Congratulations! Through sheer, cosmic stupidity or a wrong turn at an internet router, you’ve stumbled onto my personal diary. Turn back now unless you are prepared for the horrifying realization that my life makes yours look like an Oscar-winning drama.

If, by some horrific divine punishment, you are a parent who spent thousands on braces, college funds, and emotional regulation, only to watch your darling teenager join an Eastern mystical free-love commune that refuses to recycle or vote, welcome home. Pull up a sustainably harvested meditation mat and join me in the pharmaceutical waiting room, where we share generic anti-anxiety meds and stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling.

Let me be abundantly clear: absolutely nothing on this page is meant for you, about you, or useful to you. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or currently wearing tie-dye and chanting at the moon, is entirely coincidental and frankly, deeply embarrassing for both of us.

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