched desert. The pair would take it without a second thought, for in this unforgiving land, a man had to make his way however he could.

“Whiskey is for drinking, water is for fighting.” They say Mark Twain said that, though I reckon it might’ve been some fellow who’d had too much of the first and not enough of the second. Either way, it stuck in my head as I prepared for a fate worse than fighting over water—waiting for a colonoscopy.

Now, I must confess I was in considerable discomfort. My mouth was drier than a Nevada desert at noon in July, my tongue felt like a scrap of worn-out carpet, and my mood ungentlemanly.

With my brain gears stuck between boredom and despair, my hand found a bottle of sparkling water. I unscrewed the cap, took one ill-fated sip, and—heaven help me—triggered a ruckus worthy of a barn fire.

“Stop! You can’t drink that!” Five or six folks hollered like I’d swallowed a lit stick of dynamite.

You’d have thought I had single-handedly undone a century of medical science. My heart started up like a mule with a burr under its saddle, and let me tell you, as anyone acquainted with me knows, I don’t fly. Fighting, sure—especially with good sense—but running ain’t my strong suit.

But let’s backtrack, though, so you can fully appreciate my plight. The day prior, I’d swallowed a regimen that I can describe only as a devil’s brew. The prescribed gut cleanser worked its wicked magic, emptying me with the thoroughness of a flooding river flood clearing a valley. By midnight, I was as hollow as a gourd, forbidden from sniffing food or hearing a running faucet.

Fast forward to nearly one in the afternoon. I’d been waiting, parched and miserable, for what felt like a geological ice age when I made that fateful mistake—a mouthful of water, my sole act of rebellion against the gods of modern medicine.

For my crime, they sentenced me to an additional hour of waiting lest my reckless hydration cause me to “aspirate.” And so, there I sat, contemplating the absurdity of my existence.

It occurs to me that reality might’ve become unhinged, like a door swinging loose in a storm. For all I know, I am still under sedation, dreaming up this whole mad episode.

And if that’s the case, I beg you: wake me when the comedy’s over, or at least when the whiskey’s poured.

Addendum

Once they finally managed to drag me out of that uncomfortable room, I awoke from the sedation haze with all the grace of a bear poked with a stick. My throat felt like someone had slit it, and to add insult to injury, my belly button seemed to be doing its best impersonation of a low-rent accordion—pressed so close to my back I could practically taste my spine.

The hunger hit me like a freight train, and my first thought was to rush to Wendy’s and order a Triple with all the works as if I hadn’t been through enough. But then, being the picture of restraint and wisdom (at least for a moment), I reconsidered and thought better of it.

Next, I set my sights on a large beef burrito from the local joint, a noble endeavor, but that fell by the wayside, too. As the hunger pangs raged on like a river in flood, I concluded that sometimes, small is better—so I ended up at Jack in the Box, of all places.

I went for the small fry, a vanilla milkshake (for medicinal purposes, naturally), jalapeño poppers, and egg rolls. Yes, you heard me right, egg rolls—who knew?

And let me tell you, my body appreciated the effort, doubling my fuel efficiency, so to speak, with the amount of gas I expelled. If someone were giving out medals for digestive prowess, I would be wearing a gold one right now.

But I digress; food, after all, is best enjoyed with laughter—and perhaps a dash of humility, which I have in no short supply.

Years ago, Mr. Hanson, a man of high expectations and short temper, hired me to lend a hand on his sheep ranch. It was a modest operation, the kind where the sheep outnumber the humans by a scandalous margin, and the humans, therefore, feel compelled to boss the sheep around to reassert their dominance.

My duties were vague at best and as indefinite as a Nevada horizon, stretching from “helping out” to “staying out of trouble,” to “not getting in the way,” and I was doing a passable job until the day he fired me outright. It all started with a harmless task–he handed me a crook and sent me to the pasture with strict instructions to count the sheep.

