Card of the day: King of Swords
Currently listening to: Demi Lovato, It’s Not That Deep

When I take the express bus, a small part of my inner child wants to press my face against the window and stunt on the saps driving their cars in the next lane over. I don’t often take the express since it costs more than the local and doesn’t end up being much more convenient, anyway. But on a day like today when the local broke down and left me with no other option, the express came in handy. And therefore, I found myself rolling down the highway, peering down at the puny automobiles puttering alongside me, like a small god.

A lot of folks on social media have posted nostalgia for 2016, giving in to the latest data farming craze and somehow pining for a year that was not good. For me, that year holds a dishonorable spot in my heart. I was convincing myself that I loved someone more than I did, and ignoring everyone who told me it wouldn’t work. I was smoking too much weed. I had no ambition for anything, and I knew the inevitable political endpoint of the election but didn’t want to admit it to anyone for fear of looking like a jackass. And for anyone who says that I should have gone to therapy to deal with all this, I did. But my therapist had my soon-to-be-ex as a client.

Therefore, I would rather not reminisce about ten years ago. The doomed nature of my relationship was no one’s fault other than my own, and letting things play out like they did wasn’t fair to my ex or family or friends. Also, while things already were not great on the political front, they were heading in the right direction during Obama’s term, and seeing the two choices laid out before us in November didn’t fill me with much hope for further developments. (Hillary would have kept things the same, and that would have been fine, but my leftist ass wanted more. We all know what happened with the other guy.)

I don’t really like the person I was at twenty-five. I find myself rather content with the person I’ve become at almost thirty-five. Sure, I could still use some more work, and at this point the different parts start to creak and groan until they give out and the Check Engine light comes on, but I feel like I’ve come a long way since 2016. I would rather focus on 2026 and the years to come, as should we all. Let the dead bury the dead.

However, in 2016, I did listen to a lot of Demi Lovato, because my partner at the time was a big fan. Confident was a fantastic record. And I was happy to discover that It’s Not That Deep, Demi’s latest album which came out last October, is just as good. I stayed away from the discography of Poot over the past ten years due to its association with my dark year, but I found myself filled with nothing but joy listening to “Fast” and “Sorry To Myself”.

Also, my nephew posted some 2016 nostalgia on his Instagram. In the picture his seven-year-old self was rocking out with a guitar. He turns seventeen this year and called the other day to ask me about colleges. Folks, I feel like an ancient fossil. You might as well come over with a broom because I’ve turned to dust. How dare he.

That’s all for now. I just read several posts in a row about how a) ICE hasn’t paid its bills in months, b) the United States Census website doesn’t work because of a lapse in funding, c) Trump’s desire for Greenland is part of his mad plan to hoard more money a la his pursuit of Venezuela’s oil, and d) this administration would relish in the dismantlement of the international order and nuclear destruction of the world if it meant they would make an extra buck in their reinforced bunkers. So instead of remembering the past, perhaps we should work to ensure we have a future.

Take care of yourselves and each other. Be well. And go Pats.

Card of the day: Queen of Swords
Currently listening to: We Are Imaginary’s new self-titled album

Card of the day was Queen of Swords which usually matches with objective and constructive criticism, principles, and fairness. However the occurrences of the past two weeks have rendered all of that null and void. Imagine saying something like “Maybe hyper-violent men acting as federal agents shouldn’t go door-to-door hunting people down and throwing flash grenades into cars with children in them” and getting told you’re crazy. Imagine someone laughing at you when you say “Maybe it was a mistake to let capitalists with dreams of fascism wield unimaginable power.” Anyway that’s where I’m at.

A silver lining, though: Bandcamp banned all AI music from its platform the other day, ramping up moderation to root out anything created using generative AI tools. I wrote an article about it for Start-Track here. Unfortunately that is just about the most productive thing I’ve done all week. January has always brought fog and listlessness but this year the onslaught of dread and disbelief has made it even more insufferable. I wish I could teleport to Minneapolis and get my boots on the ground helping folks, if I’m being honest. What can I do besides sit here and watch the world blow up? That’s not me resigning myself. I ask myself that question every day: What can I do?

