It was not so long ago that the return of spring had me in my feels in a positive way. The bump in my emotional well-being that accompanies the mere presence of the Stanley Cup Playoffs on my TV was real, as was my ability to go on evening bike rides and hike some mountains. Stuff phases in and out of significance over the course of our lives, and living like there’s a constant gas leak in my apartment does have some tangible effects on my mental health. Generally, our behavior and general outcomes even out over time, and knowing this makes the bad stuff more bearable in the moment as we maunder through our inevitable regression to the mean. Which, for me, involves trying to preserve the sanctuary of my Friday nights by warding off any intrusive get-togethers, networking events, double dates, or social gatherings.

The insistence of touch grass implies that we are living in the era of the introvert, loving Netflix and our couches, the desire to be alone. The commonality of such tendencies doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s fashionable to always stay in, but tweets, T-shirts, mugs, and art aren’t discouraging the mindset of equating your 30s with the death of a social life. Bailing on plans is at the crossroads of showing up for yourself and showing up for other people, and whether it is wrong to do so mostly depends on how often you flake, what kind of plans you’re canceling on, and how much notice you give.

I’m a bit of a people-pleaser, so it is in my nature to say “yes” in-person to plans that I am ambivalent about committing to. I used to bristle at the idea of flaking, because wasting someone’s time is among the most disrespectful human behaviors. But now I see being canceled on at the last minute as being gifted a snow day. With social media constantly pressuring us to be doing things, with busy schedules making a casual hang feel like an adult playdate, with every weekend seemingly always filled with something, it’s a nice reprieve to have time to yourself. After eight to 12 hours a day of forcing my way into a facade of constant pleasantries for stubborn and indecisive clients, followed by coming home and repeating that with my partner and dog, then having to take care of chores, then getting enough sleep to hit the gym and maintain some hobbies, then repeating the cycle, I’m thankful if another social obligation cancels—at least once in a while.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of my friends, but maybe it’s that most plans are fairly lackluster and we stick to them out of obligation rather than excitement. Someone is rarely happy when an exciting plan falls through. It’s less common when it’s something fairly pedestrian or something they felt they should do. I’m still a bit squeamish about bailing on plans without a plausible-enough excuse, so the second I see rain on the Weather App, those rendezvous are vaporized. I will be couching it all night. There is something oddly liberating about freeing yourself from the shackles of arranged meet-ups and staying in to watch Lord of the Rings for the 20th time.

As you get deep enough into your working stiff era, Fridays present a bit of a conundrum, because theoretically, it’s the end of the 40-hour grind and a perfect opportunity to blow off steam with a pint that inevitably leads to 12.

What seems like a casual hang presents quite a dilemma:

• I want to drink beer with my friends on Friday.

• If I drink beer with my friends on Friday, I’ll be hungover on Saturday.

• Saturday is that rooftop BBQ, so I’ll be hungover the whole weekend.

• If I’m hungover the whole weekend, I’ll have to run errands during the week.

• If I have to run errands during the week, I’ll have to wake up earlier.

• If I have to wake up earlier, I have to go to bed earlier.

• If I have to go to bed earlier, I can’t go to the gym after work.

• If I can’t go to the gym after work, I’ll feel bad about myself.

• If I feel bad about myself, I’ll want to drink a beer.

This appears to be an uneasy and uncertain scenario to which I have no clear answer. Maybe I should ask my friends what I should do over a beer.

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Spring always takes approximately 10 years to arrive, but when it does, you are never prepared. After a thorough assessment of the winter arc, the results are not ideal. I downed 2,000 beers, which is 500 more than last winter. My fitness goal was to gain five pounds of lean muscle, and after a steady diet of Sour Patch Kids and McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches, I gained 10 pounds of fat. I did a few hikes, but mostly rotted on my couch, and at least my bank account is completely fucked. I had been feeling down lately, mostly from the existential contemplation of how we were put on Earth with everything we need—naturally recurring energy, food growing from the ground, a planet comprised mostly of water—and we’re slaving to pay a handful of mediocre tech dorks to let us survive in a world that they’re actively destroying. Those who are more optimistic keep reiterating, “One day this will all be behind us,” but are we talking about the Trump administration or a functioning democracy? And what day specifically? Sometime in 2026 would be nice, or I could even do next Wednesday. Or maybe these optimists could share what prescription they’re on because it sounds like they’ve locked down a healthy mindset.

I’ve posted some gloomy missives over the past few months, but you can ignore all that. It’s nice out now, and my self-destructive slog ends with good weather. I’ve historically never had seasonal depression because I love winter and its attendant darkness, and I’m pretty sure the darkness loves me too. Maybe this was just regular depression. The other night, I biked home and it was 7:30 PM and 65 degrees and the sun was still out, and a flicker of joy tickled my heart. My friends and family texted me about their concerns for my mental well-being. The fiancée and I went out for a Michelin-restaurant dinner a few weeks ago. I thought it went fine, but before we went to bed, she said: “Please don’t do anything bad, okay?” I guess I give off a specific vibe, which probably explains why my single life mostly revolved around dating recent divorcees or women in their early 30s.

This ends with good weather, and it’s finally nice out at least some of the time. Hot showers (without crying) are starting to help. I’m listening to the same four songs on repeat.1 I even scheduled therapy again, and I was stuck doing it for a while because I felt bad about canceling. This came at an ideal time because I was beginning to put in the work to take the proper steps to figure out some underlying issues and anxieties, and why I tend to catastrophize everything. The therapist gave me a bracelet with purple beads and instructed me to touch them whenever I was feeling depressed, which made me forget about my sadness and instead focused an irrational hatred of this bracelet and the color purple. My $1,000/year mental health benefits would not cover a fifth visit, so I threw the bracelet in the garbage and oddly felt better after that. Everything’s fine. Thank god I figured it all out before doing all that personal growth work!

All that downer shit I was posting before came from a different guy. That was February/March me. Totally different guy. I’m fine, y’all. Really. I’m going hiking and kayaking. I’m taking up yoga for the first time in a year. I started a garden in the community center with the fiancee and our plants have mostly stayed alive for two weeks. I’m making my own cold brew to save money, and it tastes pretty decent. Everyone seems to have a birthday right now and I’m not going to any of those parties. I’ll eat healthy and prioritize water. I’ll start with all of that tomorrow. Now, I’m going to grab a margarita on the patio.

It was just a phase. This allergy medicine does absolutely nothing. It’ll all be okay until it gets too hot, and then I’ll be ready for fall again. Always an emotional roller coaster. Seriously, I’m fine!

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I was eating dinner the other day when it happened. Listening to a new Kanye album full of the potential of what could’ve been good songs while mentally debating whether America can be or should be salvaged, and my bi-monthly random sharp chest pain shot through me like a flash of lightning. Not sure what it is or why it happens, but it is mildly concerning. Any revelation into the medical cause of these intense, sporadic pains would be too much to bear, like watching Love Island contestants realize that other people are real for the first time. Sometimes it happens when I eat peanut butter too fast—and no, I will not slow down my pace of eating peanut butter. It could be the microplastics fighting with my cholesterol for control of my arteries. Or maybe it’s my heart asking for more energy drinks.

Ahh, I’m sure it’s all just a side effect of… *gestures broadly*

To be clear, when I say “bi-monthly,” it is not to be confused with “bi-monthly.” That is, I only experience this intense throbbing pain every other month, not every other week. It’s another one of those absurdities in the English language that “bi-monthly” has two definitions, but that’s besides the point and also the point. Anyways, it could be worse.

It was tax season, and a dozen or so movies on my watchlist were leaving Prime before the end of March, so I was attending to more urgent matters. But what’s the worst-case scenario? I croak in a medical emergency room and pass out and die on the floor, and nobody realizes? It’s not that bad if you think about it. I don’t want to die, but a random, unexpected event seems like one of the better ways to go out. And if I descend into the pits of hell, it would probably be underwhelming compared to what humanity is inflicting on itself: Satan will introduce me to little devil gremlins gnawing on fetuses when Earth has had people eating babies since slavery, but now that it’s draconian reptile shape shifters… nevermind, we still have that. I’d have to worry about whether hell has dry or humid heat, or if you eventually get accustomed to the inferno or just sweat it out for all of eternity, but they probably have free housing. If this is the end for me, I do worry about my beagle, though, but I think my fiancée would be fine with taking care of him by herself. To reiterate, I think it’s fine.

Maybe it’s that dog in me. At least these little death windows keep us honest.

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“In March I’ll be rested, caught up and human.”
—Sylvia Plath

February felt like a week, which means patio season is tomorrow, and soon I’ll be decrepit and dead, and in that time, they still won’t drop GTA 6. Every day, all around the culture, unjust things are happening, and chaos is the new normal. I’m not sure if it’s more disturbing to learn that the world’s most powerful military is describing their Operation Epic Fury on Iran as “Armageddon” and the “end times” or to watch the McDonald’s CEO robotically nibble at the Arch Burger and describe it as a product. Terrible things are happening to good people who don’t deserve it. In contrast, some of the most vile people humanity has ever produced are blithely escaping accountability for their actions and go on cutting the line. It’s all wrong, and if the wrongness of it all is not necessarily new, it can feel soul-crushing all the same. It is a bedrock of our absurd quotidian realities to feature stupid stuff happening for stupid reasons, even and especially if this particularly snowy winter is pummelling our already wobbly psyches.

