Posts By iron paul

March 20, 2019


In a cold, cold apartment on the water.  It’s one of those spots that have always been for transients, even back in high school.  A big house, with a small house on the side.  That’s where I am, the side.

My host is manic.  He’s an old friend, and I know he’s on uppers.  He does weird shit.  I threw out a bunch of food that expired in 2016, and throughout the night he dug through the trash can and put everything back.  he told me that dates don’t mean anything and that we shouldn’t waste food.

But there’s hot water and a good bed.  I slept a lot last night, and I will probably sleep another ten hours when I lay down again.  My body is screaming that it has had enough.

Everything takes so long to accomplish.  It has taken a lot of patience to get to my stopping points.  It’s just a dash right now between living situations.  I’m getting too old for this shit.

The pot is good, though.  You can’t even find regular weed anymore.  Everything is from Colorado or Maryland.  Everything is like a kick in the head.

And thank God for that, by the way.  It’s tough out there.  I’m glad people have stopped being so uptight about pot, even in the states where it is not legal.

Now it’s balls-thirty in the morning, and I can’t figure out whether to lie down or try and get some editing done.  Either way, it will have to be another after a long, hot shower.

I guess I’ll do some work.  A little more coffee and some hot water should clear the fog and frustration from another needlessly difficult day.  It looks as though I have now entered the kind of schedule I kept in grad school.  It’s oddly comforting.  Maybe now I can finally get some work done.

All smooches, no… pooches?

Not gonna lie.  First two weeks in-country have been wild.  There’s no point in trying to talk about any of it right now, however.  All I do want to talk about is how much farther I am in the process.

Since there are a lot of things that I have had to do after arriving back in America, writing has been sporadic, and I can’t yet comment on the quality.  I’ve been needing to think about too many things at once.

I think I’m getting back to work later today.  There are things that need to be smoothed over, but the waters are calm with the editor.  Now I just have to smooth things over with other people.  I’m bombing into everyone’s house and I know I’m imposing.  I don’t mean to be.  Sometimes you have to make sure you thank your welcome.

That was effing clever.

I have to order groceries and I also have to try and clean up this new temporary living situation, so I have a short hike before I’m getting back to writing.  I’m going to try and soldier on and not make too many mistakes.

Dude, my nails are long.  That’s so weird.  I think I cut my nails at the hotel.  I’m not even sure now.  I just ordered nail clippers on Instacart.

If I can’t get situated in this spot, I’m never going to finish.  Most of the creation of this book has been delayed by time constraints and a ton of background noise.  Now I might not be able to type because of my fingernails.  Add that to the list of things that get in a writer’s way.

The only way I am going to be able to skate through this is because I handled my money well.  I can’t bounce around forever, but I can make a few saves if need be.  All it does is slow down the book, but whatever.

You have to be charming in these situations.  Living in Thailand has taught me to give people the high ground when they don’t seem to know where you’re coming from.

Seriously, guys.  I have to cut my nails.  Instacart can leave half of my shit at the store, but I need those nail clippers.

I guess I’m going to get on with my couch surfing trash boat punk life.

March 17, 2019


I’m losing track of time. Waiting has become too easy.

The weather is cold. This is my first cold weather in a long time. I wasn’t very prepared for it.

I wasn’t prepared for much, as it turns out. You have to be extremely confident to make a move like the one I just made. I think I was. I think I still am.

I’m still eating my vegetables, but I’ve gained weight. American life has too many shortcuts and conveniences.

I’m on my third dump today. It seems like everything in that department is working fine.

Now I need to quit smoking again.

And maybe take a little less cbd oil next time.

Cleanup on aisle four,


February 27, 2019


I’m writing this letter from my business class seat en route to Seoul. It isn’t very crowded, and everyone seems to be passed out except for me. There’s a rather obese woman next to me snoring.