A lot of the things I’m doing during my day-to-day just don’t seem important. My day job – creating what are essentially PowerPoints – does help people, but to me it seems pedantic to fuss over the font color of a block of text when people need food, supplies, water, first aid. I write about music, which helps musicians, but at the end of the day I wonder how much influence my words have on their success, and wish I could provide more monetary aid. I go and do errands – groceries and such – but I always wonder to whom my money goes, and how it’s being spent, and so on.

Many folks in my life seem on edge, or are going through a rough time, or are having panic attacks on the regular. I don’t necessarily feel any of this, but I am and always have been an INFP according to the Myers-Briggs, and I am a Cancer in both my moon and rising signs, so I feel everyone’s worry twofold if not tenfold. Watching people fear for their lives and seeing my friends freak out over the country’s and world’s descent into madness and war has not been great for your boy. But turning away won’t stop it from happening, and distracting myself with little pleasures – TV shows, movies, books, etc. – helps in the short-term, but not the long-term.

I think the idea of “being here now” has become enshittified. People use mindfulness to say, “Focus on the present! Don’t worry about the future. Enjoy the things you like and just live in the moment!” And I say no, that’s not the point of it at all. We can be here now, and we can enjoy and experience things, but we have to consider the past and the future as well. And we should track our present to help us prepare for the future. I’m not saying we should go nuts about preparing – building bunkers and buying twenty-pound barrels of processed slop – but we should learn from our past and our present in order to take on the next day even stronger and smarter than before. And we should ponder the importance of the battles we fight. Is a font color so important? No. Is getting an article about We Are Imaginary’s new album out within a day super important? No, that can wait a bit. Is it important to at least share news about the atrocities of ICE, open people’s minds to the cruelty of the world and how to change it, and try to help folks see what we can do to make a better world, instead of let armed goons take over in the name of an aging billionaire and his libertarian technocratic white nationalist friends? Yes. That is very, very, very important.

David Roth – one of our greatest living writers, in my book – wrote an article for Defector called “Fascists Are Pathetic“. I identify with Roth in that our strengths lie in our words. Then again, Roth has written for various outlets and worn awards over the past several years, and I only have a couple total years as a music writer, having taken a long hiatus between my stints at both The Deli and Start-Track. But Roth’s article showcases the importance of acting against fascism in any way possible, using whatever skills you have in order to do so. Even if you can only ridicule these fools – through laughing at ICE’s ass when they slip on ice while trying to act tough, or calling the president a pedophile protector when he comes to visit your job, or continuing to harp on the fact that Kristi Noem killed her fucking dog – that works. We all need to cut down fascists however we can, for our own sakes. At least we can say we did something important.

Imagine saying “We need to cut down fascism” and someone pushing their glasses up their nose and going “Erm, actually, we shouldn’t?” May I refer you to the timeless words of The Muslims.

Card of the day: Five of Wands
Currently listening to: Chris Canipe, Monuments

I went to bed last night after staying up to watch the Patriots beat the Chargers to move on in the playoffs, and by “went to bed” I mean had fits of rolling around, then crashed for an hour, then dreamed about how I was supposed to perform in a concert and didn’t have my music prepared or rehearsed and was in my underwear in the middle of a field about ten miles from home. So your boy is writing this post on one hour of sleep and all the strength God can give his soul.

But the Almighty doesn’t need to give me anything, because a) I don’t believe in God as a singular entity, especially not the one most monotheistic religions depict as male, and b) God needs to send their power elsewhere. The good people of Minneapolis have fought all week to keep their city safe from ICE, which is both an occupying force of brutality and mindless violence and also a collection of the stupidest minds America has to offer. They will shoot and kill anyone who gives them even the slightest dirty look, but they will slip on black ice and get their cars stuck on hills in the snow because they don’t know how Minnesota winters work. Violent, evil, and stupid makes for a terrible triple threat.

This weekend was therefore a big F for me in terms of trying to stay off the feeds and get productive, as I was tuned in too much to the Battle of Minneapolis and trying to track where the masked-up goons might travel next, in case I had to turn out to warn the locals. Also, football was on, as were the Globes. Panem et circenses, you know. Suzanne Collins’ horrific vision of future America rings louder than ever.

I did, however, make plans to spend time with friends throughout this week, and my wife and I have a date night planned to visit this nearby Szechuan restaurant with spicy bacon edamame that whoops ass. And I did eventually get some creative work done through finishing up my Start-Track articles where were due, including one about Monuments, an album from Missouri songwriter Chris Canipe. He distills the current American moment into music so well; it reminds me of something in between Bruce Springsteen and Matt Nathanson. Definitely worth a listen if you need a spiritual pick-me-up.

