The Old Blog in the Desert

I’ve told this story a handful of times over the years, usually when somebody’s talking about the strange things you see when you’re just minding your business. And every time I think of it, I swear I can still smell that briny, kelpy air rolling off the Pacific like it’s trying to shake the dust off my boots.

It was one of those late-afternoon drives where the sun hangs low and buttery, the kind that makes even a tired highway look like it’s dipped in warm honey. I was cruising past DeMartins Beach, windows down, radio humming something older than I am, when I caught that shimmer of silver-blue to my left.

The tide was sliding in, soft and steady, smoothing the sand. It was nothing out of the ordinary, at least not at first.

Then I saw them.

At first, I figured it was driftwood bobbing around in the break. But driftwood doesn’t march in formation, lift its head and blink at you, and doesn’t look at a wave like it’s something to stroll through on a lazy Sunday.

A whole herd of deer, maybe eight or nine of them, were picking their way straight through the surf as though they’d taken a wrong turn at the forest and said, “Ah well, ocean’ll do.”

Their coats were damp and glinting, their hooves tapping against the wet sand like dainty little percussionists keeping time with the tide. The waves weren’t exactly gentle either; they came in with their usual salty enthusiasm, thumping around their legs, curling up their sides.

I pulled over so fast my tires skittered on the gravel, and I remember blurting out to nobody in particular, “Now what in the wide world do you think that’s about?”

I scrambled to the back seat, grabbed my camera, back when we used those sturdy little bricks with buttons that clicked like a happy typewriter, and hustled toward the overlook. The deer didn’t mind me one bit, as they kept moving, one step after another, steady as church ladies in a bake-sale line.

The scene was so quiet it felt like the world had briefly disappeared. You could hear the slap and hiss of the waves, the soft clop of hooves, and somewhere above, a gull complaining loudly about who-knows-what.

I snapped picture after picture, trying to catch every angle, the soft curve of their necks, the spray kicking up around their ankles, the way their ears flicked back every time a wave said hello a little too forcefully. One young buck kept stopping to stare at the water like he couldn’t decide if it was friend or foe.

I told him, “Buddy, that’s how I feel about Tuesdays,” and I swear he understood me.

Eventually, the herd made it past the break and wandered back up toward the dunes, shaking off the seawater with that casual dignity only deer can manage. Within minutes, they were back among the brush and shadows, and the beach went back to pretending it was just a beach.

I stood there for a long while, camera warm in my hands, heart fuller than I expected. Some moments sneak up on you like that, quiet as a feather but heavy enough to stay with you for years.

I didn’t know then that I’d lose the photos somewhere along the way. Box misplaced, negatives gone rogue; who knows. Life’s funny like that; it lets you keep the moments but not always the evidence.

And sure, I wish I had those pictures now. I’d frame at least one of them, maybe stick it on the wall right by the kitchen window where the winter light falls softly in the mornings.

But truth be told, the memory’s still as sharp as the day it happened, the shimmer of the water, the hush of the air, the impossible sight of deer walking through the waves like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe, some things should be left right where they are, and not in a file, not in a frame, but tucked inside you like a secret worth revisiting whenever the day gets a little too noisy.

And every time I think of those deer, I can’t help smiling and saying, “Well now…would you look at that.”

https://tomdarby.podbean.com/

The backwoods church had stood quietly by the creek for years, a humble place built by the man folks called Preacher John. Its rough-hewn beams and hand-sawn boards had once echoed with hymns and soft prayers.

But a little more than two years ago, a fire, swift, unkind, and unexplained, had reduced it to ash. After that, the visitors stopped coming, and the little path from town grew over with weeds, and silence settled where fellowship once lived.

Preacher John, weathered by time but steady in spirit, settled into a solitary rhythm. He hunted for his meals, whittled long sticks into curious shapes, and read his worn-out Bible until the pages threatened to fall free.

He figured the town had a fine church building of its own, and most folks preferred the comfort of that to the two-and-a-half-mile walk to hear his preaching anyway.

