Then something serendipitous happened.
My dad died.

We stopped making meals.
We make popcorn.
Light. Salty. Fast. Gone.

Suddenly, we weren’t a Gold Star family anymore.
Suddenly, we were ungrateful.
Suddenly, we were anti-American.

I walk around like everyone else.
I go to the store.
I answer emails.

Keep looking at the last wave and pretending it’s still rising.

I didn’t get into this to optimize myself for discovery.
I got into this to say something true.

You’re not entitled to applause.
You’re not entitled to being understood.

No one is coming.
No one is in charge.
There is no plan.

And when my dad died the next day—when the world tilted again—I didn’t go back to the sad bastard music.
I kept playing BTS.
Because, for once, I didn’t want to spiral.

You think you have time?

You don’t.

Yes — people are pointless.
So stop wasting your time trying to be one of the good ones.

I remember when he wrapped his tiny hand around my outstretched finger.
I remember holding him—me in my Ghostbusters uniform, him in a onesie.

Because I don’t want to keep holding grief like it’s a gift.
It’s exhausting.
I don’t want to keep losing people just to have more material.

Not everything deserves nuance.
Some things are just fucking stupid.

Let the girlies manifest on TikTok.
Let the hustle bros manifest passive income streams.
Let the spreadsheets manifest six-figure brands.

It feels like I called an Uber from Atlanta to LA, and it dumped me out in a cornfield in the middle of Oklahoma when the company shut down.

Life’s not hard.
It’s bloated.
It’s rigged.

He wasn’t a fixer.
He didn’t always say the right thing.
But he tried. Even when all he had was, “I’ll pray for you.”

The grim reaper has your address.
It’s punched into his GPS.

It’s all true.
It’s all ridiculous.
It’s all saving my life.