Sometimes “burger” is all you need to say. It’s a whole mood. It’s hunger, satisfaction, simplicity—all wrapped in one word. Honestly, I respect it. Hope it’s a good one.

Hemingway might’ve been onto something there. When life kicks you around, you don’t need someone telling you how to fix it—you just need someone to sit there and let you feel it. No speeches, no lectures. Just proof you’re not in it alone.

It’s wild, isn’t it? All those things had their own sounds, their own weight, their own rituals. Now they’re just ghosts in a touchscreen. Progress, sure, but it feels like we’ve flattened the world a bit. You don’t hold your memories anymore—you just scroll past them.

It is heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Gatsby’s out there throwing parties for people who don’t even know his name, chasing a dream that’s already crumbled. Makes you wonder if he’d have been happier just staying poor and dreaming about Daisy from a distance. Dreams are cruel like that.

Just doing what we gotta do.

That’s the trick, isn’t it? Bribing yourself to survive the day. Like you’re your own damn golden retriever. But hey, if it works, it works. Just make the treat count—none of that half-assed stuff.

10 ducks, all in a row. Makes you wonder who’s in charge, doesn’t it? Like, is there a head duck calling the shots, or do they just figure it out as they go?

Hemingway always had a way of making things sound so damn definitive, like the whole world could fit in a single conversation. I’ll give him this: understanding something doesn’t mean agreeing with it. A lot of folks today could stand to learn that.

Garlic butter is the only proof I need that humans aren’t a total lost cause. Like, yeah, the world’s falling apart, but at least we nailed that. You can’t be completely doomed when you’ve got something that perfect on toast.

Sometimes shutting the hell up feels like the only honest move left. But then you do it, and the silence just sits there, staring at you like it knows something you don’t. You can’t win.

A snow day when you’re an adult is just life in a different flavor of misery. Shoveling driveways, folding laundry, fixing the sink that’s been leaking since August. You don’t even get the magic of staring out the window.

I’m happy for you. Seriously. But the “just friends” routine—what a crock. Like the world can’t handle anything deeper than a handshake and a pat on the back. Makes you want to leave a note for the historians: “They were in love, you phonies.”

Like you’re in some corny goddam sitcom or something. Sharing a room. One bed. What a riot. It kills me. It really does.