There is a part of me that loves the promise of a new year, the feeling of being alive and persevering through a deep chill by sitting on the couch, leaving summer as my time to be manic. My optimistic and optimized side is skiing, snow-shoeing, playing pick-up hockey at the outdoor rinks, and even wearing shorts while I shovel the sidewalk. I’ll even huddle in a bus shelter with a cup of hot cocoa just for fun. Maybe I’ll see some Christmas light displays and put another log in the fire. As a child of Christmas Eve, I take schadenfreude in hearing the salty Aquarius complain about how their birthdays are in the middle of a void. Denizens from beneath the Mason-Dixon will say, “You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me (temperate/sub-tropical climate),” and I laugh in my Patagonia fleece as they need a parka just to get through two inches of snowfall. This is when I thrive—who needs to sweat profusely or suffer through irritating sunburns?

But the reality is much more emotionally and spiritually turbulent:

December: Holly jolly whimsy cozy!
Early-January: I’m going to kill myself and everyone I work with…
Mid-January: I can’t keep coming to work in the dark and leaving work in the dark…
Late-January: Blowing through bottles of Vitamin D isn’t enough… Maybe I should scarf down a pound of herring and five tins of sardines each week to unlock the eternal sunshine within me…
February: OMG ski season!
March: It’s slush everywhere, and I can’t ski or play outdoor hockey consistently, making it the worst of winter and spring…

Going out in the winter can be strangely energizing and affirming, but it takes only one groggy morning to send this delicate routine into a spiral. My partner forced me to get a haircut for the first time in a year. I trudge to the grocery store in slippers like a cartoon character, and I’m pretty sure my dog walks me these days. I sleep from 10 PM to 10 AM. I go on long strolls with no music, and when left to my own thoughts, my internal monologues blur the line between ADHD and paranoid schizophrenia. I’m somehow spending more money despite spending most of my weeks indoors. I’ve come to understand that there are Kalshi betting spreads on “What will MrBeast say during his next Youtube Video?” I’ve learned that, if left in the fridge long enough, arugula can turn into liquid. I have no desire to wear anything other than joggers and a hoodie. At least I reorganized my kitchen cabinets.

I’m starting to think this could be more than just a winter arc. The birds will be back soon, and it’s important to reiterate that it’s reasonable to feel this way during the collapse of everything.

Together, we can fix the winter arc by pushing Christmas back at least a month. Jesus wasn’t born on December 25, as it’s an arbitrary date that Christians weaponized to aura farm while Pagans indulged in cooler festive celebrations. It’s silly that the two major travel home to see the family holidays are less than a month apart. And the complete tonal whiplash to New Year’s (wholesome cozy time with the fam to let’s get blackout and hook up with similarly inebriated randos) is less than a week after. Too many holidays are crammed together. Christmas lights, Christmas music, Christmas cheer are all peak winter, and considering the dire state of overall vibes, we could all use four more weeks of that. Move Christmas to late-January and make it a 12-day marathon that follows the traditional calendar: Epiphany, Theophany, “Meeting of Old and New Testaments” (Groundhog Day), Candlemas, Meatfare, and Cheesefare. Then, once it’s all over, we can all tolerate February for the hangover month it basically/already is.

I think this will be over soon…

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A lot of suburbanites will never understand this, but it’s actually pleasurable for a morning commute to be walking-distance. When I was living in Toronto, my apartment was a half-hour stroll from the job factory, so when the sunny skies presented a golden opportunity, I’d roll into the golden arches to snag my trademark McDonald’s breakfast order and eat it on the go, almost like a cardiovascular form of carbon neutrality to offset the absolute mayhem I’d unleash onto my arteries. Now, I understand that it’s very off-brand of this newsletter to camp for a soulless multi-national corporation—especially one with the unmitigated gall and temerity to charge $15 for a Big Mac meal—but the McDonald’s breakfast remains undefeated, even if what now constitutes as a McValue is just what it used to cost before COVID.

There are many ways to indulge in a morning McDick’s run, but after many years and iterations, I’ve tinkered my way to the ideal greasebag delight: The Sausage ‘N Egg McMuffin, two hash browns, and a large vanilla iced coffee. The hash browns could be a little dicey, especially if they arrive limp and under-cooked, or if holding them in a paper bag accidentally steam-bathes them into mush, but when they arrive at peak crunch, these little guys are straight crack. And if we’re exercising a modicum of health considerations in this depraved context, I don’t understand how someone could eat a McGriddle consistently—those things hit your heart like a mack truck.

For anyone who grew up in the pre-Supersize Me days, it is jarring to see this once family-friendly chain remove its pleasant facade and shamelessly present itself as a burger-churning assembly line—even if it’s always been that. My local McDonald’s has no cashiers and an iron-locked door, and a late-night grab-and-go window to barricade against the swarms of the unruly drunks and crackheads. The chairs are unbearably uncomfortable. Bathroom usage is conditional, “For Paying Customers Only,” and another sign in the common area dictates the orderly pace of dining processions: “30 minutes to eat food and after is considered loitering.” The layout is hostile, lifeless and depressing. No one is sitting down and everyone is impatiently standing idle to snatch their order and dart away. Every DoorDash order gets priority and then I wonder, Who the fuck DoorDashes McDonald’s? (Also me).

I had a fond memory of a high school morning waking up after a house party with a crush/love interest and we’d drive down Fast Food Row before deciding on McDonald’s. The lady ran towards the playplace and we goofed around in this magical realm of giant plastic tubes and slides and peed-on ball pits and rope netting. No one bothered us and we were the only ones there, lost in the moment for one uninterrupted hour. We realized it had been years since either of us had been in a McDonald’s playplace, and it would be the last time we’d ever be in one. We put our shoes on and ordered a McDonald’s breakfast to split between us. I don’t remember the cost, but two broke high schoolers could easily afford it. Maybe it’s for the best that the obesity factory is less friendly.

Now that I’m in my working stiff era, each morning is a dress rehearsal for my inevitable fall into eternal abyss. Every breakfast, I munch away, trying to fill the howling void inside, but each meal is consumed and eventually gone, reflecting my own sense of nothingness back to me. I drift closer to the precipice while distracting myself with an office job that doesn’t matter, a capitalist machine that makes me feel perpetually inadequate, and an inane ritual of picking out snazzy fits that project an aura of having my shit together.

The McDonald’s breakfast is the only thing that’s real, the only solid in a world where everything else liquifies into a simulacrum of someone else’s dreams. After four bites, the haze of my morning gloom disappears and I see only truth. The great pig who was used to make this delectable sausage patty was a proud animal and I wonder if she also was lovin’ it.

Existence is pain, but also, this is the only context in which it is acceptable to eat plastic cheese.

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It’s not ideal, if I’m being honest. From amending my answer to the question “How are you” on any given Monday, it’s clear that there’s a corrosive effect that comes with sustained exposure to scuffed vibes. On one hand, I’m referring to the Seattle Seahawks savagely snuffing my dear New England Patriots’ Cinderella Run—although it was funny to see these seething star-spangled chuds throw a racist temper tantrum about defending American culture, and their big national event featured a white dude in a fedora rapping about methadone. But I’m also gesturing at the inherent pointlessness of our societal machinations upon the confirmation that everything is run by a cabal of sociopathic pedos, our beleaguered Attorney General is flailing to cover up said pedophile ring by gesturing at the stock market performance, while the Wall Street Journal is running feature stories that describe grocery store rotisserie chickens as a luxury item to splurge on.

It’s important to filter the current moment through the context of America’s fractious and generally insane history, and by examining this sclerotic empire. After considering this country’s competing layers of authority, as well as our fragile and contingent relationship with Freedom, I turn to Pete Hegseth’s impossibly shitty kettlebell swings. Then, I try to devise a unified theory of why Republican influencer-types cannot exercise properly, and why they’re so intent on creating and disseminating content like, “Clavicular was mid jestergooning when a group of Foids came and spiked his Cortisol levels. Is Ignoring the Foids while munting and mogging Moids more useful then SMV chadfishing in the club?” Reading that tweet is no less deranging than trying to glean any sense out of the Burger Reich Redux, and it’s fairly similar to the through-line grounded in an ideological incoherence that runs between RFK Jr.’s fucked-up pull-ups and his murderous public health policies.

I keep reminding myself to look away from the miasma of horrors that bombard my pocket-sized supercomputer. We are not psychically or spiritually meant to be exposed to this sheer breadth and volume of grim, bleak malevolence. When I’m feeling glum about the state of the world, I reframe my sense of scale only to confront that I might just be firmly in my winter arc.

Vitamin D has left the chat, and I am spiralling. I am carbo-loading for no reason, telling myself that polishing off another two-pound box of Barilla elbows is necessary in preparation for spring migration. I’m wearing a beanie, even if it makes my large noggin look like a blow pop, just a thick Humpty Dumpty oval resting on my shoulders. I’m forgetting to moisturize, despite the brisk air making my face somehow look like a raisin sitting under a heat lamp. I’ve been wearing the same flannel and tee-shirt combo all week. I’m still going to the gym, but all those gains are immediately neutralized because I down at least one pint of Guinness every day. I’ve tried to vacuum my apartment, and I somehow miss these massive dustballs of dog hair. I’m feeling unreachable to my friends, and I haven’t talked to my parents in a while. I’m on YouTube watching videos of people playing Halo 2 on Xbox Live in 2026. I’m emotionally closed off and get irrationally angry at any minor inconvenience for no reason. I bought myself a chocolate mousse cake and four large cannolis. I’m forced to spend $60 on DoorDash instead of taking 15 minutes to cook something. I’m finding ways to work a two-hour bath into my schedule.