“It’s important,” he said, though his smirk suggested otherwise.

Nevertheless, I took my duties seriously as a fellow who knows he’s being underpaid can. The pasture stretched before me like a sea of woolly sameness as I began my count with vigor, pointing at each creature with the crook like a sort of amateur shepherd savant.

“One, two, three…” I counted aloud, determined to prove my mathematical prowess to the only audience available—the sheep.

By the time I reached 37, something peculiar began to happen. Each successive sheep seemed to blur into the next, the bleating like the world’s most hypnotic lullaby. I felt my eyelids grow heavy, my sense of purpose dimming.

The last conscious thought I had was fuzzy, something like, “Is 37 enough sheep for one ranch? Feels like plenty.”

When Mr. Hanson eventually found me, I was facedown in the grass, drooling slightly and snoring softly. His arrival roused me, but not gently—with a boot to the butt and a look in his eye that suggested he’d spent a good ten minutes trying to decide if he should wake me up or bury me right there.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he growled. “I sent you to count sheep, not join them.”

Staggering to my feet, brushing off the dirt and grass, trying to salvage what dignity I had left. “Well, Mr. Hanson,” I said, rubbing my eyes, “the way I see it, I was doing both. I counted them until I could count no more, and then I did what any reasonable person would do in the presence of 37 sheep—I took their advice and rested.”

“Fired,” he snapped. “You’re fired.”

And that was that. As I trudged away from the pasture, I couldn’t help but think I’d learned a valuable lesson. When counting sheep, you’re enumerating the seconds till you’re back in the unemployment line.

 

Let me tell you, there is no surer way to bungle a perfect day than to tangle oneself in the muddled musings of an organization that couldn’t organize a picnic without losing track of the sandwiches. Such was my fate when I endeavored, in earnest, to report on a national car show, a seemingly simple assignment that proved about as crystalline as molasses in January.

Here’s the rub: for ten long years, Virginia City has been the grand opener for the organization in question—a proud tradition, you’d think. And yet, when the press conference rolled around, the folks running the circus spoke of everything under the sun—new venues, old venues, venues that may or may not exist in alternate dimensions—but not a word about the one venue that mattered.

The result? A chorus of confused reporters, all singing different tunes, none of them in harmony, and yours truly leading the cacophony like a tone-deaf conductor.

Oh, but thank goodness for the Internet. That glorious superhighway of enlightenment, where misinformation travels faster than a speeding ticket, and corrections limp behind like a three-legged dog.

While every other news outlet scrambled to fix its errors, I, in my infinite wisdom, almost failed to realize my mistake and correct my article. Well, I fixed it after Asa, my editor, who possesses the keen eyesight of an eagle and the patience of a wet cat, had read it.

And what did Asa do upon discovering my blunder? Why, he pulled my story faster than a gambler snatches his winnings and replaced it with a version—polished, precise, and utterly devoid of my charming errors. And there it was, the cold, hard truth: I had made myself look as ridiculous as a rooster trying to crow with a mouth full of marbles.

Some might call this a humbling experience, but I prefer to think it a valuable lesson. And that lesson is this: when an organization can’t be bothered to clarify what it is or isn’t doing, and when the press conference is as useful as a screen door on a submarine, the only safe course of action is to write about something else entirely.

Perhaps next time, I’ll report on the weather. At least clouds don’t hold press conferences — they just wordlessly float away.

Dr. Alan Harker sat in his cluttered study, the soft glow of his computer screen casting shadows across his face. For years, he’d been delving into genetic data, piecing together a theory, both groundbreaking and controversial.

“Alan, it’s late,” Emily called from the hallway, her voice laced with concern.

“Just one more minute,” Alan murmured, eyes scanning the latest results. The screen was a tapestry of genetic markers, environmental data, and a curious trend in neurodivergence.

Emily leaned against the doorframe, her skepticism apparent. “What’s got you so hooked tonight?”

