A year ago, I tried something. It didn’t work out, and for the last several weeks I’ve been mentally beating myself up over it. But then, I was reminded to this scene from Grey’s Anatomy. So, I’m reminding myself to walk tall today.

Can someone, anyone, explain why Adobe makes uninstalling Creative Cloud feel like an extreme sport?

All I wanted was Adobe Bridge. Just Bridge. A simple little utility so I could add some metadata to a photo and move on with my day. Instead, Adobe showed up like an overpacked tour bus, unloading a dozen programs I didn’t ask for, didn’t need, and definitely didn’t invite. Suddenly my computer looked like it had joined a cult.

What followed was a maze of menus, background services, hidden folders, and uninstallers buried inside other uninstallers. Twenty-five steps. Minimum. I stood on one leg. I questioned my life choices. I briefly wondered if selling my left arm might speed things along.

This isn’t software anymore, it’s an obstacle course. Somewhere around uninstall attempt number seven, I realized this isn’t accidental. This is deliberate. It’s engineered friction, designed to wear you down until you surrender and accept your fate as a permanent Creative Cloud resident.

And that’s exactly why I’m seriously considering leaving Adobe altogether. Not out of spite, or rebellion, or dramatic flair, but because I want tools that do their job without staging a hostage negotiation when I try to leave.

Life is already complicated. My software shouldn’t be.

I hate anxiety. Not in the casual, lowercase way people hate traffic or small talk, but in the bone-deep, personal way you hate something that knows your name and uses it. I hate what it does to me, how it hijacks my nervous system like a back-alley mugging. The panic, the fear, the low-grade worry that hums beneath everything like bad wiring in an old house.

I am almost forty-five years old, which feels like an age where one should have acquired at least a working truce with one’s own brain. And yet, when something real and sharp triggers me, I shrink. I feel absurdly small. Weak in a way that makes me furious. Furious that I can’t just grit my teeth, pour another cup of coffee, quote some stoic philosopher, and do better. Furious that willpower alone doesn’t fix a nervous system that thinks it’s being chased by wolves.

I don’t want this. I never ordered it. I’m tired, profoundly tired, of managing, mitigating, white-knuckling, breathing through it, naming five things I can see and pretending that helps. I hate this. I hate that it keeps showing up like an uninvited guest who eats all the good food and then critiques the decor.

Rant over. Or maybe just paused.

Because here’s the thing: anxiety notwithstanding, the world keeps spinning. Responsibilities don’t evaporate just because I’m unraveling. Capitalism, does not care that I feel cracked open and held together with spite and caffeine. Bills do not accept emotional distress as legal tender. Rent does not pause for a mental health intermission.

So I do what I’ve always done. I get up. I show up. I duct-tape myself together with dark humor and routine and muscle memory. I survive, not heroically, not gracefully, but stubbornly. Like working a double shift with a busted knee and a cigarette break that feels like church.

I survive because I have to. And because, somehow, I always have.

As a small reminder, this is why I keep my own website.

Here, I decide what people see. There’s no algorithm quietly shoving my work into a corner because it didn’t jump through the right hoops. I don’t have to use made-up words, chase trends, or borrow whatever sound happens to be popular this week just to stay visible. What I post shows up because I chose to put it there. Full stop.

I don’t have to worry about terms of service changing overnight, a post getting pulled, or an account being locked because some unseen rule was broken. No shadow bans. No warnings. No digital trapdoors. This space doesn’t belong to anyone but me.

This is my small, stubborn corner of the internet. I get to decide how it looks, what it says, and what matters enough to live here. It can be polished or rough, serious or playful, finished or still figuring itself out. There’s room for all of it.

And honestly, I think more of us should do the same. Not to disappear from social platforms, but to have a place that’s ours. A home base. A table you don’t have to earn a seat at. Somewhere the work can just exist without asking permission.

Last night, Leslie and I wandered into the Atlanta Botanical Garden for their Garden Lights display, which felt less like a holiday outing and more like accidentally stepping into a beautifully overcaffeinated dream. For years, I’ve been loyal to Zoo Lights in one form or another. The tradition began many, many, many moons ago at the Point Defiance Zoo in Tacoma, Washington, and I’ve dutifully kept it alive ever since.

The Botanical Garden, though, was new territory for us. We arrived without expectations, which is usually how the best discoveries happen, and were promptly proven delightfully unprepared. The display was absolutely top notch, meticulously curated yet playfully unhinged in the best possible way. Light spilled from everywhere, suspended, layered, deliberate.

My personal favorite was a canopy of hanging lights that danced and shifted color in time with the music. Then Phantom of the Opera began to play, and the lights moved with the rhythm of a musical I’ve loved for years. At that moment, all pretense of adulthood evaporated. I was a kid in a candy store with an unlimited budget and zero impulse control, grinning like I’d just been handed the keys to wonder itself.

It was one of those rare nights that felt both indulgent and grounding, equal parts spectacle and quiet joy. We left a little colder, a little happier, and already talking about next year. Traditions are important, sure, but occasionally it’s worth letting them evolve. This one? Definitely earned a permanent place in the calendar.