One late afternoon, as he sat on the porch of his small cabin, also set close enough to the creek to hear its lazy murmur, John noticed a figure approaching. A young man, clothes ragged, his shoulders slumped, moved slowly along the narrow trail.

His appearance left little doubt: life had dealt him a difficult stretch.

“Hello,” the young man said when he reached the porch.

“Howdy,” John replied. “Want some food? Got biscuits and beans still warm on the stove, and coffee keeping hot.”

“No, sir,” the young man answered. “I was hoping to ask if you’d buy my pocketknife for twenty dollars. It’s perfect for whittling.”

John studied him for a long moment. The knife, he suspected, mattered less to the young man than the money.

Still, he nodded. “I’ll buy it. But I’d like to ask one thing of you before I do.”

The young man hesitated. “What’s that?”

“I’d like you to sit here a spell and hear the Good Word.”

“You mean… listen to you preach?”

“Yes,” John said.

The young man thought it over, glancing once toward the trail as if weighing escape. But something, curiosity, a hunger for hope, or maybe just the promise of twenty dollars, softened his expression, and he sat beside John.

In a quiet, even voice, Preacher John spoke of sacrifice and forgiveness, of a love that endured even when a man felt worn thin by life. When he finished, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a twenty-dollar gold piece.

The young man’s eyes widened as John placed it in his palm. He handed over the knife with a grateful smile.

He had taken only a few steps away when he turned. “Sir… can you baptize me?”

Surprised, John felt his heart leap. “Yes,” he said without hesitation.

They walked together down the gently sloping path toward the creek. The afternoon light shimmered on the slow-moving water.

John waded in first, motioning for the young man to follow. When he did, John gently instructed him to pinch his nose and lean back.

The water closed over the young man’s face, his shoulders, his chest. But as John lifted him, the form in his hands dissolved, soft, sudden, and impossible, like cotton candy touched by rain.

John gasped and stumbled back.

Where the young man had stood, the creek flowed peacefully, disturbed only by a glint beneath the surface. With trembling fingers, John reached down and lifted the twenty-dollar gold piece he had given away only moments before.

When he hurried back to the porch, the knife was gone too, vanished, just like the young man himself.

I once heard someone say, “If the world didn’t suck, everything would fall off,” and I laughed way too hard for a sentence that sounds like it came from a gas station bathroom wall. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt uncomfortably accurate.

Not scientifically, obviously, please don’t email me, but philosophically, emotionally, spiritually, even. The world’s general level of suckiness might be the only thing keeping us attached to it.

Think about it. If everything were perfect, frictionless, smooth, and endlessly delightful, we’d have no grip, literally or metaphorically.

We’d slide right off, like socks on a freshly waxed bowling lane. Mild discomfort is what gives life traction, where annoyance is the Velcro of existence.

Take mornings, for example. If waking up were amazing, like, genuinely incredible, we’d never leave bed.

There’d be no urgency. No motivation.

Just a nation of adults wrapped in blankets, whispering, “Five more hours.”

But because waking up is a little awful, because alarms are rude and gravity feels heavier before our coffee, we get up. The suck pulls us into motion.

The same goes for work. If work were perfect, we’d all be unbearable.

Every conversation would start with, “I just love my job so much,” and no one would ever stop talking.

The fact that work is occasionally frustrating, confusing, or mildly soul-draining keeps us humble. It gives us something to bond over.

Complaining is a social adhesive. Remove it, and suddenly we have nothing to say at lunch except, “Wow, this is great,” which gets old fast.

Even relationships rely on some suck. Not the deal-breaking kind, let’s be clear, but the small stuff.

The arguments over thermostat settings. The way someone loads the dishwasher.

If everyone were flawlessly compatible, we wouldn’t appreciate each other. We’d coexist like furniture.

It’s the friction that reminds us we’re attached. Love isn’t smooth; it’s grippy.

I’ve noticed this applies to personal growth, as well. If change were easy, motivational posters would be unnecessary.

No one would say things like “growth happens outside your comfort zone” because we’d all be casually evolving like Pokémon. But growth usually feels awkward, inconvenient, and mildly humiliating.

