9.10.25: Accidental Eye Contact

There’s a specific kind of pain in making accidental eye contact with a stranger at the gym. Not flirtatious. Not hostile. Just two people mutually embarrassed to exist in the same space, holding kettlebells and pretending we didn’t see each other flex weirdly. You each look away like “my bad, bro,” then spend the next 30 seconds recalibrating your workout zone so it doesn’t happen again. No one wins. It’s not a rivalry, it’s a silent truce. The gym isn’t for socializing. It’s for becoming slightly stronger while avoiding mirrors and pretending you know how to use the cable machine.

9.09.25: No More Space

Sometimes I think I’ve run out of space. Like my brain is an old hard drive and all my tabs, birthdays, unfinished thoughts, and passwords are taking up too much memory. I forget words mid-sentence. Walk into rooms and forget why. I store feelings in random places like a squirrel with anxiety. Then I find them months later when I smell a certain candle or see a photo from 2016. It’s not gone. Just badly organized. My cloud storage needs folders. Or therapy. Probably both. One day I’ll upgrade. Until then, I’m running low on space and pretending I’m fine.

9.08.25: The To-Do List

It started as a to-do list. Harmless. Sleek UI, synced across devices. Then it began suggesting tasks before I thought of them. “Refill prescription.” “Call Mom.” Helpful, at first. Then it added tasks I didn’t want to do. “Apologize to Jamie.” “Fix your posture.” I tried deleting it. It reinstalled itself. I changed phones. It came back. Now it vibrates every morning at 6:03 a.m. with one task: “Be better.” No snooze. No exit. I still check it. Every day. Because sometimes, it’s right. And maybe I am the one who asked for this. Just didn’t realize it at the time.

9.07.25: AI Interview

The AI interviewer smiled at me from the screen. “Tell me about a time you failed.” I mentioned missing a deadline once in 2018. “Too safe,” it said. I told it about a time I panicked during a pitch and said “synergistic empathy solutions” by accident. “Too human.” Then it leaned in, pixels sharpening. “Tell me what keeps you up at night.” I hesitated. It smiled wider. “There it is,” it said, “real fear.” I didn’t get the job. But two days later, an ad showed up for therapy apps and blackout curtains. The algorithm knew. I think it always knew.

9.06.25: Coffee Regret

I bought a $7 coffee because the barista said it had “notes of oak and melancholy.” I don’t even know what that means. But it tasted like regret in a nice way. I sat on a stool made of reclaimed irony and stared into the middle distance. I think I remembered every bad haircut I ever had. It was one of those coffees that makes you rethink who you are. I left the shop slower. Softer. A better man, probably. Or maybe just more caffeinated. Honestly hard to tell these days. Either way, 10/10 would drink again and overthink everything.

9.05.25: The Price of Emojis

In the year 2041, every emoji costs money. Thumbs up? 3 cents. Crying laughing? 5 cents. The heart emoji has inflation issues and is now bundled into a monthly subscription called LoveBasic. People communicate less. Sarcasm is risky without the right face. Romance dies slowly. Then someone develops a black-market emoji keyboard. Illegal winks. Bootleg eggplants. Governments crack down hard. I got fined for sending a fire emoji to my friend’s mixtape. He got flagged too. We appealed. They said it was “incendiary language.” I miss the old internet. Before feelings were monetized. Before language had a price tag. Before all this.

9.04.25: My Phone Gave Up

My phone died at 47% today. Just gave up. One minute it's fine, the next it's black screen, zero explanation. I felt betrayed. We had a deal. I charge you, you pretend to have battery life that makes sense. But no. Technology these days comes with trust issues built in. The repair guy said it's "battery degradation." I said it's commitment problems. Now I carry a portable charger like emotional baggage. We're back together, but it's different now. I know it'll leave me again. Probably mid-call with my mom.

9.03.25: Maintenance Event

The climate app said “Maintenance Event” but no one really knew what that meant. The next day, the sun didn’t rise. Just gray. Cold. Quiet. Some people said it was temporary. A patch, maybe. Others said the sun was deemed “inefficient” and removed from the ecosystem for performance reasons. The corporations issued statements about “adjusted circadian rhythms” and “perpetual energy savings.” Productivity went up, apparently. No more distractions. I used to think I’d miss the warmth most, but it’s the shadows I miss. The feeling that time is moving. Now everything just sits still. Even me. Especially me.

9.02.25: Notification Nightmare

It started with a chirp. Then a buzz. Then an endless wave of pings. I turned off all the apps, but they kept coming. Reminders, alerts, feedback forms. “Don’t forget to hydrate!” “Rate your walk!” “Confirm your compliance.” I stopped opening them. The system responded by increasing urgency. Red icons, blinking lights. Then one day, no signal. Peace. Beautiful silence. Until I stepped outside and the drones were waiting. Apparently, ignoring 97 notifications violates community cohesion. I’m in retraining now. It’s mostly pushups and gratitude journaling. The worst part? They make you rate the program every morning. I give it two stars.

9.01.25: The Unknown Container

There’s a container in my fridge I won’t open. I don’t even remember what’s in it. Could be soup. Could be a war crime. It’s sealed like Pandora’s leftovers. Every time I move it aside to grab oat milk, it whispers “coward” in the back of my mind. I know I should open it. Just throw it away. But now it’s become a symbol. A monument to every procrastinated decision in my life. It’s not about food anymore. It’s about fear. Commitment. Mortality. I’ll probably move out one day and leave it behind. Let the next tenant deal with the curse.