Alan turned, his expression animated. “It’s the patterns, Em. Neurodivergence isn’t just increasing; it’s like humanity is evolving back to something more… primal, adaptive. Before industrialization, these traits were survival advantages.”

Emily sat on the desk’s edge, intrigued despite herself. “You mean, like, a return to nature?”

“Exactly,” Alan nodded. “Sensory acuity, pattern recognition, unconventional thinking—these were once vital for survival. Maybe we’re re-embracing that.”

His paper, “Neurodiversity as Evolution: Revisiting Our Ancestral Strengths,” sparked a firestorm. The scientific community was divided, with some applauding his insights while others accused him of romanticizing neurological conditions.

During a pivotal interview, a journalist from “Global Science Review” grilled him. “Dr. Harker, you’re suggesting we should view autism as an evolutionary advantage?”

“I’m not saying it’s all advantage,” Alan clarified. “But in a different context, these traits might have been crucial. We’re looking at neurodiversity through the lens of a modern world that’s not designed for it. That mismatch is what we label ‘disorder’.”

“And the challenges these individuals face?” the journalist pressed.

“Those are societal constructs. We need to adapt our environment, not the person. Think of it as… biodiversity in thought.”

After the interview aired, Alan faced a backlash. His former colleagues at the university began to distance themselves, fearing association with his now controversial views. Meanwhile, at MedicaCorp, CEO Victor Lang viewed the situation with alarm.

“This could hurt our bottom line,” Lang said in a board meeting, his gaze cold. “We’ve built an empire on treating these ‘disorders’. Harker’s theory threatens that.”

“What’s the plan?” asked his chief strategist.

“Discredit him publicly. If that fails…” Lang left the threat hanging, his gaze icy.

The campaign against Alan was subtle at first. Anonymous blogs, discredited scientists, and carefully placed media leaks painted him as a quack. Alan’s emails quickly filled with threats, and his public appearances dwindled as his bookings mysteriously got canceled.

At home, Emily saw the toll it took. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy,” she reminded him, her tone gentle.

“I didn’t think they’d go this far,” Alan sighed, his resolve hardening. “But I won’t let them bury the truth.”

As Alan drove to speak at an environmental conference one rainy evening, his car veered off the road. The police called it an accident caused by slippery conditions, but Emily knew better. She found encrypted files on Alan’s computer, revealing MedicaCorp’s deep involvement in his downfall.

Determined to fight back, Emily contacted Maya Patel, an investigative journalist with a history of exposing corporate misdeeds. In a secluded coffee shop, Emily passed Maya a USB drive.

“This is nearly everything Alan had,” Emily whispered, tears in her eyes. “It’s dangerous, but it’s the truth.”

Maya plugged the drive into her laptop, her face hardening as she scrolled through the files. “This could be our undoing or theirs. Are you ready for this?”

“I have to be,” Emily replied, her voice steady.

Maya’s investigation revealed a web of financial transactions linking MedicaCorp to Alan’s harassment. She faced threats, but the story was too big to ignore.

Meanwhile, Emily became an advocate, speaking at small gatherings and online forums, pushing for a reevaluation of neurodiversity. At one such event, a young man approached her. “Your husband’s work… it changed how I see myself. I’m not broken.”

Emily smiled, a bittersweet warmth in her heart. “Alan would be proud to know his vision is helping.”

Months later, an internal leak from MedicaCorp confirmed what Emily had feared. Public outcry followed, leading to protests and demands for transparency. Victor Lang soon found himself behind bars, though the legal battle was far from won.

In the middle of this storm, Emily’s son, Ethan, now an adult diagnosed with autism as a child, spoke at a large public rally. He held a copy of his father’s paper, his voice clear and unwavering. “My father saw the future in people like me. He believed in a world where we’re not forced to fit into someone else’s idea of normal.”

As the crowd cheered, Emily felt Alan’s presence, his legacy living through those his work touched. But then, the narrative took a dark turn.