That’s all for now, I think. I have no intentions of getting any actual work done today, so I am going to clean my house and wail on the guitar until dinner. Be well.

At the poetry function yesterday I asked the bartender how she was doing and she was like “Fine, but you know, 2026, not starting off so good, and it’s only been one week.” And I went, “Well, we got fifty-one more to go, I think we can turn things around.” And of course I said that because my optimism can’t turn off for even a second.

If you read the news you saw the whittled-down version of the administration’s latest violence against Americans: ICE agents swarmed Minneapolis, pepper-sprayed students and parents during dismissal at Roosevelt High School, and shot a legal observer in her car. Renee Nicole Good was 37 years old, a poet and musician, a mother of three, and a partner. All she did was stick her head out the window and yell “Shame!”

Of course the government says she then tried to run ICE agents over with her car, which did not happen. Multiple videos show an ICE agent approaching her window, screaming at her to get out, and she turned to drive away. The agent was in no danger of getting hurt. Yet he still shot her three times in the face. Her car traveled about a hundred feet before slamming into a telephone pole. Multiple witnesses saw this. The crime of this government body was well-documented.

But everyone on the side of the occupying force – from Kristi Noem to Elon Musk to Asmongold to Donald Trump himself – says that Renee Nicole Good is a domestic terrorist and deserved it. Which is to say, if you don’t kowtow to this government’s whims, no matter how craven, we will lie through our teeth to paint ourselves as the victim and you as the enemy.

We got fifty-one more weeks to go.

Now I’ve read a story that the FBI has barred the state of Minnesota from accessing evidence related to the shooting, meaning the federal government will do their best to cover things up and give their ICE soldier a pat on the back and say don’t worry, chief, we got you, all while drawing devil horns over Good’s head and talking about how “she was no angel” or whatever line these demons like to drop whenever they have to make up something to save face. Again: We know what we saw in Minneapolis. I don’t want to quote 1984 again but you know what line I would write here.

How many more lies will people take? We have seen countless parents, children, partners, friends, family members, and neighbors snatched up for nothing, called criminals, and sent to camps and prisons in other countries or straight-up killed. We have seen people who supported this administration get swept away without warning. The leaders-in-name-only of the United States do not care about anything. They have no humanity. To them, this is all a game for them to win, and if you don’t join their team, they will steamroll you.

Not to deviate from more important matters, but speaking of games and teams, I will be surprised if countries want to send their national football teams here for the World Cup. I expect some forfeitures. Although I have to think that would benefit the United States team somehow, and fans around the world would yell like hell if that happened. We really are just fucking everything up for everyone, huh?

Fifty-one more weeks to go.

Anyway, yesterday I worked from my office, then camped out at the Korean fried chicken place for a bit, then hit up the poetry function where everyone threw down some of the sickest stanzas I’ve heard in a while, then went home to type up the poem I’d shared about the events of the day before bed. Today I have nothing to accomplish except for winterizing the windows downstairs. I will make chicken and orzo for dinner. I will try not to crash out too hard about everything.

Card of the day: The Emperor
Currently listening to: Plastic Manmade Sunshine Machine, “Tripping Down A Hole”

Today I switched the font of this site to a Google Fonts version of Futura called Jost. I like it very much. It reminds me of the good old days when I used Tumblr more often and thought using Futura was a hipster thing to do. I thought it would tell the world, “Yeah, I’m a cool person. I know about fonts.” Okay, 20-year-old Will. Take about fifty percent off.

Anyway, changing my website font, scrolling through Bluesky, and watching the sun go down have taken the place of doing any actual work, physical activity, or creative nonsense today. So much for my resolutions, huh? Today has a weird vibe, though. If you look at the calendar, you will understand why. Five years ago I was staring at the TVs in the Blink gym in Gowanus. I could not process what was happening. But I thought, “Well, the guy who started this won’t be in office in about two weeks, and then the new administration will gut him like a fish, and that will be that.”

Five years later, and the guy who started it is president again, and he’s had his cronies put up an official page on the White House website about how January 6th was all the Democrats’ fault, actually. So unfortunately I was wrong about what would happen. But so were a lot of other people.

