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 the first post, I would detail the beautiful life that I’ve worked so hard to…

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…

I’m sitting in my childhood bedroom – albeit, it’s in an entirely different arrangement than it was when I was a kid (unnecessary aside: I’ve finally, after all of these years, begun to refer to myself as a man, rather than as some wandering kid). Today, this room is set up more as a cozy office than a bedroom, with a nicely made mattress on a boxspring on the floor, off in the corner of the room, next to a floor lamp – an arrangement seemingly made as an afterthought. I’m in a clear headspace, and I’m calm; a condition which I have not, in truth, experienced often throughout these…

Dear Deluded Diary, I’m thinking about buying a 20-something foot step van (think UPS truck) on Facebook Marketplace. It’s $2,300, runs, has a diesel engine (though a notoriously problematic one), and would, I think, make for the bare bones of a wonderful rolling home. Essentially, I feel that it could become an uglier – albeit a far more personable and mobile – tiny home than the one I presently have in storage. I don’t have the money to buy it. In fact, the situation is far more grim than that (though only on paper – out here in the real world it’s the end of summer, which means food and…

“With the way you’re talking, people will think that you don’t care about anything at all.” Mom had been looking down towards the kitchen tablecloth, or at times off to the right, distantly scanning the kitchen floor as I spoke. But now, as I glanced up, she was looking me square in the eyes. “It’s not really like that, Mom.” I was lying. We had been sitting at the table, having a light discussion, which had turned towards more vulgar topics – D.C. politics. Specifically, Kamala Harris’ running mate. And neither of us really had any sort of resistance to what the other had been saying. Harris is a fool…