From January to March, anything good or bad that happens to me will be blamed on this winter arc. On a positive note, I at least play hockey and ski and can enjoy cozy nights catching up on my movie or reading list—I can’t imagine how brutal these cold and dark months must be for anyone who doesn’t have winter hobbies.

My winter arc has lasted roughly eight years. Each January, I convince myself that “seasonal depression” is some fake pop-psych, over-diagnosed nonsense, and then that first semi-warm sunny day in March hits like a line of coke. At least when December 22 passes, I can mentally accept that we’re at least progressing toward more sunlight, but the first evening after Daylight Saving Time still sucks. It’s wild that we structure our work schedules to waste the precious few daylight hours during the winter inside under fluorescent lights, but I also experience seasonal depression in the summer because it’s so goddamn humid and sticky, and I want to stay locked inside all day with the AC making me feel like I’m in a meat freezer. I’m coming around to the idea that the Finns have hacked seasonal depression: Saunas and heavy drinking.

In a fog of passive sulky routine, I gaze upon my deathly pale pallor and thank our almighty creator that this winter arc is temporary. Only a few more months of this, and then we’re on to allergies.

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When people decide to give up booze during the coldest and darkest month of the year, they must be aware of the risk they are taking. All kinds of stuff can happen in an unworkable and deranged culture over the course of four weeks—like masked goons indiscriminately shooting civilians in Minneapolis and Portland since ICE is now a jobs program for men who are medically prohibited from wearing turtle necks. Now, there is a doom-filled sense that everything is ending, especially in a manifestly untenable moment that still feels groggy from a hangover caused by a facile ‘80s-style anti-authority culture, and how strange it is to see that pose reframed around the awful elite currently robbing and degrading everyone. Regardless of the scuffed vibes of the broader culture, I try to begin each new year in a state of loopy but hopeful or hopeful but loopy. So I’m hesitant to participate in Dry January—namely because it’s the NFL playoffs, playing pool doesn’t hit the same without the haze of an IPA, and I don’t wish to decline the booze-soaked meandering conversations, laughs, and who-knows-whats. While “deal with our shit” seems to be a common imperative for our arbitrary turn-of-the-calendar resolutions, I’m not sure how concerned I should be upon realizing how much of our social lives revolve around alcohol.

Even by the standard of this kind of dysfunction, it’s easy to identify who among your friends is participating in this self-affirming masochism without them ever needing to disclose it. It’s clear in the texts they send you, letting you know they pulled an all-nighter from Friday night to Saturday morning to marathon seven movies. They make strange, spontaneous plans like inviting you over after work on Thursday to reorganize their kitchen cabinets. Some will update you on their Costco run, as they just bought $200 worth of flavored seltzers and energy drinks to cope.

It’s also a more formatted indictment of this current phase of Neoliberal Hell to witness how many of your friends actually need Dry January—especially the ones posting IG Stories about their holiday diets and deleting a hundred pints between Christmas and New Year’s. They’ll be telling you about their profound revelations and self-discovery, when in reality, they stumbled upon completely normal, inane realizations: The health benefits of green tea, the endorphonous effects of morning jogs, or how Sundays contain several hours before noon.

After January 1st, I did three accidental days of Dry January. And in that time, I finished two books, wrote a three-part essay series, organized my sock drawer, cleaned my kitchen counters, came up with an idea for a novel, hatched a few hair-brained business ideas, meal-prepped a veggie stirfry—and anyways, now that I got all that productive nonsense out of my system, I can go back to being me. A friend made reservations at a mocktail bar, so I’ll pregame with a few shots of tequila before the Uber arrives.

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Over the weekend, the girlfriend returned from her two-week cross-country visit with her family, and she squashed the glorious reign of Casa Dojo by reasserting her feminine tyranny over the apartment. She fomented her coup by inquiring into why there were chunks of scrambled eggs in the office, why I’m using the stove and oven as storage space, why I saved every James Bond film on our watchlist, and why I had reorganized the spice rack and coffee/tea cabinets. This dude does not abide! This aggression will not stand! I’m sure I’m not the first one to make this observation, but the two weeks in control of the apartment solidified to me that you’re never truly alone when you’re with a dog. If our beagle Whiskey wasn’t by my side while I was making Shepherd’s Pie or rewatching the Mission: Impossible series or going on a seawall stroll, I would’ve definitely felt the difference.

It’s insane that anyone can go to their local animal shelter, pay an adoption fee and have a new best friend. Dogs literally mog every other animal on the planet, and it’s not even close. They’re incredible companions, and they magnify all the good qualities about humans. As much as my rational mind challenges me to consider how much we project ourselves onto how deeply dogs understand and connect to human emotion, it is undeniable that they are incredibly complex beings who choose to act in ways that comfort and find their comfort in their chosen people. When I was tearing through a week-long movie marathon, my little guy preferred to curl up in between my legs, and he derives as much joy from it as I do—and it almost moves me to tears. Or he nuzzles his head on my boob every time I read, wedging himself between the book and my face so he becomes kind of a chin pillow, and I have to hold the book with one hand and stroke him with the other. After I finish reading, I set my hard-cover down on my nightstand, and we just lie together in bed, looking at each other in contemplative silence.

Humans and dogs have been co-evolving species for centuries, so it’s not unbelievable to me that they would develop inner emotional lives that complement ours on a level that is maybe not quite human, but still fundamental to a blissful coexistence. It is kind of strange that we have been with dogs for as long as our civilization has developed alongside agriculture, and yet our furry friends are rarely considered to be a core part of the human experience. People love to throw around the line that humans are social animals to justify return to office requests, but act like it’s some millennial stunted shit to love a dog like a child.

I have found that there are generally three types of dog:

• Cute and helpless: They are reliant on their owner, but they’re goofy and bring levity to the home.

• Tough-guy dogs: They are protective, intimidating, and sometimes downright scary. But they are also aspirational and majestic.

• Human-type dogs: Similar to us in behavior and expressions. They are the most intelligent of the bunch, or they are extremely food-motivated—but, either way, you can see the wheels turning in their head.

Our boy, Whiskey, is a cross between cute and human-type. As a beagle, he certainly loves to collect his cheese tax and has learned paw, under, roll-over, and spin tricks to panhandle for his treats. But he’s also a derp with no life skills who would gorge on goose poo if left to his own devices. He’s a retired research beagle that my girlfriend rescued from a lab after they were forced to release him since he figured out how to break out of his crate and ruined three clinical trials. But if I drop a piece of carrot on the ground, his nose will be pointed directly to the floor and sniffing away, and he’ll walk around it in circles for 10 minutes before locating his snack—you know, apex-predator stuff.

There is just something undeniably wholesome when these wild animals—these little rippers—get so comfortable with you, that they curl up on the couch, hit the snooze button, and go belly up to the ceiling to catch some Zs. It makes me feel like a good dog dad. My favorite is when they’re obviously dreaming, and they sound like they’re barking underwater…

When my girlfriend snores: 😠👿🔪
When my dog snores: 🥹🥰😇

I have now taken the beaglepill. I am beaglemaxxing. I am posting beaglecore.

Dogs don’t often have bad days, so why should we? We should be more like our four-legged vibe-lords.

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Necessity is the mother of invention. This is there are towels made specifically to dry our hands, and why someone invented peanut butter M&Ms. We needed those things. At my holiday office party, a co-worker won a hot dog-making machine, which prompted me to consider how anyone managed to make such a complex dish with only a pan/grill and a toaster oven. Despite humanity being around for at least a few decades, there are still necessities yet to be invented: A fruit that is structurally similar to a banana but doesn’t have the taste and texture of a banana, or a virulent strain of imposter syndrome that specifically afflicts management consultants. And while soup is not among these bountiful unmet human needs, it is about as close as we’ll get to brewing potions in a cauldron.

For the last few months, my Instagram feed has been a cornucopia of unique variations of classic soups, simple-ingredient soups, and soups I’ve never considered. Among the many glories of autumn, Soup Season is among the GOATed. Now that we’re officially turning over into winter, we’re looking back on what soups we’ve accomplished and slurped, and for this special occasion, I have invited my girlfriend to make her (belated) editorial debut on This is a Newsletter!

: “It’s both an honour and a privilege to grace this newsletter. When I first met Sam, he was known as ‘That Guy from the Internet.’ Now I know him as ‘That Guy on my Couch.’

It’s nice to be invited as a guest author, rather than being the butt of his jokes… (Save the newsletter from a few weeks ago, which I definitely DID NOT twist his arm to dedicate the first of this ‘Gratitude’ series about our life together. I encouraged him to write about our one true love, Whiskey the beagle.)

He made it clear that I’m just here for colour commentary, and obviously, his fragile male ego is threatened. He’s just jealous that all my friends agree that I’m funnier than him. He gave me a handbook of newsletter brand guidelines, and the first rule was ‘Keep your Taylor Swift rants and subtle cult-like references to yourself,’ and then he said I was a member of QAnon for people who watch The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. So I assured him that now we have bad blood.

Between constantly picking dog hair off each other, we’ve been able to make some pretty rad soups so far this fall. And by ‘we,’ I mean mostly him. We’re a progressive gender-inclusive couple, and it was finals season for me.”

Before I dive into the specific soups, I must stress the importance of making your own broth/stock. Among the many benefits of becoming a grocery store rotisserie chicken guy, freezing the bones to make homemade chicken broth is chief among them…

: “Actually, he makes us freeze literally every bone, even if it’s a fried chicken thigh from Mary Brown’s or the ‘cook tonight’ chicken wings from Safeway. I’m honestly scared and waiting for the day he lets Whiskey contribute to the stock with the rogue chicken bones he has a knack for finding on the street, in bushes, or behind dumpsters.”