I was speaking with a friend of mine about the post-World War II era of German history, where the Boomers grew up not knowing about what their country had done between the 1920s and the end of the war, because their parents and grandparents were too ashamed to talk about it. Only in the ’60s and ’70s did people in Germany begin to reckon with what had happened under their country’s name, especially because of the other major schism occurring in the nation during that time. In the later years of the 20th century and earlier years of the 21st century, Germans looked down on any support of Nazism at all.

But now, as we enter the ’20s again, far-right groups like the AfD have come to power, and there is great unrest worldwide, with the groups that plagued Germany in the 1920s now popping up in America. This is Peter Turchin’s theory of the cycles of political violence in a nutshell. One would think people would see the rhyme in the poorly-written poem of history. And yet our reading comprehension has dropped along with our attention spans.

(My wife tells me she can’t get her students to write five sentences about the topic in class without using AI. Those kids are lucky I’m not their teacher. The Chromebooks would get thrown out the window. The blue books would be on the desks. The children would write in cursive.)

I had already written this day off in my calendar, anyway. The Tuesday after the holiday break always hits the worst. At least on Monday, I’ve had all that time to rest up and heal my brain. But then that first day back always drains me, and therefore I get nothing of worth done the next day. Wednesday usually turns out better. I hope tomorrow I can get some solid stuff done.

That will be all for now. I have a few articles to write for Start-Track, and if I put my head down, perhaps I can finish one before it’s time to prepare dinner. I mean “put my head down” in the metaphorical sense, of course. If I put my head down in the literal sense, I will fall asleep. Be well.

Card of the Day: Ace of Pentacles… Currently Listening: Viagra Boys, “Medicine For Horses” and Wednesday, “Elderberry Wine”

Very foreboding: Yesterday I got into my car after the gym, which had streamed the President’s grotesque press conference about storming a foreign nation and kidnapping its leader in the dark of night, and on the radio Jimi Hendrix’s “All Along The Watchtower” blasted… I screamed and slapped the volume button to turn it off. What horrendous vibes! And only three days into this year! Visions of last year and seeing flames rise up from California… Of 2021 and watching the chaos at the Capitol… Of 2020 and catching the first hints of COVID… Life does not suffer those who hope for a new start in the new year. It moves forward, as must we.

But hell, a war for oil? In 2026? I remember the last time we went to war for oil, and it was before I knew anything beyond “War bad!” I like to think I’ve had leftist tendencies all my life, and that they’ve only grown stronger as I’ve grown older. So to all those who say “You’ll grow more conservative as you get older”, sure, maybe I’ll sock some extra in my savings, but otherwise, I’m gonna be your pinko commie nightmare.

I still hold out hope that we will find enlightenment in 2026 with regard to our choices, through our own self-reflection or by force. Not saying that I want anything rash to happen, but at the rate our own government’s going, they’ll invite some nonsense to occur which will cause them to manufacture consent for more violence, and at a certain point something will have to give. We’re in for a reckoning, folks, and I sure hope we don’t have to wait long, because I’d like for us to get over this petulant and stupid era of our lives already.

But again: We press on. On my baseball Discord – the only social media that feels good these days – the jokers are talking about how baseball either has or does not have luck. I am firmly on the side of luck. Every sport has luck. Every second we are alive is a lucky second, despite any evidence to the contrary. Life consists of a battle to turn the odds in our favor, when they continue to stack themselves against us and show great fortitude when we try to beat them. But nothing remains impossible. It may seem fruitless for a team of underpowered rookies to beat the repeat World Series champions in the league championship, or for the team of rowdy green adventurers to slay the dragon in the cave just beyond the abandoned village, but certainly neither are futile. Hope prevails. Ya gotta believe.

In any case, I will leave this here for now. The Patriots are going for the #1 seed this afternoon, and while I don’t doubt they can beat the Dolphins on home turf in ice-cold weather, luck cares not for whom it grants its charm. Be well.

Card of the Day: Five of Wands, reversed
Currently Listening To: Emperor X, “Schopenhauer in Berlin”

Welcome to a new year, folks. I have neglected this blog yet again, and instead of starting a new one, I’m deciding to pay more attention here. I’m paying for the hosting, after all. I might as well use it.

I had thought about reviving an old brand, Socrates’ Closet, but then I figured: Let sleeping dogs lie. I used that name on Tumblr for many years, and while it remains near and dear to my heart, I’ve grown past that stage of my life. If I write something, I am going to put it under my name and face the consequences. (As if anything I write is so edgy. I have never been an edgelord and my previous attempts at trolling in my younger years made me a laughingstock.)