That’s the suction. That’s what keeps us from floating away into permanent stagnation.

The world’s imperfections also keep us paying attention. A little chaos sharpens the senses.

If everything always worked, if technology never crashed, plans never fell apart, and people always said the right thing, we’d stop noticing anything. Surprise requires contrast. Joy needs something to push against. Even laughter depends on timing, and timing depends on things occasionally going wrong.

I think that’s why we tell stories the way we do. Nobody wants to hear about the guy whose life went perfectly from start to finish. No conflict, no setbacks, no weird detours. That’s not a story; that’s a brochure. Stories stick because something resists. Something sucks just enough to matter.

Of course, there are days when the suck feels excessive. When it’s less “helpful friction” and more “industrial-strength vacuum.” On those days, this theory is hard to appreciate. It’s tough to say, “Ah, yes, this inconvenience is clearly keeping me attached to reality,” when you’re stuck in traffic, late, hungry, and questioning every decision you’ve ever made. Humor works better in hindsight.

Still, I like the idea that the world’s rough edges serve a purpose. That the annoyances, the disappointments, the unplanned messiness are part of the system, not a failure of it. The suck is not a bug; it’s the feature that keeps us grounded. Without it, we’d drift. Detached. Untethered. Possibly very polite, but completely uninvested.

So when things feel a little irritating, a little heavy, a little more than they should be, I try to remember: this might be gravity doing its job, holding me here and keeping me connected. Making sure I don’t slide right off the planet into a smooth, meaningless void.

And honestly? I’d rather deal with a world that occasionally sucks than one where nothing sticks at all.

Somewhere along the way, I started performing my life like there was an invisible audience grading me. I don’t remember signing up for that, but I definitely committed to it.

I chose my words carefully and edited my reactions. I wasn’t living so much as curating, and the strange part is that I thought this was maturity.

I thought being impressive meant being composed, always knowing what to say, never asking too many questions. I assumed everyone else had received a manual I somehow missed, and my job was to fake fluency until I caught up.

So I nodded and agreed. I smiled thoughtfully at things I didn’t understand.

It was exhausting, but it felt necessary, like wearing shoes that hurt but looked good. The shift didn’t happen during a big moment, no speech, no breakdown, no dramatic music.

It happened in a conversation that went slightly off-script. I got asked a simple question, and instead of providing my usual polished answer, I replied, “I don’t actually know.”

The words just fell out, no qualifiers, no humor to soften them, just honesty, standing there in socks. Nothing terrible happened; the world didn’t pause, the person didn’t recoil, and they didn’t downgrade their opinion of me on the spot.

Instead, they said, “Yeah, me neither.”

That was it, the whole miracle. Two people not knowing something at the same time, and the sky stayed exactly where it was.

I started noticing how much energy I’d spent trying to appear put together, how often I’d chosen sounding smart over being curious, the many moments I’d missed because I was busy managing the version of myself I thought was acceptable.

I realized being impressive required constant maintenance, whereas being rme felt low-effort by comparison. I tested this new approach in small ways.

I asked questions I worried might be obvious. I admitted when I was tired instead of powering through with false enthusiasm, letting silences exist without rushing to fill them.

It felt risky at first, like stepping into public without armor, but the more I did it, the lighter I felt. Less polished, sure, but also more present.

What surprised me most was how much better conversations became. When I stopped trying to say the “right” thing, I started saying true things.

When I stopped performing certainty, other people relaxed too. It turns out most of us aren’t looking to be impressed.

That doesn’t mean I stopped caring altogether. I still try, still prepare, and still want to do things well.

But there’s a difference between effort and image. One builds something, while the other makes noise like the hiss of a radio unable to find a signal. I used to confuse the two because representation is louder.

It announces itself, while effort is quieter. It shows up early and leaves without applause.

There are still moments when the old instinct kicks in. When I feel the urge to smooth an answer, to sound more confident than I am, to pretend I’ve got it all figured out.

Old habits don’t disappear; they wait patiently for the opportunity to reappear. But now I notice them and don’t always obey.

