8.13.25: Hotel Photos

Hotel photos are lies. All of them. I’ve booked rooms that looked like peaceful urban sanctuaries and arrived to find a cracked mirror, a view of a brick wall, and a lightbulb with a personal vendetta. One place said “sea view” and I had to lean out the window, squint past an alley, and imagine the ocean like it was a Magic Eye puzzle. I don’t trust “boutique” or “minimalist” anymore either. That just means no closet and a chair that looks like art but functions like punishment. We need Yelp for hotel honesty. Five stars for audacity.

8.12.25: No Headphones

There’s a special place in the universe for people who play videos out loud in public. The unbothered confidence it takes to blast TikTok at full volume in a quiet café is wild. And somehow, it’s always the worst videos. Cringe humor. Loud intros. That one guy yelling about crypto. I don’t know how we failed as a society, but we did. If you’ve ever watched a video on speakerphone while standing in line for noodles, I hope you spill soy sauce on your white shirt. Twice. And I hope you finally buy headphones.

8.11.25: Childhood Nostalgia

There’s this smell that lives somewhere between sunscreen, rubber hose, and warm chlorine. It instantly snaps me back to childhood summers. I don’t know where it comes from, but whenever it shows up, I stop mid-step. It’s like my brain goes, “We’ve been here before.” Back to water fights, popsicles, scraped knees, and that weird freedom that only exists before your first heartbreak or bank account. I’ve spent years trying to bottle that scent. But it only visits randomly, like a memory ghost. Every time it does, I let it linger. Then it disappears again.

8.10.25: Meaningless Swipes

Sometimes I open my phone, swipe through five apps, and realize I didn’t actually want anything. I wasn’t checking for news or messages. I was just... checking. Looking for a ping. A buzz. Some dopamine breadcrumb. And I know the algorithm knows. It can sense the wandering. That soft, aimless scroll. It starts showing me dog rescue videos, old movie clips, and ads for ergonomic chairs. My phone’s like, “Buddy, you okay?” I’m not sure. But I’ll scroll for another six minutes just to make sure I’m still human. Or at least still curious.

8.09.25: Night Showers

Night showers hit different. Not the “I’m disgusting and need to be clean” kind, but the “I’ve survived the day and need to rinse off the chaos” variety. Lights off, just the soft glow of a hallway bulb. Steam rising. No music. No rush. It’s the closest thing I get to peace. Something about water hitting your back after 11 p.m. feels like a system reset. Morning showers are functional. Night showers are sacred. That’s where my brain processes weird memories and half-baked ideas. Honestly, I should start billing my shower for emotional labor.

8.08.25: Why I Exercise

People think I’m at the gym to get stronger. I’m not. I’m there to win fake arguments, solve imaginary problems, and rehearse conversations that may never happen. Every rep is fueled by a mix of caffeine, unresolved tension, and intrusive thoughts. That deadlift? Powered by a memory from 2019. Those pull-ups? Fueled by someone underestimating me once. Fitness is therapy, but louder. The bar doesn’t judge. The plates don’t interrupt. It’s just me, my music, and a hyperactive brain burning calories out of sheer mental combustion. And that, my friend, is progress.

8.07.25: The Airport “Me”

There’s a version of me that only exists at airports. He’s overly early, obsessively checks the gate, and suddenly cares deeply about hydration and charging cables. He’s a freak. He walks faster than he ever does in real life. He calculates the boarding group like it’s chess. And he always thinks he’s forgotten something. Regular me barely remembers to put his keys in the same place. Airport me? Flawless execution. Honestly, I wish I could summon that version of myself during work meetings or tax season. But no. He only lives between terminals and overpriced sandwiches.

8.06.25: Eating Bananas

There’s something unhinged about people who eat full bananas in public. Not slices. Not banana bread. Just full-on peel-and-chomp action in a crowd. I respect it. I fear it. It’s too intimate a fruit. Too primal. You ever make eye contact with someone mid-banana? It’s haunting. That being said, I’ve definitely done it. Multiple times. Sometimes, the banana calls, and the setting doesn’t matter. But I always feel like I’ve broken a social code. Like I’ve eaten a sandwich in a sauna. Anyway, I’m pro-banana. Just… not while walking through a crowded market. We’re not ready for that.

8.05.25: Finishing Tasks

You ever notice how amazing it feels to finish one thing, fully? Not five things half-done, or a to-do list partially checked. Just one thing, properly, completely. A PowerPoint. A workout. Cleaning the kitchen. Whatever. I think our brains are starving for closure. We’re too used to switching tabs and jumping tasks and responding in Slack mid-thought. When I finish a task and close my laptop with zero loose ends, I feel like a king. A monk. A wizard. One task, done well, feels like rebellion. And I live for that little rebellion.

8.04.25: Remembering

It’s 11:52 p.m. I’m lying in bed, lights off, calm. Then my brain goes: “Remember that thing you said in 2011?” And now I’m wide awake, defending myself in a fake courtroom against an imaginary jury of ex-friends. I lose every time. I try to sleep. I check the time. 2:17 a.m. I’ve scrolled Zillow listings in Portugal, watched a video of a dog meeting a dolphin, and somehow ended up on a Reddit thread about nuclear bunkers. I fall asleep at 3:43. Wake up at 7. Brain says, “Why are you tired?” I don’t know, man. Why am I?