But anyway, here we are at the start of 2026, licking our wounds from the previous year while we practice writing the new number on our checks. My wife Becca and I gave cookies to our next-door neighbors who are our landlords. We have never been so kind to landlords before, but these guys have been quality so far. In our few months of living in our current abode, they have fixed our sagging front porch, repaid us for the paint supplies we bought, salted our walkway, and ensured we knew about street parking restrictions. Previous landlords either went AWOL, took months to make repairs, or chewed us out for the slightest issue (which was 99 percent of the time not our fault.) I know it goes against my usual left-leaning politics, but I don’t mind these landlords. We’ll have to see if I still carry that sentiment when the new lease comes up for discussion.

I look back on what fulfilled me in 2025, and I see my creative output: Two albums, an EP, and a thick handful of poems which I shared with friends and other captive audiences. I see new and reinforced connections. I see new observances of love and kinship, methods of expression, streaks of confidence. And while last year kicked my ass with other personal matters, I feel good knowing I am not alone: The two-thousand-and-twenty-fifth year after the birth of Jesus H. Christ kicked everyone’s ass.

But I am glad I ended the year with a long stretch of rest and relaxation. I sat and watched all of Heated Rivalry with Becca, caught up on quite a bit of sleep, grabbed drinks and shot the shit with a fellow poetry patron, and began to form the building blocks of what I hope will amount to another productive year. Meanwhile, I realized that the old forms of filling my dopamine receptors – the social media apps – don’t do it for me anymore, and although I will continue to post on this blog and utilize them to stay connected to the people and communities I hold dear, I will no longer succumb to the endless scroll. I know I say that all the time, and I often fail, but I must commit to it in 2026. I can not give my time to these platforms when they do not serve me.

So what serves me now? Reading poetry, especially from local artists, with some of whom I’ve shared a stage. Finding new music through recommendations or going to solid sites instead of relying on the streaming platforms to spoon-feed me. Long-form writing that hits the cerebral cortex, instead of just focusing on the headlines and headaches in the comments from people who only read the headlines. And perhaps collaboration with creative colleagues, creating something beautiful with other people instead of limiting myself to just myself. I have always been too protective of my work and myself, and I think such guardedness remains important in these dangerous times. But I am putting importance in finding the right people with whom I can hash out ideas and from whom I can learn.

And of course, long walks, even if I take them on a treadmill. You could not catch me dead to rights hustling my ass outside in this teeth-chattering New England winter, but I’ll spend an hour at the gym vibing to my antifascist punk playlist on a 3.5 percent incline at a leisurely pace.

Anyway, I am running out of steam for this post. I hope you’re well. Thank you to the many people at the Boston Poetry Slam for your inspiration, and to Robert for reminding me that this blog exists. How are you, Rob? I know I said I wasn’t going to use my social media apps much more, but I will check in to see what kind of cocktails you’re stirring up. If you and Joe are in the area, don’t be a stranger.

Last night I watched as a man younger than me stood before New Yorkers and gave his vision for a brighter tomorrow. I now know what the oldheads felt like in 2008 watching Barack Obama talk. Never mind that Zohran Mamdani was born just six months after me. My body received a shot of hope meant for a wide-eyed college student on Election Night. My withered thirty-something heart simply cannot take that dosage.

I realize I use many words to explain what I could state in few. And so I shall reduce my words down to the essentials. If I can. I have also learned that I tend to go on tangents. No more. Stick to the message. If a post goes over 500 words it is too long. Eyes on the prize.

Massive blue wave wins across the US last night and Guy Fawkes Day being today is going to make one group of people clinically libbed up and one group of people have pearl-clutching panic attacks. I belong in the former camp, and let me tell you, it’s a rush. My head hurts.

Despite the great victories of the Democratic Party, and especially the Democratic Socialists of America, the work remains. Yes, we can celebrate our Ws. But there are many wins left for us, and we cannot lose momentum now, or else we’ll never reach them. Again, eyes on the prize.

And what is the prize? An American Dream everyone can achieve? A good, safe, quiet life for every person on Earth, where bigotry and genocide do not stand? A society where no one must make the choice between keeping a roof over their head, having a hot meal, or being able to take the bus to an underpaying job? All of the above?