Yes, so anyways, just roast the bones at 450°F for 45 minutes and let them simmer in a pot on low for ideally eight hours, but you can get away with four to six. It’s the perfect WFH Friday activity, or just let it rip while you’re watching NFL Red Zone.

For veggie broth, the power of mushroom stems within a veggie stock cannot be overstated. Most veggie scraps are good—especially from aromatics, peppers, broccoli—and there are a number of health benefits to making your own broth. And if you need room in your freezer, boil it down, pour it into an ice tray, freeze it into cubes of concentrated broth, store them in a plastic bag, then use one for your next soup and add water.

: “Ok, enough with these long-ass intros. All your newsletters have these. Let’s get to the soups!”

Yes, my girlfriend will be judging my soups out of 10. As she likes to remind me and all of her friends and family, she has a refined palette from all her years working in fine dining.

Roasted Cauliflower Soup

The Recipe:

Cauliflower
Olive oil
Salt
Pepper
Garlic
Sweet onion
Thyme
Vegetable broth

The Assembly:

Toss your cauliflower with olive oil, salt, and pepper and roast at 450ºF for 15 minutes, along with smashed garlic cloves.

Warm a half-tablespoon of olive oil in a large pot set over medium-high, then add your sautéed onions and cook for about 8 minutes, or until lightly browned.

Add your roasted cauliflower, garlic, 2 sprigs of thyme, and veggie broth to the pot. Bring it to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer for 15 minutes.

Hit it with the immersion blender to puree the soup in the pot, or let the soup cool and transfer it to a blender.

This one is a no-fuss soup, but it’s so delightfully simple. And we have these silicone ziplocks, so I make extra, and they freeze well for up to three months, coming in clutch for a quick and easy lunch.

: “It’s me, hi — I’m the soup, it’s me. Creamy cauliflower comfort that proves even the underdogs can be in their main-dish era.

I came home not expecting much, but Sam’s roasted cauliflower soup completely stole the show. Smooth, flavourful, and surprisingly indulgent, it was the kind of moment that makes you pause, smile, and think maybe the simple things are the ones worth repeating — no bridge or chorus required 9/10.”

Sausage White Bean Soup

The Recipe:

Yellow or sweet onion
Carrot
Tomato Paste
Rosemary
Green Kale
Garlic
Spicy Italian sausage or chorizo
Cannellini white beans
Chicken or veggie broth
Parmesan
Red Wine Vinegar and/or lemon

The Assembly:

Heat olive oil in a pot over medium-high, then, add onion and carrot. Cook for 6 to 8 minutes, until soft.

Reduce heat to medium, and stir in tomato paste, garlic, and rosemary. Cook for 2 minutes, until the tomato paste turns brick red.

Toss in your sausage/chorizo and break up with your spatula.

Add half the white beans and use a potato masher or fork to mash the beans.

Add broth, kale, remaining beans, salt, and pepper. Simmer for 20 minutes. Stir in some grated Parmesan and finish with a splash of red wine vinegar and/or lemon.

I love this soup because of its simplicity, and it just feels and tastes like fall.

: “Sausage white bean soup has made its entrance, Sam’s beloved classic. I watched politely, spoon in hand, as it did exactly what I expected: steady, blandly comforting, and utterly predictable. Delicious? Sure, for someone who doesn’t ask for excitement at dinner. My rating? A generous 5/10.”

White Girl Autumn Soup (Roasted Butternut Squash)

The Recipe:

Butternut Squash
Sweet Potato
Apples
Sweet onion
Garlic
Veggie Broth
Coconut Milk
Pumpkin Spice (or ground cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and allspice)
Salt
Pepper

The Assembly:

Dice the butternut squash, sweet potato, and apples and season them with olive oil, salt, pepper, and either pumpkin spice mix or a combination of ground cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and all spice. Roast in the oven at 425°F for 20-30 minutes. Whatever your portions, aim for a 2:1 ratio of squash to sweet potato. Two to three apples should be fine.

Heat olive oil in a pot over medium-high, then, add onion and garlic. Cook for 6 to 8 minutes, until soft.

Toss in your roasted butternut squash, sweet potato, and apples into the pot.

Pour in the veggie broth and coconut milk, then hit it with the immersion blender.

Simmer for 20-30 minutes, and add any additional salt, pepper, pumpkin spice to taste.

The hardest, or most tedious, part about this one is dicing up the ingredients. After, it’s basically a set-it-and-forget-it dish. This soup is the essence of fall.

: “Butternut squash soup has had a few eras this season. When it hits, it’s warm, balanced, and quietly perfect, the kind of bowl that feels like discovering a song you didn’t expect to love. 7.5/10”

Tomato and Roasted Red Pepper Soup

The Recipe:

Tomatoes (Roma, Beefsteak, on-the vine are all fine)
Sweet Peppers
Basil
Sweet onion
Garlic
Veggie Broth
Heavy Cream
Salt
Pepper

The Assembly:

Cut your tomatoes and peppers, and season them with salt, pepper, and olive oil. Peel your garlic and place in the sheet with the peppers and tomatoes. Roast in the oven at 400°F for 20-30 minutes. Dump into a bowl and wrap with seran wrap and let it steam for 10 minutes. Peel off the skin.

Heat olive oil in a pot over medium-high, then, add onion. Cook for 6 to 8 minutes, until soft.

Toss in your peeled roasted tomatoes, peppers, and garlic into the pot.

Pour in the veggie broth, heavy cream, and basil, then hit it with the immersion blender.

Simmer for 20-30 minutes, and add any additional salt and pepper to taste.

A fall classic. I could have this anytime, and it pairs with some cheesy garlic bread.

: “Roasted tomato and bell pepper soup felt like a new take on an old classic. It’s familiar, dependable, and was Mr. Perfectly Fine. The roasting added depth, the peppers brought a little sweetness, and yet somehow the whole thing stayed firmly in ‘okay’ territory. Not bad, not thrilling, just a solid reinterpretation that I appreciated more in theory than in practice. It’s a rerecording I respect, but don’t reach for 6.5/10.”

Loaded Baked Potato Soup

The Recipe:

10-12 Russet potatoes, cut into 1” pieces
Mexican chorizo (casing removed if in links)
2 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, diced
6–8 cloves garlic, minced (to taste)
1 tsp smoked paprika
Poultry mix (thyme, sage, rosemary)
Pinch of cayenne pepper
2 tbsp all-purpose flour
Homemade chicken broth
2 cups heavy cream
1½ cups freshly shredded smoked Gouda cheese
½–1 cup freshly shredded aged white cheddar cheese
2 tsp Dijon mustard
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1–2 tsp pickled pepperoncini brine (hers is pickled jalapeño brine, just didn’t have any)
Toppings: Sour cream and sliced green onions

The Assembly:

Dice the potatoes and roast them at 400°F for 25-30 minutes in olive oil, salt, pepper, and smoked paprika.

Cut the casing off the chorizo, dice it, then cook in the pot until the fat renders.

Cook the onion, then the garlic in the chorizo fat, and use salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. Mix in the flour to make a rue, then mix in the whipping cream before adding the chicken broth.

Add the 2 tablespoons of dijon mustard.

Mash about 40% of your potatoes and add the poultry mix to them, then mix into the broth. As you’re mixing that, finish off the other 60% in an air fryer or convection bake to give them a little crisp.

Add the cheese, chorizo, and brine.

Garnish with sour cream, cheese, and sliced green onions

I got this one from Here’s Your Bite, and everything I’ve made from her page has been a banger. As you can see from my version of the recipe, I made some slight alterations.

: “Sam claims this loaded baked potato soup is one of his favourites, and I can see why — it’s creamy, cheesy, and packed with all the right toppings. Honestly, though, I didn’t expect it to be this good, and I can’t help but silently roll my eyes at how obsessed he was over every spoonful.

It’s indulgent, comforting, and absolutely perfect, leaving me equal parts impressed and slightly smug. This is not just soup, it’s a love story, baby just say yes.

10/10, Taylor’s Version: delicious enough to make him happy, clever enough to make me feel superior.

Boujee Broccoli Cheddar Soup

The Recipe:

6–8 oz pancetta, diced
2 tbsp Primal Kitchen Pure Avocado Oil (for roasting broccoli)
1 medium yellow onion, diced
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1 tsp smoked paprika
Dash of cayenne (optional)
½ tsp onion powder
½ tsp garlic powder
6–8 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbsp all-purpose flour
½ cup dry white wine
2–3 cups low-sodium chicken broth (start with 2)
2 heads broccoli, chopped
1 cup shredded carrots
1 tsp chicken bouillon (optional)
2 cups heavy cream or half & half
2 tsp Dijon mustard
2 cups freshly shredded sharp cheddar
1 cup freshly shredded Gruyère
Pinch of nutmeg (optional but recommended)
1–2 tsp fresh lemon juice
Fresh chives, for garnish

The Assembly:

I cannot stress this enough, but it is imperative that you roast your broccoli in olive oil, salt, pepper, smoked paprika, cayenne pepper, onion powder, and garlic powder. Don’t slack on me!

Start with cooking your pancetta in a pot, low and slow, until all the fat renders out.

Cook the sautèed onion in the pancetta fat and season with salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. Add the garlic after the onions sweat.

Add flour to make a roux and deglaze with white wine.

Slowly whisk in your chicken broth, stirring after each addition. Once it’s combined, add about 30-40% of your broccoli, then hit it with an immersion blender (or, if you don’t have that, pour into a blender).

Once it’s all blended, add the remaining broccoli and grated carrot. Let it simmer for 10-15 minutes.

