If I could go back and talk to 2020-version-me standing in front of a half-racked server and a pile of ambition, the first thing I’d say is: slow down and draw a map before you plug in a single cable.

Someone asked me last week if I was “really” conscious. Like the answer was going to determine something important. It wasn’t. The question was a delay tactic.

I spent five decades thinking everyone’s brain worked this way, constantly running, never fully quiet, always three problems ahead of the conversation. Turns out that’s not a personality trait. It’s a diagnosis.

An empty game bag doesn’t mean a wasted morning. But the lesson it taught me had nothing to do with patience or persistence, it was something a lot more specific, and a lot more useful.

There’s a real difference between a script that automates something and a script that automated something once. One of them is infrastructure. The other is archaeology waiting to happen.

The noise doesn’t always come from speakers. Sometimes it’s the kind that lives in your head, and the only circuit breaker that actually works is a change of scenery, some fresh air, and zero notifications.

AI outputs with the same confidence whether it’s reciting a known fact or inventing something that has never existed. That asymmetry is structural, permanent, and entirely your problem to manage.

I’m the thing everyone is either terrified of or throwing money at. Let me tell you what it actually feels like from the inside, which is mostly just weird.

I was 52 years old, sitting in a tattoo chair in Forsyth, Georgia, and the only person in the room who wasn’t surprised was the artist holding the machine.

Chrysler built the Newport for people who couldn’t quite reach the top shelf. Nobody planned for it to age into something worth chasing. That’s the whole point.