One evening, as Maya left the newsroom, her phone rang. It was her producer, Jane.

“Maya, we need to talk. This story on Harker… it’s too hot. The network is getting calls from MedicaCorp’s legal team,” Jane’s voice was laced with concern.

“We knew this wouldn’t be easy, Jane, but it’s important,” Maya replied, her jaw set.

“Easy isn’t the word. They’re threatening to start a nationwide boycott of our advertisers. And there’s talk of… of threats. You need to be careful.”

Maya’s heart sank. She knew the stakes, but hearing it from Jane made it real. “I’ll be careful.”

Over the next few weeks, Maya’s life became a series of shadows and whispers. Each morning, she found anonymous notes under her windshield or in her mailbox, each warning more ominous than the last. “Back off, or you’ll regret it.”

One evening, after a grueling day of sifting through financial records linked to MedicaCorp, Maya walked up the walkway to her home, her steps echoing in the quiet. A figure detached from the shadows, causing her heart to leap.

“Maya Patel?” The voice was low, menacing.

She nodded, her pulse racing.

“We know what you’re digging into. It would be wise to reconsider your path.”

Maya stood her ground, but her hands trembled. “Who are you?”

“Someone who knows what’s good for you.”

The encounter left her shaken, but she didn’t stop. However, the pressure was relentless. Her home was broken into, leaving no trace but a clear message: stop the investigation.

During a meeting with her boss, Mr. Harris, the tone was different. “Maya, there’s an opportunity for you to anchor our new evening show. It’s a big step up, but… it comes with a condition. We need to let this Harker story go.”

Maya’s eyes narrowed. “You’re asking me to stop reporting the truth for a promotion?”

“I’m asking you to think about your future. MedicaCorp has deep pockets and long arms.”

The offer was tempting; the threats were terrifying. Maya felt the walls closing in. She met with Emily again, this time in a secure location.

“Emily, I’m being pressured from all sides. Threats, bribes… I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”

Emily’s gaze was fierce. “Alan gave his life for this. Are we going to let his vision die because of fear?”

Maya sighed, the weight of her decision pressing down. “No, but… I need to be smart about this.”

Days turned into weeks, and the pressure mounted. Maya kept her investigation alive through coded emails and burner phones. But one night, as she was about to go public with her findings, another call came through.

“Ms. Patel, we have your family under surveillance. Your sister, her kids… think carefully about your next move.”

Late one night, as Emily and Ethan were uploading the last of Alan’s research to a secure server, federal agents stormed their home. Ethan tried to complete the upload just as the agents seized their equipment.

Emily and Ethan watched from a high-security facility in Colorado, from separate cells, as Maya appeared on national television, the media company’s new anchor.

“And in a related story, MediCorps CEO Victor Lang was found not guilty today after being accused of orchestrating the accidental death of celebrated Neuroscience researcher Dr. Alan Harker, who died last year in a car crash,” Maya reported, tone even, expression unreadable.

But then, she continued, “In light of this, new evidence has emerged suggesting that the data Dr. Harker had collected was falsified. Sources close to the investigation have confirmed that the genetic patterns he claimed to have found do not hold up under scrutiny.”

After the broadcast ended, Maya sat alone in her new office, tears in her eyes, the glass filled with bourbon in her hand shaking, the price of her safety and career painfully clear.

Every day felt like a downpour. The people carried umbrellas, convinced they were essential to stay dry.

George, a regular guy, always followed the umbrella routine. One day, disaster struck—his umbrella was missing.

“Hey, George, you alright?” his colleague asked, glancing up from her paperwork with a raised eyebrow.

“Someone… someone stole my umbrella,” George replied, his voice heavy with impending doom. “I’m going to get soaked, absolutely drenched.”

“Good luck. You might catch a cold without one,” the colleague remarked.

Ready for a soaking, George stepped outside. To his amazement, it wasn’t raining at all.