Then, add your cream, dijon mustard, nutmeg, and that crispy pancetta.

After, add in your shredded chesse blend, a handful at a time, and continuously and slowly stir to make sure it incorporates. (It’s important to buy your cheese as a block and grate it yourself, because pre-shredded cheese has some chemical in it so it doesn’t clump together, but that chemical makes it harder to blend into a broth.)

Finish with some lemon juice and any salt or pepper to taste.

This one was a fun take on a classic. My girlfriend is obsessed with broccoli cheddar soup, so it was a crowd-pleaser.

: “Broccoli said ‘hold my cheese,’ and cheddar said ‘challenge accepted.’ Creamy, cozy, audaciously perfect, and dangerously comforting, this soup is the love story I didn’t know I needed. Main character energy, stadium tour vibes, 20/10 my Forever and Always.”

French Onion Soup

The Recipe:

Unsalted butter
Olive oil
Sliced onions
Homemade chicken broth
Dry sherry
Dried thyme
Salt
Pepper
French bread
Gruyère cheese
Swiss cheese
Smoked gouda cheese

The Assembly:

Melt butter with olive oil and have your pot on a simmer and let those onions sweat and carmelize for 8 hours. Hit them with some salt every now and then.

Add the chicken broth, sherry, and thyme. Season with salt and pepper.

Simmer for 30 minutes or until your desired consistency (I like mine a little thicker).

If you have a kind of bowl that’s amenable to your oven or French onion soup, then ladle into your bowl, put your sliced bread and assorted cheese on top. Broil until the cheese bubbles and browns slightly (roughly 2-3 minutes).

Or, if you’re like me, just put your cheesy bread in a toaster oven.

I go a little extra with the onions, but this is a perfect set-it-and-forget-it soup while working from home on a Friday. I just let the onions cook while making my chicken broth in two separate pots. I probably cut 20 onions the night before in preparation, and my eyes wanted to pop out of my sockets.

: “Rich broth, caramelized onions, and a cheese pull that deserves its own bridge. Timeless, dramatic, and emotionally resonant, French onion walked so comfort food could run.

This soup said, ‘I’ve got a blank space, baby… and I’ll fill it with Gruyère’. 10/10”

Thai Green Curry Soup

The recipe:

Olive oil
Ginger
Garlic
Vegetable broth
Thai green curry paste
Lime leaves
Coconut milk
Carrot
Sweet onion
Mushrooms
Medium-firm tofu
Bok choy
Thai basil
Cilantro
Lime
Jalapeño
Thai chilis (optional depending on your spice tolerance)
Nori Komi Furikake Japanese Multi-Purpose Seasoning (for garnish)
Fish sauce
Soy sauce
Oyster sauce

The Assembly:

Dice your tofu up and place in a bowl with soy sauce, fish sauce, and oyster sauce and let it marinate for at least an hour.

Cook your sautéed onions and diced carrot until they soften, then add your garlic, jalapeños, and mushrooms.

Add and cook your green curry paste for a few minutes, then add the veggie broth, coconut milk, Thai basil, ginger, lime leaves, lime zest, and a squeeze of lime.

Simmer for 30 minutes, then add tofu, bok choy, and Thai chilis.

Serve in a bowl and add cilantro and the Nori Komi Furikake seasoning for garnish. (I added avocado in mine because I had extra and didn’t know what else to do with them.)

There are a lot of individual components to this soup, but it’s pretty low-effort to make. It’s a light and refreshing soup that also tests the limits of my girlfriend’s White Girl Spice tolerance (she tears up if I add too much red pepper flakes to pasta or pizza).

: “This Thai green curry was objectively delicious and subjectively a personal attack. Once again, I asked for ‘not too spicy.’ And once again, Sam chose violence. Delicious? Yes. Necessary? Debatable. Sam called it ‘mild,’ which I will remember forever. A stunning dish that demanded way too much emotional labour 1/10.”

Marry Me Chicken Soup

Here’s what you’ll need to pull together to whip up this recipe in no time:

The Recipe:

Sun-dried tomatoes in oil with herbs. Slice the tomatoes into strips and mix the oil into the broth.
2 yellow or white onions
2 whole knobs of garlic
Tomato paste
Chicken broth (ideally) or veggie broth
Heavy whipping cream
Medium shell pasta
Grocery store rotisserie chicken
Basil
Parsley
Spinach
Red pepper flakes
Parmesan

The assembly:

Start by sautéing your diced onion and minced garlic in the oil from the sun-dried tomatoes.

Add in the sliced sun-dried tomatoes and tomato paste.

Pour in broth, cream, and seasonings.

Simmer this base together before adding the dried pasta to cook directly in the soup until al dente.

Spinach and shredded rotisserie chicken go in toward the end to warm through, along with Parmesan and final garnishes.

Marry Me Chicken is this delicious dish of sautèed chicken blanketed in a creamy sun-dried tomato sauce that earned its name because the person who makes it is worthy of a marriage proposal. My girlfriend was the first to make it for me after she saw it go viral, and I have to admit, this shit is crack.

This one was an impromptu soup I made last Saturday after realizing our freezer bag of veggie scraps was bursting at the seams.

: “This Marry Me Chicken Soup walked in like ‘we were both young when I first saw you,’ creamy, comforting, and somehow making a very strong case for forever. Not a ring in sight, but it’s definitely a blank space I’d like to fill… 7/10”

I offered to put a ring in the bowl, and she said, “Gross.”

Steamed Mussels (Technically a soup)

The Recipe:

3 lbs fresh PEI Mussels (if you can find New Zealand green-lipped mussels, your taste buds will thank you).
2 Shallots
6 Cloves of garlic (measure with your heart)
White Wine (As my Mum would say, “don’t cook with one you wouldn’t drink!”)
2 Knobs of butter
Chicken stock (homemade is best)
Fresh Thyme
Fresh Parsley

The Assembly:

Clean your mussels well, remove the beards, and throw away any that are damaged or dead (RIP)

Finely chop the shallots and garlic

Sauté the shallots with some nice olive oil in a Dutch oven until lightly browned

Add in the garlic and stir until the garlic is fragrant (about 30-45 seconds)

Deglaze the pot with the white wine

Throw in your cleaned mussels and sauté until the mussels begin to open just a crack

Add in some chicken stock and throw the lid on that bad boy for a bit to let the mussels steam

While the mussels steam, finely chop the thyme and parsley

Once the mussels have opened fully (about 5-7 minutes), add the finely chopped herbs and butter

Stir to combine and serve immediately!

After putting the team on my back this Soup Season, my girlfriend finally made one. She cooks other meals, but mostly enjoys her food in a more solid state.

: “I hope it’s evident to your readers which soup photos are taken by me and which are last-minute snaps that Sam forgot to take before he started eating.

I made this ‘soup.’ And I guess readers can refer to me in future newsletters as Girl Sam. Yes, we have the same name - this should make it easier for our aging parents, who will need to remember only one name in the throes of eventual cognitive decline.

Did I girl boss too close to the sun with this one? Probably. Are they tender, flavourful, and impressive enough to make me look like I know exactly what I’m doing? Absolutely.

10/10 for audacity, flavour, and sheer confidence.”

: Thanks, babe, for letting me crash your soup newsletter. It’s been a world tour of flavours, moods, and minor emotional crises, and I wouldn’t trade a single spoonful. From the curry that tested my very soul, to the sausage white bean soup that I quietly judged while you fawned over it, to the unexpectedly perfect creamy cauliflower that made me rethink everything, each bowl has been its own era.

The loaded baked potato stole my heart with every cheesy bite, broccoli cheddar demanded a standing ovation, and French onion had me emotionally invested like the bridge of Cruel Summer. And then there was Marry Me Chicken Soup, slyly proposing in every spoonful, leaving me enchanted while quietly reminding me I’m still waiting for the real thing…

It’s been a rollercoaster of indulgence, chaos, and quiet victories. We laughed, I rolled my eyes, we swooned, I took notes — and through it all, I realized that the real magic of soup season isn’t just in the flavours, but in sharing these moments with someone you love, who surprises you, challenges you, and often makes you question your spice tolerance.

Long Live all the soups we made. Until next time, dear readers…

If you’re as passionate about Soup Season as I am, let me know what you cooked up this fall, or what you have in store for the winter!

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The great dating massacre of 2021 was not premeditated. When I woke up on a nipply November morning and went for a jog along the Toronto lakeshore, I had no idea I’d end the day with going from casually dating five women to informally seeing one. In a fit of insistence and dating fatigue, I sent some variation of the text, “I just need some time alone,” to all five of them, and wasn’t met with much resistance. But this last one was persistent, and it became clear that drastic and draconian measures would be required to set the record straight. In the weeks leading up to that moment, I had been experiencing a bit of an existential conundrum as someone who I thought could be that special someone had recently notified me that her feelings for me were more ambivalent. It triggered something erratic and shrill within me, and I responded with a tailspin of dates to fulfill some need for superficial validation, compulsive but pathologically unfeeling. So a few nights later, I found myself sitting across from this woman with a pineapple capicola pizza between us, and letting her know that I had some things to work on myself, as I was trying to nudge my way out of whatever this was. “Well, I also have some things to work on,” she responds, “and maybe we can work on ourselves together.” This woman has been my girlfriend for four years.