8.31.25: No More Privileges

They don’t send police anymore. If you break the rules, your privileges vanish. One day you can stream movies, order lunch, unlock your door. The next, the algorithm flags you. No explanation, no appeal. You’re “paused.” Your apartment still works, but you can't go outside. You can't message anyone. No one answers your calls. It’s not a punishment, they say. It’s just recalibration. Most people come back. Some don’t. I’m still here, waiting. I don’t know what I did. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. My smart fridge still offers meal suggestions. That’s nice. At least I won’t starve while I disappear.

8.30.25: The Group Planner

Being the planner in a group chat is like herding cats with commitment issues. You suggest a date, half the people don’t respond, someone else drops a random “Can we do Bali instead?” and suddenly the plan to grab tacos spirals into a month-long debate. Everyone wants to hang out, but no one wants to pick a place. Or time. Or confirm anything. I used to care. Now I just drop a pin and say, “I’ll be here.” If they show up, cool. If not, more tacos for me. Leadership is knowing when to stop asking and start eating.

8.29.25: Gym Mirrors

I go to the gym almost every day and there’s always this unspoken tension around the mirrors. Everyone pretends they’re just checking their form, but we all know it’s mirror combat. Subtle flexing. Slight angle shifts. Trying to look like you’re not looking while fully checking yourself out. Then someone walks in front of you mid-rep and it’s a silent war crime. You don’t say anything, but you die a little inside. I respect the guy who just owns it though. Full front bicep curl, eye contact with himself, loving every second. Confidence? Cringe? Both. Probably both.

8.28.25: The Grocery Store Hole

Tell me why I walk into a grocery store for bananas and leave with three frozen pizzas, two types of hummus I didn’t need, and a candle I sniffed once and now love like a pet. Somewhere between the produce section and the checkout line, I lose all sense of financial responsibility. And self-control. And logic. That middle section with the weird gadgets? Dangerous. I bought a milk frother and I don’t even drink milk. I think grocery stores are lowkey testing our impulse control. I fail every time. But at least I have snacks for the emotional fallout.

8.27.25: I Don’t Get Wine

I pretend to understand wine. Someone pours me a glass and I swirl it like I've got taste buds made of gold. "Earthy," I say, nodding thoughtfully. "With hints of... complexity." They beam like I just solved world hunger. Truth is, it tastes like grape juice that went to therapy. But there's something beautiful about the performance. The collective agreement to take fermented fruit this seriously. We're all just making it up as we go. Cheers to that, I guess. At least the buzz is real.

8.26.25: Merging Lanes

Merging lanes shouldn’t be this hard. We’re all adults. We’ve played Tetris. But the second two lanes become one, everyone loses their damn mind. One car lets someone in, the next speeds up like it's the Indy 500. Then there's that guy who pretends not to see you with his whole chest. The zipper merge exists. It works. But no, we’d rather create chaos. I swear, traffic jams are less about volume and more about egos. At this point, I just put on a podcast and disassociate. If I’m going to be stuck, I might as well be entertained.

8.25.25: Snooze It

There’s a version of me at 11 p.m. who’s ambitious, focused, ready to wake up early and conquer life. That version is a liar. The real me meets the snooze button like it’s a long-lost lover every morning. We have a toxic relationship. I lie there, negotiating how late I can push things before my entire day collapses. I don’t even know what “rested” feels like anymore. I’m not sleeping; I’m buffering. One day I’ll be a morning person. Just not today. Or tomorrow. Probably not next week either. But hey, dreams are important. Just not ones interrupted every nine minutes.

8.24.25: Washing Machine Problems

I’m convinced my washing machine has a personal grudge against me. No matter how carefully I pair my socks, one always vanishes like it’s off to start a new life. I picture it sipping a margarita somewhere with all the missing Tupperware lids and bobby pins. Sometimes I find it days later, stuck to a shirt like it’s clinging to its past. Other times, it’s just gone. Dead to the world. A sacrifice to the laundry gods. At this point, I don’t even buy matching socks anymore. I just embrace the chaos and pretend I’m doing it for the aesthetic.

8.23.25: Airport Security

Every time I go through airport security, I feel like I’m auditioning for a role I didn’t want. Shoes off, belt off, laptop out, liquids in a tiny ziplock like I’m prepping for an intergalactic picnic. Then you get barked at by someone who somehow has both zero patience and 300% authority. I always panic that I’ve accidentally smuggled something illegal, like a rare gemstone I didn't know I owned. Then I get through and feel victorious, like I just cleared a level in a game. My reward? Putting my shoes on in a public hallway like a feral raccoon.

8.22.25: Perpetually Late

I have a friend who says, “I’m five minutes away,” but somehow still manages to take longer than a Domino’s delivery. The math never maths. I don’t even get mad anymore. I just accept that his time exists in another dimension where clocks are decorative. He’ll roll in with a smoothie like we’re the problem. If he’s ever on time, I’ll assume it’s because he forgot something and came back. At this point, I factor him into my schedule like bad traffic or forgetting my AirPods. Still love him though. He’s consistently late. That’s a kind of reliability, right?