What I’ve learned is this: being impressive is about control, and being human is about connection. Control wants perfection, but connection wants honesty.

One keeps you admired from a distance. The other keeps you company.

I don’t think anyone will remember me for being impressive anyway. I’ll get remembered for how I made that person feel, whether I listened, whether I laughed, whether I was willing to be a little unfinished in their presence.

That feels like a better legacy than flawless delivery. So I’m done trying to be impressive.

Instead, I’m aiming for honest, curious, and occasionally awkward. It’s not as shiny, but it actually feels like mine.

I used to believe there was a specific age where clarity just showed up like a delivery. You open the door one morning, and there it is, confidence, purpose, and a solid explanation for why everything happened the way it did.

No assembly required. I don’t know who told me this, but I believed them with impressive commitment.

I’ve since learned that clarity does not arrive in a box. It sneaks in occasionally, stays for a few minutes, then leaves without cleaning up after itself.

Most days, I wake up with a vague plan and a strong sense that I’m already behind. Behind on life, on emails, on whatever version of myself I was supposed to become by now.

I scroll through my social media looking for proof that someone else knows what they’re doing, which is a bad idea. Everyone online appears to be thriving, launching something, or drinking coffee with intention, whereas I drink coffee with panic and some resentment.

What no one tells you is that adulthood is mostly improvisation with better language. We use words like “strategy” and “next steps,” but at times we’re just guessing and hoping our tone sounds convincing. I’ve sat in meetings nodding thoughtfully while my inner monologue screamed, “Are we all pretending right now? Because I can pretend too.”

Somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting certainty and began appreciating momentum. Not dramatic progress, just movement.

Getting out of bed counts. Saying “I don’t know, but I’ll try” definitely counts. I’ve learned that waiting to feel ready is a great way to stay stuck forever.

There’s also the myth that life becomes simpler if you make the “right” choices. That one’s adorable.

Every choice comes with its own mess. Pick one path, and you grieve the others.

Pick another, and you wonder what you missed. No decision eliminates doubt; it just changes the flavor.

I’ve tasted most of them. They’re all confusing.

What has surprised me is how much meaning shows up in the unremarkable moments. Not the big wins or the dramatic turning points, but the quiet stuff.

The random conversation that stays with you. The laugh you didn’t expect, or the ordinary day that doesn’t fall apart.

Those moments don’t look impressive from the outside, but they stack up. They make something stable enough to stand on.

I’ve also become more forgiving of my past self. That version of me was doing the best I could with the information I had and a wildly optimistic belief in control.

I look back and cringe sometimes, but I also recognize my effort. Growth isn’t about erasing who you were; it’s about understanding why you were that way and not punishing yourself for it.

There are still days when I feel like I’m wandering without a map, when everyone else seems to be moving faster. On those days, I remind myself that comparison is a terrible compass.

It points everywhere except where you are. I try to come back to what’s actually in front of me.

This moment. This choice.

The small opportunity to be honest, kind, or just slightly braver than yesterday.

I don’t have everything figured out. I’m not even close, but I’ve learned that life doesn’t require complete understanding. It asks for your attention, participation, and a willingness to be curious.

Maybe clarity isn’t something you reach, but something you practice, moment by moment, adjusting when you need to, and trusting that not knowing everything doesn’t disqualify you from moving forward. If that’s true, then I’m doing better than I thought.

There was a time in this country when a man could sit still, do nothing of consequence, and yet know everything worth knowing, provided he had a radio and the good sense to turn it on at the top of the hour. That arrangement has now been judged inefficient, and so CBS News has announced it will shut down its radio service after nearly a century, which is a respectable age for anything except a tortoise or a grudge.

The service began in 1927, back when news traveled at the speed of a voice, and people trusted it on account of having no alternative. A young William S. Paley got his start there, and Edward R. Murrow later spoke into that same invisible crowd from London during the war, proving that a calm voice could cross an ocean and still carry authority.

It was a fine system. You heard the news, you considered it, and you went about your day without arguing with strangers.