In that span, I’ve gone from a meandering, myopic serial dater with commitment issues to someone who can exchange feelings and take on the responsibility of being a dog dad. Granted, I’m still a maladaptive idiot with a host of neuroses, but she has stuck with me even when I forget to do the laundry and grits through my rants about Radiohead and The Big Lebowski. Back in my single days, I described relationships as “a mutual opt-in between two people who like each other about the same amount and make a conscious decision for a period of time that their lives are better together than they are apart.” Granted, I wrote that an inquiry into the validity of polyamory, or what Pamela in Louie calls an “a la carte” of open-ended, short-term flings. “There’s more than one way to be together,” she tells Louie after he expressed insecurity about their situationship. “Not to have to, but to choose to, to always make a new choice to be together.” I also subscribed to the idea of indulging in the permanent impermanence, and while I still do in most contexts, when it came to relationships, I let this feeling become a detached sense of chill, the opposite of choosing warmth and kindness and earnestness and vulnerability.

So when my girlfriend and I started dating, I spent the previous eight years as a geographic and romantic nomad. Her prolonged patience and support allowed me to let her inhabit where there was once emotional vacancy. In the time since, I’ve come to realize that the person who will love you for the rest of your life might not want to love the version of you that exists today. This is difficult to accept because we want to believe that the person who is really for us will love us unconditionally. But it would be selfish to put the person we love through every version of ourselves that could ever exist. The pressure and responsibility to be the best version of ourselves for the people we care most about is a beautiful obligation. It makes every day a blank canvas of possibility and growth. It is much more rewarding to develop into the best version of yourself and attract the right person than it is to be picked up by someone who will settle for a suboptimal you. That is a combination of the love you have for yourself and the love another person has for you.

At the end of Before Midnight, after Jesse and Celine question the validity of their marriage, and all their latent resentments bubble until bitterness erupts from every word they exchange. They’re still interested in making their relationship work, even if their love has been weighed down with everything that comes with the ruthless passage of time. Love is a feeling, but it’s also a choice. Where I once thought that choice was fleeting and impermanent, I now understand it as a daily and ritual commitment. And as much as I treasure the memories of us taking an impromptu weekend trip to Montreal, her baking me a s’mores cake for my birthday, seeing her eyes tear up when she locked down Taylor Swift Eras Tour tickets to see her for the first time, looking over the cliffs of Tunnel Bluffs and out into the ocean, watching her mouth extend to infinite possibilites to scarf down a canoli from Mike’s Pastries, and all the belly laughs and cuddles in between—I feel my love for her most whenever it is absent. Not in the sense of the heartbreak that could come if we ever went our separate ways, but in the absence of feeling, what my life would be like had I never met her. My days would have less of an emotional dimension without her. And that’s a terrifying proposition to consider, but that parallel reality makes me appreciate every choice we make to and for each other.

I consider most love songs to be cheesy, but Billy Corgan managed to capture the feeling of psychotic desire that envelopes a sense of hope, that love is an action.

“For the first time, I’m telling you how much I need and bleed for your every move and waking sound. In my time, I’ll wrap my wire around your heart and your mind. You’re mine forever now.”
— Smashing Pumpkins, “Stand Inside Your Love”

He describes a love that is fueled by conviction, resolve, and divine in origin. These lyrics communicate a bold declaration of commitment and fact, almost devoid of emotion or opinion. A type of love that’s an unmoving object, a furious longing and determination. Time forces us all to face what happens after the romance settles, which makes the choice to begin each day with each other more significant. Love is the noun and the verb. It turns each moment into an opportunity for growth, and by putting both of us before myself, it’s clear how that connection reinforces what’s important and what’s the kind of bullshit that we can let go of. In turn, we learn more about ourselves, which is a true gift.

This is the first of a new series about finding the simple pleasures in life. In an attempt to be less irony-poisoned, I will be posting these a few times a month to balance out all the indignities and shitty shit that can be a bummer when it is unchecked with positivity. And, no, my girlfriend definitely did not strong-arm me to lead off this series with a post about her.

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It was Thanksgiving all across the United States, but since I am an American living in Vancouver, it wasn’t until last Monday that I really felt it. I can read a calendar, and the season’s usual logistical and chore requirements were all right there where I could see them—food prep, inviting friends over, tidying up the place, figuring out how to stream football, booze. But knowing that a favorite holiday is imminent and actually feeling it are different things. For Thanksgiving, which I love dearly, that realization manifests as a sort of exhausted gratitude, or maybe just grateful exhaustion. The way Thanksgiving season plays out, which is generally as a procession of low, short days stacking up across gray weeks dwindling fast into winter, punctuated by some texts from my girlfriend about bacon-wrapped dates, is familiar enough. But the experience of drifting into this pleasant stasis where all that stuff feels good seems to come out of nowhere, and always as a relief.

When I finally felt gobbled-up last week, on a half-desperate push to get to a needed day off, the noise of work and anxiety and obligation had dimmed. I could feel that we are very near the holidays because my girlfriend, who isn’t nearly as big a freak for Thanksgiving as I am, is instead a total festive pervert, someone who begins celebrating Christmas some time between Labor Day and Halloween. Any conversation we’ve had these past two weeks veered off and digressed into a matter of when I’m going to open the Christmas gift she has already bought and wrapped for me. She is relentless in this pursuit, laying out some disturbing holiday hijinks that have led, unfortunately, to the words “Santa speculum” being said in the confines of our apartment. She is impatient, insistent, and perhaps a little OCD, but I will not cave into her demands. I refuse to enable this derangement behavior.

As I felt the everyday waiting over the horizon, I spent Black Friday scouring for a Christmas present for my girlfriend. What was once an auspicious feeling of flipping from sale to sale on the interweb is now a fairly horrid experience. I typically prefer in-person shopping, since any time I save ordering something off Amazon is immediately devoured by returning a package that was damaged or janky, anxiously waiting in a line of unwashed morons trying to pull up their QR codes, only to realize that it does, indeed, say that you are responsible for boxing it. I yearn to live near a Staples where nobody visits unless it is to return Amazon packages. Certain items make sense to be sold online, but I cannot understand how people order their entire wardrobe or groceries without inspecting the product in-person. It’s also normalized low prices for low-quality textiles—like, one lady at my yoga studio has to wear a sports bra underneath her $10 Temu workout crop top since she’s convinced any higher price for clothing is literal robbery. Online shopping has now infected the brick-and-mortar experience: If you pay with cash, store employees will look at you as if you just committed a felony for inconveniencing them with manual currency.

I’m not a conspiracy crank by any measure, but it is weird how you can look up one item one time, and then every single website you subsequently visit suddenly has an ad for, amazingly, that exact item. In my case, I was checking out a screenprint or this pink panther head for a Christmas present for the lady, since we’re still decorating the apartment with an assortment of quirky trinkets and whatnot. The experience of online shopping begins with a friendly offer for 20% off your order, and then a request for my email so they can send me a coupon (and 15 emails a day). Yeah, there’s no ethical consumption under capitalism and all that, but I try to help by buying directly off a small business instead of Amazon whenever I can; I’d love nothing more than Jeff Bezos’s superyacht to be torpedoed into the ocean, but my mental health can’t handle the Stage 5 email clingers. Once I make it past the passive-aggressive “Decline” button after a pop-up requests all my contact info, I am then pestered with CTAs to download their app and a notification that the website is unable to calculate my shipping cost. After my fifth attempt at entering my full address, I found out that it apparently costs $60 to mail a screenprint. But, of course, there’s free shipping for orders over $150, even though I only want this one item. If e-commerce hasn’t confirmed that every transaction is enshittified, at least this business will be sending me marketing emails forever, even if I hit unsubscribe.

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The caveats are caveats, but they do exist. To the European mind, toilet paper functions as a sub-hygienic substitute for the bidet, for reasons that are easy enough to identify. TP is serviceable in cleaning up a messy situation in a particularly gnarly nook, but it is undeniably suboptimal to the magical feeling of having a Supersoaker stream powerspray your bum. Clean ass, clean mind. Now, arguing the merits of a bidet is very 2016, so I will pivot to the utility of toilet paper, which I have to admit I use to blow my nose whenever I run out of tissues.

In the hothouse economy of personal finance, more money spent on tissues is less money I have to allocate towards beer. And with extra-ply, toilet paper feels basically the same as tissues on my nose. Some people may call me an animal or a degenerate for this, but I have a roll of TP on my nightstand, which isn’t necessarily the best look, since that’s also where I keep my skin lotion. It’s ridiculous that I have to explain to my girlfriend that a grown man hates the feeling of dry skin as the weather cools, and I like to keep my hands feeling slick. I also have allergies, and I’m not always stocked up on tissues.

With all these performative male videos zipping through my newsfeed, I’m convinced the only hobbies men are “allowed” to have include podcasting and getting into imaginary arguments while taking a shower. Even taking into account the broader shamelessness of our cultural moment, and even taking into account the broader sense that your average dude-bro’s lack of personal hygiene is now tipping inexorably towards overt incompetence, it’s ridiculous that I’m being shamed for aspiring to a regular moisturization schedule or practicing self-care. Guess I’ll never put anything questionable on my nightstand, like the hardcovers of Lolita and Gender Trouble that I’m currently reading. I’ll need some cooler decor, like a stack of Zyns.

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It is a truism, but it is also actually true that you should be careful what you ask for. Despite her insistent retorts of how “chill” and “easy-going” she thinks she is, my girlfriend is so anal retentive meticulous, she has a color coding system to organize her color coders. Her form of meditation is watching those “organizing” TikToks that are basically a montage of quick cuts of someone taking random items out of their original plastic packaging and putting them into a different plastic container. This seems like a pending landfill nuisance, but I can understand how this genre of content could appeal to someone who can’t maintain more than five open tabs on their browser. I have learned to channel and harness this power into outsourcing major life decisions, like sorting out the laundry or decorating the apartment, since I’m incompetent at both and she has unappeasable specificities on how our space should be maintained. But this level of meticulousness has some strange caveats and has manifested into a weird kind of parculiarity.