8.03.25: Specific Rage

There’s a specific kind of rage that only comes when you live on the 14th floor and someone presses every single button on the way down. Babies get a pass. Tourists get a warning. But locals? Come on. You know the rules. I once rode 14 floors down with someone who hit 3, 6, 9, and then got off at 10. I still think about that person. Who raised you? Elevators are like public transportation for people with money. There’s etiquette. There’s flow. And some people treat it like an arcade game. I’m watching you, button-masher.

8.02.25: My Memoir

If I ever write a memoir, one of the chapters will be titled “Why Group Work Is a Scam.” Every group has a ghost, a loud talker who does nothing, a chronic re-phraser, and me—someone doing 80% of the work out of pure spite. It’s a microcosm of life. The competent get buried in tasks, the loud get credit, and the lazy get lucky. If you’ve ever been on a team project and said “I’ll just do it,” congratulations. You’re now the project manager. Without the title. Or pay. Or glory. Just stress and a fake smile.

8.01.25: Mango Sticky Rice

I don’t think I can ever live somewhere that doesn’t have 50-baht mango sticky rice within walking distance. It’s not just the food, it’s the abundance of small joys: cheap massages, iced oolong tea, rain that hits like a movie scene. Sure, the infrastructure collapses during floods and I’ve seen a rat ride a motorbike tire, but somehow it balances out. When people ask why I’m still in Thailand, I never give a deep answer. I just say, “Because mango sticky rice is cheaper than therapy.” And honestly, I stand by that.

7.31.25: Extra Reps

There’s this lie people tell themselves at the gym. “I’ll do three sets of twelve.” But then they do 12, feel decent, and sneak in two more. Now it’s 14. And 14 is basically 15. And once you’re at 15, you’re a rep away from 16, which is four sets of four. That’s balance. That’s symmetry. That’s… how I end up doing 60 reps when I meant to do 36. My brain turns a 30-minute workout into a 70-minute odyssey. I call it gym math. It’s stupid. It’s compulsive. But damn if it doesn’t work.

7.30.25: Counting Steps

When I cross the street, I always count my steps. Don’t know when it started, but now I can’t not do it. Right foot hits the curb: one. If I lose count, I start over. It’s not about superstition, it’s just this low-level background ritual that makes things feel less chaotic. I’ve done it in New York, Tokyo, Chiang Mai—doesn’t matter. Funny how your brain invents these small controls in places you don’t have any. I’ve never told anyone this before. But I’m guessing most people have a similar tick. Or I’m insane. Probably both.

7.29.25: Expensive Sofa

I bought a $1,500 couch because I thought it would unlock some sort of adult inner peace. It didn’t. It’s comfortable, yeah, but now every time I sit on it, I think, “That’s 1.5 months of Thai rent.” I could’ve bought land. Or a motorcycle. Or, I don’t know, fifteen actual tubs. Moral of the story? Don’t buy expensive furniture unless you’re absolutely sure you’ll sit on it every day with pride. Or unless you want it mocking you silently while you eat cold noodles and wonder if you’ll ever financially recover from this decision.

7.28.25: They’re Here

They arrived without ships. Just appeared, one per city. Humanoid. Still. Silver eyes. No weapons. No words. Just a countdown above their heads. Two weeks. Then ten days. Five. Panic spread. Militaries attacked. Nothing worked. On day zero, every Harvester raised a hand. The sky split like paper. Nothing fell. But every human with a terminal illness vanished. Quietly. Painlessly. Hospitals emptied. Graves remained untouched. Then the Harvesters blinked out, too. Some say it was mercy. Others think it was inventory. Either way, they’re gone. But satellites just detected another countdown—on Mars. This time, it’s already at three.

7.27.25: Don’t Pick Up

You ever stare at your phone, see a message, and not open it? Like you’re not ready to be that version of yourself yet? Maybe it’s work. Maybe it’s someone you’re dating. Maybe it’s family. Whatever it is, your thumb hovers... and retreats. It’s not always about the message. It’s about the energy you know it’ll pull from you. Modern communication is exhausting. Everyone expects instant replies. But sometimes your brain’s on airplane mode, even when your phone isn’t. That’s okay. Read it later. Respond when you’re ready. Protect your peace. Not everything deserves your immediate attention.

7.26.25: A Quantum Test

At 2:14 p.m., the sun blinked. Just once. Just enough. Some people didn’t notice. Others gasped. The news cycle ignored it. But a few of us felt it—like our bones rearranged slightly. Reality staggered. Buildings looked off, just slightly too tall or not quite symmetrical. A street I took every day no longer existed. My neighbor now had green eyes. Scientists call it “Localized Dimensional Realignment.” A harmless side effect of quantum testing. Nothing to worry about. Except... I got a voicemail last night. From my mother. She’s been dead twelve years. And she said, “You’re not supposed to be there.”

7.25.25: The Cassette Tape

Derek hit B7 for chips. Nothing dropped. He smacked the side. A soda fell. Then gum. Then a cassette tape labeled Play Me. Confused, he stuffed everything into his bag. At home, curiosity won. He dusted off an old player. Static, then a voice: “We’ve been watching. You passed.” He laughed. Then the lights flickered. His apartment door unlocked itself. Outside stood a man in a suit holding another cassette. “You ready?” he asked. Derek didn’t know what for, but nodded. Some choices you don’t remember making. Others? You make before you know you already said yes.