Now the thing is to be put down on May 22, not because it forgot how to speak, but because fewer people remembered how to listen. CBS says the decision comes from “changing programming strategies” and “challenging economic times,” which is the modern way of explaining that the audience has wandered off and taken the money with it.

Radio, once the king of the hill, has been steadily pushed downhill by television, and then shoved the rest of the way by the Internet, where every man may have his own broadcast and most of them ought not. Folks who still want to hear the news now prefer it dressed up as a podcast, which is radio that has learned to knock politely before entering.

The peculiar part is that CBS News Radio still supplies some 700 stations, which suggests it was not entirely dead, only unfashionable, which is a far more serious condition in our time. There is nothing so mortal as a thing that has gone out of style.

At the helm of this decision is CBS News editor-in-chief Bari Weiss, who has made something of a reputation for stirring the pot and then asking why it boils. She has invoked Walter Cronkite as a symbol of “old thinking,” which is a bold maneuver, akin to improving a church by suggesting the pews have been sitting too long.

She has also promised stories that “surprise and provoke,” including the newsroom itself, which is a dangerous ambition. A newsroom provoked is liable to start producing news about itself, and no good ever comes of that.

Meanwhile, the front page of CBS News did not immediately carry word of its own radio service’s demise, which is either an oversight or a perfect summary of the situation.

And so another old institution tips its hat and exits, not with a bang but with a memo. It leaves behind a century of voices, a habit of listening, and the faint suspicion that progress has improved everything except our attention spans.

If there is a lesson, it is this: the news has not disappeared, only the patience required to receive it.

I used to believe control was something you could grip, like a steering wheel. Hands at ten and two, eyes forward, confident that if you paid attention and followed the rules, you’d arrive where you intended.

That belief felt responsible. Adult, reassuring, and I liked it.

I planned my days, my words, my future with color-coded calendars and tidy intentions. Control wasn’t arrogance; it was diligence, proof I was trying.

Then little things began to slip. Not catastrophes, just annoyances.

A rescheduled meeting after I’d rearranged everything else. A careful email that became misunderstood.

My body that didn’t respond the way I told it to, no matter how many lists I made or promises I whispered. I tightened my grip.

I’d planned more and made a better effort, only to figure out that the steering wheel wasn’t attached to anything at all.

I remember standing in the grocery store, staring at an empty shelf where the thing I needed was supposed to be. I felt an absurd flare of anger, like the universe had personally inconvenienced me.

I caught myself thinking, “This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”

That sentence was on repeat a lot back then. It sounded reasonable, even noble, but it also sounded like a contract I’d invented and expected reality to honor.

Control, I realized, had rules only I believed in. The strange thing is how convincing the illusion is.

When things go right, I credit my discipline, my foresight, my good choices. When they don’t, I assume I missed something, that I didn’t try hard enough, or want it badly enough.

Control thrives on hindsight. It points backward and says, “See? You should have known.”

It never points forward or admits it’s guessing like everyone else. I tested this theory by paying attention to my own life.

They arrived sideways. A conversation I almost skipped, a mistake that closed one door and quietly opened another, people who stayed when I didn’t know how to ask them to, or left without explanation.

None of it followed my schedule. None of it asked permission.

That’s when the fear crept in. If control is an illusion, then what’s left?

Chaos? Helplessness? Dumb luck?

The idea made my chest tighten. I didn’t want to drift. I wanted to drive.

But slowly, inconveniently, another truth surfaced: letting go of control didn’t mean giving up responsibility. It meant giving up the fantasy that I could guarantee outcomes.

There’s a difference between effort and enforcement. I can show up, pick honesty over comfort, kindness over impulse.

I can prepare, practice, and pay attention, but I can’t force timing. I can’t script other people, or outmaneuver uncertainty forever. The illusion of control promised safety, but what it delivered was constant tension, like holding my breath and calling it stability.

The relief came quietly. I stopped arguing with what was happening and started responding to it.

When plans unraveled, I asked better questions instead of assigning blame. When things worked out, I felt grateful instead of smug.

I noticed how much energy I’d spent trying to dominate the moment rather than participate in it. Life felt less like a test I could fail, and more like a conversation I could join.