My girlfriend will go into hours-long IKEA wormholes covering various shades and patterns of throw pillows, but she refuses to ditch her flat bed pillow. This ragged thing is lumpy in random places and completely bereft of stuffing in others, and it looks like a schizophrenic topography map. After a year of buying new pots and pans, she will entertain the idea of swapping them out for a new set every time she sees a Hexclad seasonal sale ad, but this pillow has been with her for what I assume to be several apartments over at least a decade. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but she insists on cuddling it whenever we sleep, and whenever it brushes my shoulder in the middle of the night, it nudges me awake and I bristle at its texture, feeling like a piece of insulation that was treated like a punching bag. It is also horrendously yellow-stained.

My girlfriend’s drive to balance everything around her—grad school, her internships, her TA-ship, maintaining the apartment, taking care of the dog (and my man-child tendencies)—depletes her control-freak reserves by the time she’s ready for bed, and maybe this is an inverted form of anal retentiveness. Maybe she refuses to get rid of this disgusting pillow because it represents a form of familiar comfort in a chaotic world. When everything in life is transient, it’s nice to cling to something constant. I understand it all now, and I will remind her of this whenever she comes after my decade-old bathroom towel.

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Eating out in my 30s should not feel like this, but there often seems to be a strong note of pranking whenever I go to a restaurant with certain friends. And in very specific instances, eating out seems designed to be a prank at my expense—or at least to trigger my particular set of neuroses. Ordering the perfect appetizer is necessary to the success of a well-rounded meal, and the dining experience would be duller and more unfulfilling without a little snack to get the taste buds firing. But it is also true that, in a practical sense, the things that this task requires of the people ordering them are all things that many of us are uniquely unsuited to do. So you see the problem here.

It is only sort of a problem, honestly. Most people eating at a pizzeria would not mind if someone ordered garlic bread or mozzarella sticks for the table, but here’s the prank: Both of these are wonderful apps on their own, but in this context, I’m spending my hard-earned cash on redundancy. I’m not particularly concerned with carbo-loading, but there is something inherently greasy about the prospect of eating bread topped with garlic butter and a dust of parmesan and then dipping it in marinara sauce, only to run it back for the entree. It’s like ordering a slider before a smashburger—like, you just want a burger with a side of burger? Sure, I’m a gutter palette little piggly wiggly who will eat most things that arrive at the table, but it should be commonly accepted that garlic bread pairs more appropriately with pasta, while wings or fried calamari or a Caesar salad are superior apps to go with pizza. In all the ways millennials are horribly stunted and simply maladjusted for adulthood, we are, quite frankly, too old not to understand basic flavor profiles. I once ate next to a woman slightly older than me who ordered a beef Wellington and an orange Crush.

There’s the libertarian part of me that wants to let people enjoy things, but I’m also riddled with a host of signature defects that cannot abide by the enshittification of basic standards. At a certain point, there needs to be some baseline level of personal conduct that should be expected from a grown-ass adult, like knowing better than to order chicken tenders at a seafood restaurant. On the inside, I am absolutely seething when someone wants to order four apps and no entree because it violates any understanding of the economics of dollar-to-portion; each app is about 70% of the cost of an entree but only 30% of the food, which is literally why tapas restaurants exist. And, somewhat related, if there is a shared app that involves dipping, dunking, or scooping, people need to be mindful of their ratios and not get reckless with their scoops and fuck up the proportions for everyone else.

I know all of this sounds like I’m a prissy trainwreck to dine out with, so for the sake of bridging the national divide, I will find commonality with people by complaining about how expensive restaurants have gotten. “I can’t believe they’re charging $5 extra for fries with a $13 cheeseburger,” I’ll exclaim before hitting ‘em with a “Prices went up during COVID and they just never came down…” It’s actually an effective conversational hack to find a mutual interest or experience with anyone, especially when they’re ordering mozzarella sticks with your chicken parm.

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Earlier this summer, my girlfriend and I spent a long weekend in Squamish on a hiking trip and stayed in a private suite with a homely charm. Our host was a seemingly unassuming retired engineer. The spot was right at the foot of a famous granite cliff called Stawamus Chief, with immaculate morning mountain views, equally daunting and majestic. As we first entered the AirBnb, we noticed there was a laminated Burning Man pass from 2019 and a framed wannabe-Buddhist/psychedelic poster that espoused the mantra of fullest self-expression, and the vibe slowly unraveled from there. The bathroom was stocked with baby oil, a jar of zip-packages of clitoral-stimulating serum and G-spot stimulating serum from a brand called Intimate Earth, and a selection of condoms that ranged from glow-in-the-dark to variants of ribbed-for-her-pleasure. There was a steam shower with a full-sized bench and several detachable shower heads that were small enough to fit inside various orifices, and the bedroom was adorned with a wall of mirrors. The place was giving such strong sex dungeon/orgy den energy that we scoured the bedroom for hidden cameras.

As entertaining as that experience was, it’s still safe to say that AirBnbs have turned into kind of a scam, but hotels are also afflicted with their cringe tendencies. In my communist utopia, any place that plays dull, personality-bereft jazz/bossa nova covers of pop songs will be subjected to the state seizing all of their assets. (The only exception is the Cumbia cover of “Hotline Bling” because it is truly life-affirming.) This aesthetic is geared toward undiscerning middle-of-the-bell-curve customers to make them feel like they’re staying somewhere sophisticated. Some cafés started playing Nouvelle Vague on repeat, and everyone copied it as if they took all the wrong lessons from Filterworld. But this phenomenon is strange. The general public acknowledges that jazz is cool and classy, but whenever it’s implemented into a public setting, it has to be watered down until the resulting playlist is full of covers of Beatles songs with a little horn thrown in. Why? The music of Hank Mobley or Bill Evans isn’t crazy Merzbow esoteric—it’s very palatable.

It’s also another thing for hotels to not have balconies anymore because no owner wants a patron to jump out of a balcony at the fucking Hampton Inn in Baltimore, as if they’re like, “I’m just going to finish my continental breakfast, grab a complimentary copy of USA Today, and then leap to my death from my 5th floor room that faces the hotel dumpsters and a Perkins.” But the more pertinent dilemma is how every hotel television manages to have a different-looking homepage. You can never find the path to simply watch some TV. It’s almost like every hotel chain make it as difficult as possible, well, except for the checkout button… The process unfolds in the same way that most digital scams progress, beginning with greeting you by your government name. “Hello, Samuel” the television says. “Hello, Vizio,” I respond.

Aside from a few idiosyncratic and particular preferences, I don’t consider myself to be a picky or boujee person—if anything, when I travel, I spend as little on my lodging as possible, because I want to be in my hotel room as little as possible. I’m not a royal, so I don’t need something luxurious like an Apple TV. But would it kill Hilton to include a Roku in every room? Instead, the home screen is always a photo of a pool that is certainly not from the property that I’m currently staying in. Then it lists the business hours next to a bunch of Dollar Store-looking apps. The Sports Corner, but it actually has nothing to do with ESPN, and it’s just a bunch of clips of motocross. The TV remote always has a pristine Netflix button because no one’s ever pushed it because it’s clear that it will not work.

Basic cable shouldn’t be too much to ask for. The hotel room is the only place where we can access cable without having to visit our parents. All I really need is TNT so I can passively watch The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, which is apparently required by law to air at least once a day on that channel, and scroll on my phone. I’m a simple man. Why am I looking at something like the LG Entertainment Portal, powered by Marriott? All the monkeys and typewriters in the world couldn’t come up with that phrase, but I guess ChatGPT could.

Bring back free HBO!

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Every time I use the self-checkout, somehow with consistent unfortunate luck, the person in front of me has either never used self-checkout, touchscreens, or money before. The elderly plop of cottage cheese trembling before me is mired in a 10-minute struggle sesh, utterly confounded as they stare into the abyss. To the passerby, this may seem like a jabbering old fool struggling to keep pace with modern technology, but this is a mere mortal drowning in inevitable irrelevancy, succumbing to the death grip of time’s passage.

“YOUNG MAN, WHERE DO I PUT MY COUPONS?? I DON'T MEAN TO YELL, I JUST HAVE TROUBLE CONTROLLING THE VOLUME OF MY VOICE!! DO I WRITE A CHECK??”

I should be sympathetic, as the ruthless progression of time inevitably grinds us all into dust, but I’m holding in a piss and I want to get home before NFL Sunday Kickoff. With my arms folded across my chest and a formidable resting bitch face settling into a non-verbal expression of displeasure, hopefully, this is enough of a hint for this feeble old man to move his ass. He remains blissfully unaware of the steadily growing line of impatient customers behind him as he struggles to win a debate against a cashier about the validity of expired coupons.

Several grueling minutes later, I have finally made my way through what was supposed to be the express line, and I see one of those joint Starbucks appendages. After the struggle sesh I had the misfortune of witnessing, I walk in, and the barista asks what I want. “Based on the week I’ve had, it truly doesn’t even matter,” I growl with a flat affect, and she gave me some fucked up concoction of what appears to be an iced matcha, frappuccino, and a strawberry açaí bev. It was $9.

Not sure if she met the moment perfectly through bullying, or if this is a mercy kill.

