Every other decision you make comes with an exit ramp. Tattoos don’t. That asymmetry turns out to be more instructive than any productivity system I’ve ever tried.

Somewhere between my first Exchange server and my fourteenth PowerShell script, I lost sight of the fact that there’s a whole other version of me that would have been happier moving dirt for a living.

I sat in that execution chamber and watched the man who killed my brother die, and I still don’t have a word for what I felt. Closure wasn’t it.

Getting a diagnosis at 55 doesn’t fix anything. But it does something almost as useful, it explains everything, and changes how you judge the person you used to be.

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.

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.

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.

Neurotypical systems weren’t designed to be hostile. They were just designed without you in mind, which turns out to feel exactly the same.

Flash was a Miniature Dachshund who lived like the rules didn’t apply to him, and for sixteen years, he was mostly right. We put him down on December 22nd, and I’m still not over it.

Fifty years of trying, and nobody’s cracked it. The Capricorn Records sound wasn’t a formula — it was a specific collision of people, place, and pressure that happened once and closed the door behind it.