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.

Most IT careers are a highlight reel of jobs hopped and titles climbed. Mine is a long, unbroken view from one window, and that turns out to be worth something nobody talks about.

The 2021 Braves were 44-45 at the All-Star break and I had already mentally moved on. That was a mistake I’ve been making my whole life, and apparently baseball had to be the thing to finally break the habit.

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.

Nobody writes songs about the days the fish didn’t bite. But those are the days that actually teach you something — if you’re paying attention to the right thing.

The infrastructure under every major tech company’s feet was built by volunteers, academics, and stubborn nerds who didn’t ask for a press release. The companies just showed up later with a logo.

I stopped hoping for a clean ninth inning somewhere around 2023. What replaced it was something more useful than hope.

I’ve watched the Masters from a barstool, a hospital waiting room, and a recliner with a dog on my lap. The course never changes, and somehow that’s the whole point.

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.