I still catch myself reaching for that steering wheel. Old habits don’t vanish just because you see through them.

But now, when my hands close around it, I smile. I loosen my grip and look at the road unfolding. And I’m still moving, not because I’m in control, but because I’m willing to be present for whatever comes next.

I have long held that a quiet evening is the safest place a man can be, which is precisely why I avoid them. Trouble prefers a man at rest, and it found me just as I was minding my own business, doing nothing of consequence and doing it well.

The incident began with a bite, sharp, sudden, and delivered to my left thigh with the sort of confidence usually reserved for tax collectors. I slapped at the offender and discovered it to be a bat, which I did not appreciate, as I had made no prior appointment.

Now, a reasonable bat would apologize and depart. This one, however, had ambition. No sooner had I felt the sting than it flew up, hovered a moment like it was considering its options, and then, without so much as a warning or a proper introduction, transformed into a woman.

And not just any woman, but a striking one. The sort that would cause a man to reconsider his opinions on bats, bites, and possibly even trousers.

She informed me her name was Rose. She spoke with confidence, as though biting strangers was merely her way of opening a conversation.

Before I could object or check the condition of my blue jeans, she went on to explain that we might enjoy a long future together. She said it the way a banker discusses interest, and was only awaiting my inconvenience.

Now, I’d like to say I handled this with courage and dignity. In truth, I nodded, which has been my chief survival strategy in confusing situations.

But just as I began to suspect I was getting courted under pretenses, she turned back into a bat.

Now, I am not a man who panics easily, but I do take a dim view of romantic prospects who can become airborne without notice. So I did what any sensible individual would do when faced with a suitor of uncertain species: I fetched the bell jar that covers a human skull I’ve named Edie, and dropped it over the unsuspecting lass.

It was not difficult. Rose seemed surprised by it, which I consider poor planning on her part.

And so here we are. Rose is under the bell jar, fluttering about and regarding me with what I can only describe as injured expectations. I, on the other hand, sit at a cautious distance, weighing my options like a man who has accidentally accepted a proposal he does not fully understand.

For if I release her, she may resume her argument for our shared future, or worse, and I have never been comfortable committing to anything that begins with a bite. But if I keep her confined, I must admit I possess a lady in a bell jar, which is not a situation that improves with explanation.

I have considered negotiating terms, but it is difficult to bargain with a creature that can be both a woman and a bat, depending on her mood and the lighting. So I remain undecided.

The jar sits on the table. The bat, Rose, as she insists, waits, growing more and more angry with me as the minutes tick by and I ignore her freedom. And I, having done nothing to deserve any of this, am left to conclude that this peaceful evening is not only unlikely, but downright dangerous.

And there she sits.

So, how did I come up with the premise for the story, “Bat in the Bell Jar”? Since you insist, hear me out.

It all started in the most humdrum of circumstances: trimming roses. Now, trimming roses, I have discovered, is a sport designed to humble the ambitious and draw blood from the careless.

As I sawed through a particularly obstinate branch, it fell on my leg like a treacherous little spear, piercing my thigh with the precision of a man with a grudge against humanity. Blood ran down, staining my sweatpants, and I swear the roses themselves shivered with satisfaction.

Later, lying in bed and reflecting on the day’s indignities, my mind, ever the troublemaker, decided that a simple branch-induced wound was far too mundane. No, it required a grander, more terrifying explanation.

“A vampire bat,” I thought, “the sort that drains cattle in the remotest jungles of Central America. Surely one of those must have mistaken me for dinner.”

From there, reason gave way to fancy. That bat, having apparently read every romance and horror story ever written, transformed into a whisp of smoke and then, in full melodrama, into a Vampiress named Rose. She was beautiful, she was terrifying, and she had a particular interest in me, which I can only describe as an exaggeration of the highest order.

Being a cautious sort, I trapped her in a bell jar, because every man who finds himself in such a situation knows that, when confronted with potential death by seductive bloodsucker, the sensible move is always to act like a fool. Then I worried myself sick over questions of etiquette: how, pray tell, does a man explain to a lady trapped under glass why he did what he did? And if she should escape, how does one dodge the ire of a female vampire with all the politeness he can muster?