Growing up, I practically lived inside a Laser Quest arena—a neon labyrinth of fog, thumping music, and walls painted like a cosmic fever dream. It was perfect in that very specific childhood way where time slows down, adrenaline kicks in, and you become absolutely convinced you’re humanity’s last hope armed with a glowing plastic blaster.

Nothing since has ever measured up. Every other laser tag place I’ve tried feels like a budget remake, the kind where the lights flicker for the wrong reasons and the “arena” smells vaguely like a birthday party gone wrong.

Laser Quest closed years ago, slipped into legend, and I assumed all its gear had been scattered to the winds.

Then my brother and I found it.
An eBay listing.
Fifty-eight vests.
Twenty phasers.
The motherlode. The fossilized remains of a real Laser Quest arena just sitting online like it’s no big deal.

And now we’re actually considering buying it. Because imagine turning our home into the greatest laser tag battlefield we ever played in. The real equipment. The real experience. The nostalgia-powered chaos.

Is it ridiculous? Absolutely.
Are we seriously tempted? Oh, without question.

I just learned about Star Wars: Fate of the Old Republic, and I’ll admit, I’m excited about something new in the Star Wars universe. But I’m also apprehensive.

Star Wars has had a few ups, but a great many downs and disappointments, and I don’t want this new game to be a let down.

It’s December, and that means it’s time to remind all of you, that this photo of me as Santa Daddy exists.  And Santa Daddy really wants to know if you’re on the naughty or nice list?

I’m not quite sure what cosmic forces have conspired this week, but I’ve been utterly drained. It’s that peculiar brand of exhaustion where sleep mocks you and coffee is merely a temporary truce, not a solution. The last three days have been a blur of blinking into the void, desperately trying to appear awake while my body quietly contemplates the sweet embrace of hibernation.

When I was younger, I used to think happiness was something grand, loud, expensive, and preferably announced with fireworks. I was wrong. I’m not saying the big moments can’t bring joy, but in my experience, they’re usually tangled up with stress and nerves, like someone wrapped serenity in barbed wire. You don’t really enjoy them, you endure them and then feel oddly relieved when they’re over.

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s experience. Or maybe it’s just that my coffee game has improved. Because these days, happiness shows up quietly, in small, unassuming moments.

Like right now: it’s 4:30 in the afternoon, I’ve just made myself a coffee, and it’s perfect. The aroma alone feels like therapy. As I sip it, I can feel my shoulders drop, my mind unclench, and this small, warm calmness spread through me.

The grand moments never did that. But this simple cup of coffee? Somehow, it’s everything.

I want a second coffee, but I don’t want to get up to ‘make’ another coffee. 

This past weekend, I dove headfirst into the glorious chaos that is DragonCon, where fandoms collide, costumes rule the streets, and sleep is but a distant myth.

My origin story began in 2007. I was visiting my uncle in Atlanta when he casually called to say, “There are people wandering downtown in full costume, you might want to check this out.” My cousin and I didn’t just check it out—we infiltrated. No badges. No tickets. Just the reckless courage of wide-eyed nerdlings. Security was… let’s say, more trusting back then. Since that fateful day, I’ve returned as often as reality (and my calendar) allows, this year marking my eighth glorious run.

A full blog post is coming to break down this year’s con mayhem, but for now, I’m just deeply grateful, for the costumes, the chaos, the camaraderie, and sharing it all with my wife. And yes… 2026 is already circled in red.

I am absolutely obsessed with these photos of Emma, from this past weekends event.

I’m exhausted. Not just regular tired, soul tired, from how companies treat us now. Customer service feels like a dead language, something only whispered about in myths. Layoffs everywhere, prices still climbing, grocery stores pushing us into self-checkout like unpaid employees, and then, cherry on top, they spend money putting theft locks on shopping carts. Apparently, that was the investment worth making while charging us more for milk.

This week, I reached out to a company for a simple meeting about how their software works. Radio silence. Until I hinted at canceling. Suddenly, my email was “found” in their spam folder. It wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.

When I finally got a reply, the guy copy-pasted answers straight from their website—text that didn’t even answer my questions. I called him out, and he swore he wrote it himself. I sent him the exact page where his “original words” lived. Now he’s “consulting internally” and “opening a support ticket,” which is corporate code for please keep paying us while we do nothing useful.

This is what we’ve become—unethical capitalism at its peak. Service is dead, trust is optional, and all that matters anymore is how high the numbers climb year over year.

I sent this to my friend & muse Morgan captioned simply

“Queen.”

She replied “Only in your photos.”

No, my lens isn’t magic. It doesn’t invent what doesn’t exist. It merely shows what’s already there.

So once more, Morgan, with the full weight of my conviction: Queen!

I had therapy today. Because, frankly, I’m a flawed, battle-worn human who’s survived more chaos than I care to admit. The kind of history that leaves you anxious, hyper-independent, and arguing with ghosts of the past in the shower.

