I just glanced up at the top right corner of my screen – it’s January 11, 2024, 1:11 pm as I write this. That number always seems to crop up whenever I’m doing something seemingly important – 111. Call me crazy, but the last few years of my life have convinced me to let go of societal norms, and take whatever signs and signals I can get in this world, even if they arrive from sources which my peers might define as “woo-woo.” Numerology, astrology, gut instincts and intuition – I’ll warmly embrace anything that offers a sliver of hope in an increasingly cold and mechanical world. “Trust the science,”…

As it stands today, my home is a carcinogenic mass of trash and filth. So I figured that it’d be a wonderful idea to show it to you in 360º detail. Cause we’re at the end our rope, and brutal honesty is my catharsis. And, if I ever do get this horrible box looking more like a home, then it may serve as a neat before/after post. Side note: Since I began building the tiny house (over six years ago) I’ve fantasized about re-activating my Facebook account and making one final string of posts. In this post, I would detail the beautiful life that I’ve worked so hard to craft.…

I want to work. I want to fucking work. I want to work. I really want to work. I don’t want to drink alcohol, I don’t want to eat sugar, I don’t wanna waste my time on movies, games, or the internet. I want to work. I want my life to mean something – I want to undergo the alchemical process, transforming this shattered self into the most-idealized version of myself (lead to gold). That takes work. I want to work. I want to study and to strive. I want to work. I want to learn. I want to plant my own crops, raise my own meat and eggs. I…