And that, my friends, is the mundane origin of a story called Bat in the Bell Jar. The roses did their part, the thorns did theirs, and my imagination did what it always does: turn a small accident into a minor epic of terror, desire, and poor judgment.

So if you do not hear from me again, know this: either I have been drained dry, or I am living high on the hoof of a cow, in some remote corner of the imagination where common sense does not dare follow.

Many people have their own quirks due to their excesses and wastefulness. I didn’t arrive at that conclusion through deep study or a documentary. I figured it out standing in my kitchen at midnight, holding a half-eaten yogurt I didn’t remember opening, staring into a refrigerator that looked like a crime scene of good intentions.

The fridge was full. Not “we’re prepared for the week” full, but “we’ve been lying to ourselves for months” full.

A wilted bundle of spinach behind jars of expensive sauces. A bag of lemons hardened into yellow paperweights, and three kinds of mustard.

None of it is salvageable. I stood there barefoot, chewing yogurt, thinking, “This is who I am. A man who buys food for a version of himself that never shows up.”

That’s when it hit me: everyone does this, not just with food, but with everything. We stockpile dreams, clutter our days, and leak energy like broken faucets. Our weirdness isn’t some charming quirk; it’s the residue of excess and waste, left out in the open.

Take my neighbor, Carl. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet.

Waves every morning. Brings packages to your door if you’re not home. Carl also owns four leaf blowers. Four. I know this because one day Carl’s garage was open, and it looked like a small-scale landscaping store.

I asked him about it, casually, like a journalist pretending not to judge.

“Well,” he said, scratching his chin, “this one’s gas, this one’s electric, this one’s lighter, and that one… I don’t know. It just felt right at the time.”

That last sentence should be engraved somewhere.

We buy things for specific scenarios that never happen. We keep clothes for bodies we used to have or bodies we’re convinced we’ll have again if we get serious after the holidays.

We save boxes because they’re “good boxes.” We keep emails, grudges, and half-finished thoughts. Then we wonder why we’re tired.

My own excess shows up in notebooks. I love notebooks.

Hardcovers, softcovers, dotted pages, blank pages, pages that promise they’ll change my life if I start on page one. I have a box full of them, most with a few pages used, which seems to be my limit before I realize discipline is more than optimism.

Each notebook represents a version of me that was very confident on a Tuesday afternoon.

And the waste isn’t always physical. I waste conversations by half-listening while planning what I’ll say next.

I waste quiet moments by filling them with noise. I waste time worrying about things that never happen, which is especially impressive because I’m very thorough about it.

When I look around, I see the same patterns everywhere. People with calendars so full they complain about being busy, yet they don’t remember what they actually did last week. And opinions shared too often, apologies shared too rarely.

The strange thing is, our excesses usually start as hopeful acts. Buying groceries means we plan to cook. Buying notebooks means we plan to think. Buying another leaf blower means we are prepared. The waste comes later, quietly, when life doesn’t follow the script we wrote while standing in a store aisle or scrolling late at night.

I cleaned out our fridge the next morning. Threw away the spinach, the lemons, the yogurt. It felt both responsible and slightly tragic, like saying goodbye to good intentions that had gone stale.

I promised myself I’d buy less, plan better, and remain honest about who I actually am. By the afternoon, I had ordered takeout and added a new notebook to my online shopping cart.

Progress is complicated.

I don’t think the goal should be to eliminate all excess waste. That might make us efficient, but probably not human.

The goal, maybe, is to notice it. To laugh at it when we can. To recognize that our weirdness isn’t a personal failure, it’s a shared condition.

We are all surrounded by evidence of our best intentions and our worst follow-through. We trip over it daily.

And that’s okay. Maybe the waste is pretending we’re not strange in the same way.

I closed the fridge door, finally, and went to bed. The kitchen was cleaner.

I was still me. And tomorrow, inevitably, I would open something I didn’t fully need, hoping it might turn into something I did.