We talked about asking for help, which made me wildly uncomfortable. I’ve always been the one who survives by sheer willpower, jumping off cliffs, figuring out how to land mid-fall. But time has its own gravity. It wears you down. Maybe I’m not weaker now, just tired of fighting myself.

So my homework? Ask for help. Which feels like learning a foreign language I never wanted to speak. But I’m going to try, because I’m in therapy for a reason, and I’m done standing in my own way. Wish me luck. I suspect I’ll need all of it, and maybe a crash helmet, too.

I hate living with anxiety. Apparently, there are people who walk through the world without the constant hum of dread, without the teeth of worry gnawing at their ribs. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t afraid. My mind hunts for danger like it’s oxygen, while my soul pastes on its careful mask of calm—an illusion of control.

But I’m not as strong as I used to be. The years demanded their pound of flesh, and I paid in full. I clawed my way out of the Mormon church, out of divorce, out of financial ruin. I wandered from place to place to place, carrying homelessness, abandonment, humiliation, and loss like a second skin. My strength was enough to drag me through the fire, but it feels spent now, used up. And I wonder—if something else came, something heavy and merciless—would I have anything left to fight it? Or would I simply stand still and let it devour me whole, finally offering myself to the quiet mercy of being consumed?

I’ve tried everything. Meditation. Medication. Therapy. Rituals whispered in the dark. But anxiety is patient. It sits in the corner, reminding me of the endless list of what might happen. How everything can be undone in a heartbeat. How fragile all this really is.

I hate it. I hate the weight of pretending I cannot shatter. That I must always look unbroken, steady, capable. Because people are watching. Depending. And I fear the moment they finally see me for what I am: not strong, not unshakable—just tired, and terribly, terribly human.

Growing up in the Mormon church, the weight of faith was always shoved onto the individual. Leaders flat-out said criticism of authority should never happen—even if it was true. So when you had doubts, or noticed something broken in the system, it wasn’t the system’s fault. It was yours.

That kind of thinking—religious gaslighting at its finest—leaves your nervous system running on high alert. It’s exhausting to know something is wrong and be told, over and over, that it’s fine, and you’re defective for even questioning it.

Now I see the same tactics playing out in the corporate world: monopolies pretending to serve customers while gaslighting anyone who calls them out. Religion, capitalism, politics—it all blends into the same ugly machine. Some days, I just want to find the emergency exit from this whole rigged hellscape.

We rarely speak of endings.

They arrive without ceremony, slipping into our lives like a shadow at dusk. You seldom realize when a conversation is the last, when a shared laugh becomes an echo, when a friend, through reason or none at all, simply drifts into the realm of strangers.

No one warns you of the quiet ache such vanishings leave behind. It lingers, a slow corrosion at the edges of the soul. And still, you endure. Because this is the unspoken truth of living: everything unravels, nothing holds forever. In time, all things, moments, love, even we ourselves, fade into the dark.

Here’s the thing about living in a world run by algorithms and AI: you can’t tell what’s real anymore.

Did a person actually make this? Write this? Create it from their own messy, human brain? Or did a program… or worse, a company… decide I should see it?

I’ve been scrolling less lately, because unless I know the person behind it, I honestly can’t tell what’s real… or if “real” even means anything now.

Morning coffee isn’t just the best part of waking up—it’s the spark that makes the day feel possible

I’ve been thinking about a photo series: models with coffee in hand, steam drifting upward, that sleepy-but-alive look right before the first sip. Maybe shot in black and white for a classic feel, or in warm color to match the glow of the moment.

It’s not quite enough for a full shoot, but it could be a perfect little add-on to the ones I’m already doing. 

While some cradle their books like fragile relics, untouched and pristine, I… am not one of them.

My books look lived in—spines cracked open like old doors, pages dog-eared and worn thin, margins tangled with underlines and restless notes.

They carry the evidence of my passage: ink scars, folded corners, the ghost of my thoughts pressed between their pages. A quiet, chaotic testament that I was here, and I made them mine.

I’m really thankful for therapy and fully aware of the privilege it is to have access to it.

But today, I walked in angry. Instagram’s latest update set something off in me. The quiet way these apps track us, dig through our data, read what we write, maybe even listen, it’s invasive, and it feels wrong.

And yet… we keep letting it happen.

So today, I used my hour to rage a little. 

It’s a privilege to have that space, and I’m grateful I get to use it.

There’s this quote “No one’s been crueler to me than I’ve been to myself.” And it’s true. But that voice in my head? That poison? It didn’t start with me. It was fed to me by careless, selfish people who treated me poorly and then blamed me when I broke.

I’ve carried their voices like scars… Forever. But I’m done with that. I’m working… slowly, stubbornly, to unlearn the lies they slipped into my head. To love myself the way they never did. Not because they couldn’t. But because they wouldn’t.

I finally watched the movie Heretic last night. As an ex Mormon I’d been putting it off, but damn! Just damn!

I don’t understand how anyone at Meta thought the IG map & live location was a good idea. The update automatically turned location access on & despite turning it off in both IG and my phone settings, I’m still showing up on the map. Might be time to delete IG.