Yes. A better world is possible. Every day could be the first day of a better nation. There is no benefit in defeatism to powers that would rather see everything burn while they hide in their fire-proof bunkers.

I certainly have not felt like this in a long time. But again, I know that this feeling is contagious and addictive. It is so easy to get hooked on it, to let it distract from the work, to let it blind me to the real issues that need addressing. At a certain point I will have to splash some water on my face, come down from the clouds, and say, “Okay. What’s next?”

What an evening. What a year. Eleven months of fascist and anarcho-capitalist nonsense really do make the slimmest glimmer of hope feel like two thousand volts directly to the rib cage. I am too old to not have slept last night. I am sucking coffee down like a demon.

The people who lost hard last night are already preparing themselves for the midterms. They are already working on ways to destroy what little joy we gained. Let’s not let them. Turn the volume up.

I set out to write a blog post. Every single time I do this I fail. I get to the first sentence, maybe. Then I delete the whole thing. I delete the website. I delete the browsers from my computer. I throw the computer out the window. I rebuke all technology and put my necessary belongings in a small knapsack. I walk to the river and set up my camp there. I look to the stars. I ask them for guidance. They give none. I drink the water from my hands. I get cholera or something. I wake up in a hospital three months later where a doctor tells me they have cured my disease. I throw the doctor out the window.

Anyway, we have reached the era of Will Sisskind where unhinged nonsense knows no bounds. I used to try to sound smart. I used to want to be taken somewhat seriously. But by God and every god and devil, why? We live in a nonsense world. I hate to sound cynical. I hate to sound nihilistic. I am neither. I believe in hope and that a new and better world is possible. But why stick to the ways that have always been, especially in an era where they do not work? Nazis have infiltrated government. Everyday folks go hungry while their elected government spends their tax money on lavish parties and ballrooms.

I can’t write about these things. My brain shuts down. I hit a wall.

Because I’m not wired to think like this. No human is and no human should be. We were born to live off the land, to tend to it, to not milk it of all its resources for minuscule financial gain and the indentured servitude of all mankind. We were born to live together on this land, not to fight and shed each other’s blood across it. We were born to adapt to this land’s strange whimsy, not try and control it, and certainly not to cause its climate to go off the rails.

And yet, people have found countless mind-boggling ways to be very stupid. I have certainly acted stupid in my life. But I like to think I have learned from my mistakes. So many people have not. And those folks would rather double down on their stupidity and land themselves in scalding hot water than take accountability for their accounts. Those folks would rather let their errors cause people to die because they’re too insecure and afraid to look weak, and they will never apologize or take the blame. They will always frame themselves in the passive tense, because they are passive people, because everything that has propped them into a position of power is due to passive income. They are weak whether they like it or not.

This kind of attitude, this kind of economy, this way of living cannot stand.

What is the point of the article, Will? This is what you ask. I don’t know. Again, I stopped trying to frame my thoughts into anything coherent a while ago. I could run this through ChatGPT and tell it to make me sound smart and well-rehearsed and organized, but do I want to waste gallons of water on that? Do I want to ruin my mental elasticity? Do I want to become a drooling husk of bone while a computer somewhere in a burnt-out Virginia forest does all the thinking for me? No, no, and no. I would rather scoop out the interior of my scrotum with a sewing needle. Employers, if you just read that sentence, just know you’re getting a creative mind over here. You didn’t think anyone would say that sentence, did you? Big brain. Galaxy brain, as the kids say. Six-seven.

Fact is: I’m done shutting up, and I’m done trying to appease folks, and I’m done trying to make myself sound like a watered-down version of what I am. Sure, that just adds to the noise. Sure, that just means one more dumbass white man adding his unnecessary opinion to the slurry of shit that fills the Internet like a New York City sewer after a monsoon. But I have always regretted not yelling about something when I need to yell about it, because that thought then festers in my brain and eats away at the top layer of it like a termite, and then the structure of my skull caves in and my head hits the edge of my desk and cracks, and the goo leaks everywhere on my office’s hardwood floor and makes a big damn mess. And then my wife has to come home and see that. Do you want my wife to have to see blue brain goop? Do you want to question why it’s blue? No and no. I know it’s not blue, but blue is my favorite color and I like to think my head is full of that. So there.

This is the end of the post.