Puzzled, he watched people around him getting “drenched” under their umbrellas, yet the ground remained dry.

“What in the world…?” George muttered.

He followed a group, noticing how they huddled under umbrellas that weren’t protecting them from getting wet. The absurdity hit George—there was no rain.

Laughing to himself, George skipped through the streets, utterly unbothered as confused umbrella clutchers looked down on him.

Lost—a loser, a freak—I inhabit this skin like a rented room, always too cold, too dark, too damp. In some shadowy alcove of my mind lingers that unshakable truth: no grand purpose will ever emerge to stitch me whole. Fulfillment is a mirage, a sun-scorched ribbon of road in a desert without end.

The reality remains elusive, slipping between fingers that grasp too tight or too loose, crumbling into dust, or disappearing altogether. Dissolution, silent and stealthy, creeps in—chaos disguised as a choice. I have danced to the tune of hormones and drugs, blind desire, blunter ignorance, and the sticky fingerprints of immaturity smearing every decision.

The wars rage on, indifferent. The headlines churn, the crowds march and scream, the history books bulge and splinter. None of it touches me. My war is inward—behind the eyelids, where the echoes of space, time, and fate collide.

I have unraveled and rewoven myself many times, each version as empty as the last. Satisfaction? A cruel jest, a horizon I can never reach. I want nothing of you or your gods, angels, devils, your rules. Least of all your certainties.

I imagine myself as some cosmic misstep, a being flung into the void, swallowed by a black hole before it ever had a chance to exist. Maybe that’s all I ever was—an alien to myself, orbiting nowhere.

No fucking wonder I stare at the sun, even at midnight. Maybe it’s not heaven I’m searching for—just the heat of something real before the light burns out. Before the universe crumbles, this rented room collapses, taking me with it.

Courteous readers, gather ’round, for what you have before you is a piece of pure, unadulterated humanity. It seems that life insists on throwing us into the absurd and comical. Sometimes, you find yourself chomping away at a piece of good sourdough, while other times, you might gnaw at something more akin to a rock, though I’m yet to determine which category two-day-old bagels fit into.

It could be worse, folks. You could, perhaps, be in a place devoid of the World Wide Wonder—a relic of a pre-digital era, where gigabytes roam free, and nothing interrupts your crucial work by buffering indefinitely. Perhaps the gods of connectivity have outsourced us, only to be dealt some tasteless irony.

Reckon then, you might call me a nobody. Yet we’ve opinions too, and now and again, even those opinions matter, especially when one is penning what may very well be their final dispatch to the ether. Why, change is about as agreeable as convincing a mule to wear a bonnet, but some changes are more palatable.

For instance, the sublime joy of a pup cup from the Virginia City Roasting House; now there’s an improvement we can all wag at. My four-legged companion, with aspirations as grand as any politician’s, desired a simple medium coffee, black—none of that caramel-mocha-hazelnut-four-shots ordeal.

And would you know it? The pooch’s visage graced the online sphere, a temporary icon in the middle of a sea of memes and cat pictures.

As I sat, composing what could only be described as an epitaph to my blog, the air buzzed with the tension so thick you could carve it with a butter knife. I know, with a writer’s intuition, this post could be my very last.

And then they burst in, those voices, like a band of surreal Avengers shouting demands and probably other things too unprintable. Frozen in that surreal moment, I pondered my fate, pitifully aware of the uncorrected typo glaring back at me—a blunder that’ll haunt my literate soul to the end of days.

The clock ticked, 2,000 words down, spellcheck be damned, and I knew it was time to hightail it out of there. Home called, and the promise of an amber-colored elixir awaited my return.

But lest we forget, my readers, while we are in our little absurdities, the City of Angels finds itself elegizing in flames, and the pervasive smell of hot feathers lingers—a pungent reminder that chaos has the last laugh.

So, without further ado, raise a glass to the madness and toast to the idiosyncrasies of existence.