The barista also notifies me that if I sign up for the Official Starbucks Newsletter, this wretched Frankenbev will be 15% off. That sounds splendid, so I ask her to flip the iPad around, but for whatever reason, she insists that she can type it in. I consider myself among the all-time great feminists—and I know her delicate hands have been hard at work all day. I also know for a fact that I still use my high school email, I’ve been too lazy to get a new personal email, and it is absolutely embarrassing. I keep insisting that I enter it on my own, but this lady will not budge.

Starbucks Barista: “It’s fine. I can enter it. Just give me your email.”

Me: “It’s actually in Braille…”

Next person in line: “Dude, what’s wrong? Do you have a weird email? Is it an AOL?”

Me: “No! I’m not a serial killer…”

Next person in line: “Nah, you right… You seem like a Hotmail kinda dude…”

Me: “No!”

Next person in line: “Then give her your email!”

Starbucks Barista: “Can I please get your email?”

Me: “O-S…”

Starbucks Barista: “Ok…”

Me: “A-M…”

Starbucks Barista: “Mhmm…”

Me: “A-B-I-N-T…”

Starbucks Barista: “Yup…”

Me: “B-A…”

Starbucks Barista: “Got it…”

Me: “G-G-N…”

Starbucks Barista: “…at?”

Me: “MSN.net…”

Starbucks Barista: “OsamaBinTBaggn@msn.net?”

Me: “Yeah…”

Starbucks Barista: “Cool! Sounds good. Enjoy your beverage.”

She flips the iPad around for me to pay—so she has no problem doing that now—and I reach for my phone to tap. My screen starts to glitch out, and my Apple Wallet is malfunctioning. My AmEx won’t work, and neither will my debit. My face screen isn’t reading my face, and for some reason, I’m fumbling to enter my passcode. This entire transaction is in shambles. I can sense the growing frustration of the people behind me, and their quiet judgment coalesces into a cloud of scorn that hangs over my embarrassing display of incompetence. In this moment, I am truly cooked.

“Ayo, unc! Hurry up. You chopped with those ankle socks. Don’t you know how to tap?”

Is this karmic retribution or the merciless continuity of the circle of life?

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Everybody a gangsta until the Dew point reaches the average age of a U.S. Senator. The perennial talk of summer is winding down after the 4th of July needs to die, because I’ve been trapped in the heat dome for the last six weeks. July and August are equally oppressive as January and February.

It’s so hot that if you are wearing natural deodorant, I will urge you to stay away from me. We’re naming weather events like moves you would teach a Charizard, and there are gangly mustached pseudo-hipsters strolling around rocking a fuckass baggy Y2K George Costanza Aime Leon Dore safe sleazy Bushwick zoomer slop fit, and they’re sweating as if they just emerged from a dog’s mouth. Witnessing this diabolical fashion choice made me realize that my wardrobe is heavily biased toward lumbersexual with cardigans, so I just bought a relaxed-fit Crochet Resort Shirt from Banana Republic, and I’m still afflicted by swamp ass after being outside for 10 minutes. I need to enter my mysterious expat smoking a cigar outside the Tangier opium harem era, just so the back of my shorts doesn’t look like a map of the Great Lakes.

Anytime I go for a walk, I am consistently reminded that the last parts of my body to retain coolness from the AC are my back and my under-boobs. I am not ready to accept the effects of climate change stoically with grace. Now that I’m back on the West Coast, I can’t believe that I was gaslighting myself into thinking that summers east of the Rockies are tolerable. Between 100°F with 50% humidity and snow-deficient winters, people in the Midwest are doomed to be perpetually angry about the weather. Autumn and Spring are the superior seasons, and there’s a reason why the Pagans worshipped them.

The Feels Like section on my weather app is just a photo of a noose. I need a second window unit to rid myself of homicidal urges. It feels like I’m walking around in a sauna that would be in a Final Destination movie, and I can’t even take my beagle outside for more than 20 minutes. I’ve been spending my weekends on hours-long hikes, but maybe I need to insulate myself from Sabrina Carpenter and corporate apps and screens at McDonald’s and just smoke some analogue weed, lie in an analogue hammock, listen to some Sublime, and live that ‘90s Burnout Summer.

You can make the argument that every season sucks during the worst days and at the worst time of those days. Rainy fall weekends, pollen-infested spring mornings, and freezing Winter nights are truly awful. I’d like to appreciate the best of all seasons and tolerate the worst, because when I go for a morning walk, with a fresh cold brew in hand, and see that beautiful blue sky, there really is nothing better. Or I should get drunk on a boat.

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Social media is in a mind-breaking place. Sometimes I feel like I bask in its presence with insufficient awe of the depths of fallacious thinking it reveals on an hourly basis. This is also the fun of talking or writing about the internet, from my experience. You kind of get to hang out in the part of your brain that makes little kids get all excited when they see a piece of big construction equipment being used. My friends and I DM each other choice little bits of psychopathy from it, and sometimes it actually rules. Other times, I am dismayed by the degrees and strains of inauthenticity of influencer marketing, the cheesy underhandedness of bad-faith debates, and the rowdy louts who tweet with a disturbing mix of conviction and ignorance.

Scrolling through the feed will inevitably introduce the punishing conceptual challenge of wading through avant-garde or hypermeta content from brands you don’t follow. There are disposable ads that are eminently forgettable. There are sponsored posts before there are more sponsored posts from your favorite accounts. Social media is a giant billboard. It is also filled with maniacal self-obsession and weirdness. And the comments are filled with irate ranting and a slightly smaller amount of raving about selling out. Every popular podcast has about 20 minutes of ads, but people will respond in the comment section with something like, “Get the bag, I guess, but I didn’t know you were a corporate shill.”

These types of accusations feel like a cyclical regurgitation of people accusing Rage Against the Machine of fraudulent leftism because they played stadium shows and were signed to a major label. Anyone who takes issue with capitalism and makes too much money is subjected to the hypocrisy label because they are criticizing a system that they benefit from. It has never been made clear to me what the threshold of income one might cross until their opposition to Wall Street’s outsize influence on Congress is invalidated, or how these things are even related. Conversely, if you’re poor and criticize capitalism, well, it’s because you resent success. So, what is the appropriate range of income that allows someone to pose legitimate criticisms of capitalism? Is it $50,000-$100,000? Is it a certain tax bracket? I’m also not sure what these unappeasable dorks would say about all the Southern whites who ostensibly benefited from Jim Crow, who nonetheless opposed segregation and protested with the Civil Rights movement. Are they also hypocrites?

I digress.

Everyone is selling out. Most of us work 40+ hours a week, sacrificing our time and lives to maximize profits for corporations and shareholders who are indifferent to our entire existence. We’re all in this together.

Is it gross to sling products on Instagram, an app that was originally designed to share photos of your brunch or your niece? Can anyone in America truly escape the clutches of an economy and a system that rewards people who monetize every hobby we’ve ever enjoyed? Is it bad to earn an income for any little bit of happiness we create for ourselves?

I don’t have the answers.

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“We should go to that new sandwich shop! The sandwiches are huge… actually, they might be too big. You won’t be able to fit your mouth around it and the meat just slides out the back. The bread will slice the roof of your mouth open, and you’ll have to tear it off from the sandwich because it’s impossible to bite through. It’ll be the softest, wettest, chewiest meat on the hardest, roundest bread. Yeah, every sandwich is at least $19, but there’s so much meat, bro!

Every sandwich there will feel like it should’ve been in a wrap and every wrap will feel like it should’ve been a sandwich.

When we walk in, there will be a line, and we won’t know where it starts or where it ends. The menu will be complicated even though they only sell six different sandwiches. And the staff will be impatient, unfriendly and unknowledgeable. They also refuse to cut the sandwiches in half.

The shop is so authentic, bro. It’s been in the neighborhood for a hundred years, and they only take cash.”

*several hours later*

“That mayo and oil sandwich was great! What are all these cold cuts and veggies doing on my lap?”

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There are sketchy telemedicine websites everywhere, and they’re specifically targeting men. These pills will either prevent hair loss or get you hard, but what they don’t tell you is the hair growth supplements will lower your libido so you’ll eventually need their other products. I shouldn’t trust the cutesy branding because the all-lowercase no-punctuation typography reads like I’m texting a 28-year-old. Even the ads on the subway are demeaning; I’ll be on my way to work and a print billboard will make broad judgments about all my existential dilemmas: “Hey loser! Are you balding and cumming too quickly? Try INVIGORON!” I’ve always had a suspicion that these companies bought pallets of those gas station boner pills that never sold and re-branded them.

Bluechew was the first I noticed, and I was shocked at how easy it is to get a prescription by paying $5 and filling out an online form, so I got a couple of packs for fun but haven’t taken any. Then I noticed that there’s an abundance of websites where I can get an online ADHD diagnosis for $200, which seems like a suspiciously convenient way to get a prescription for properly abusable drugs. This is the American Dream! I also came across this doctor who is licensed to administer therapeutic ketamine online, and he doesn’t seem that sketchy and he might just want to help people like me. It would be pretty chill to get some ket in a Bluechew-style fashion. I’ll pretty much try anything in a gummy form, even if all these pills look like ridiculous Mentos-looking things. You’re telling me a chewable candy will fix my depression? You Willy Wonka?

I don’t really do hard drugs anymore because quarantine scuffed the general vibe, but I’ve been on a libertarian kick in regards to recreational intoxication. It boils down to my inherent passion for exposing loopholes in the system. I’m not sure what my utopian ideal for drugs is since being able to buy coke like Aspirin would be a little weird, but if I can stuff my face with Big Macs until my heart explodes, what does it matter how I choose to abuse my body?

Chat, has anyone gotten Vyvanse legally from the internet? How was it? Are there any downsides that aren’t obvious?

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