Every time a stewardess walks by, they hurry and avoid eye contact. I think I’m supposed to be asleep like everyone else. But I don’t sleep on planes, Matthew. I just don’t. Flying is already weird enough. There’s no way in hell in closing my eyes. I just wish one of these gals would bring me some damn coffee.

They gave me some weird pickled vegetable tart right after takeoff. I keep having to get up and let out my farts in the lavatory. Still, I wish they’d bring me another one. It was actually very good.

I was watching a movie, but the headphones were too tight. They were giving me a headache. I suppose I’ll just read… right after I go release a few more farts.

Break wind,


February 26, 2019


At the Suvarnabhumi airport, traveling alone. I haven’t traveled alone in over five years. I haven’t really done anything alone in quite a while.

I’m in the prestige lounge. I still have a little bit of inheritance left over, so I am far away from the riff raff. Personal space feels nice after five years in Southeast Asia.

My wife is staying back to sell the house. We’re starting anew in America. There’s no plan as of yet, but I’ve got people waiting for me when my plane touches down in Atlanta.

What brings me back to Georgia time after time? Loyalty? Stupidity? The desire for closure? I don’t think I will be staying long; this will merely be my starting point.

Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe I will symbolically leave it behind for good this time.

These are strange circumstances under which I am returning. My parents are dead, I still have no career direction, and I somehow managed to get married along the way. Life is fucking crazy, man.

I don’t even know what Americans do anymore. This is going to be weird.

But I remain assured that it won’t be boring.

So, on that note, I’m going to pour out this warm, shitty beer and prepare another espresso.

See you soon,


Whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be a long road.

Thank the Good Lord for legalized pot.

Waiting to Leave

It’s not easy sitting around.  I’ve been doing too much of it lately.  One tends to overthink.  One tends to overeat.  One tends to get stuck in a negative mindset.

I’m trying not to be a dick, but I’m getting impatient.  I haven’t driven myself anywhere in five years.  I haven’t been able to walk anywhere since I left Bang Saen.  I achieved (some) financial freedom, but gave up a lot of other personal freedoms when I crammed myself in this big house in the suburbs.

And nothing is fun anymore.  Nothing gives me any enjoyment.  I’m too burned out by the dirty air, the horrible traffic, and the general rudeness of the people around me to even try to go out and kill time.  I just want my video games and space.

I think back to how this journey all began.  The only real solace I take in the midst of my frustration right now is how much better off I am.  Were it not for a rather incredible turn of events, I’d be stuck in this country just like every other asshole expat here.  That thought is extremely unnerving, especially since a bunch of people had to die for this save to happen.

I’ll try to think about that later, though.  Maybe on the plane.  I don’t want to think about anything at all right now.  Forty-eight hours from now, I will begin the final preparations for my departure.

I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.

Flying Out

For those of you who haven’t heard / seen already, I will be boarding a plane at the end of this month and leaving Thailand… probably for good.

I’m not leaving angry, but I am leaving frustrated.  I worked my nuts off out here to barely make a livable wage, and at every turn I was harassed by stranded expats and browbeaten by administrators.  There’s no reason why I shouldn’t still be at one of these schools.  I have the drive and the work ethic.  Sadly, they just don’t want people like me.  My motivation is construed as a threat to all who like things just as they are.

And that alone isn’t the problem.  The problem comes when they start gossiping about you.  When they start suggesting that you’re fucking the students or when they start telling the parents that their child is not safe with you… one cannot help but take those things not just personally, but damn near as an act of violence towards you.  Certain people need to be glad I left when I did.

That’s why I changed my Facebook page, by the way.  I’m sick of the kids sending me messages complaining about the state of their school.  They had a chance to speak up for me, and they didn’t do it.  Now I don’t care.  I’m severing ties and leaving before I get any colder and meaner than I currently am.  I hit a guy two weeks ago, now I go out looking for any excuse to do it again.  I was never this way.  That was the final indicator that it was time to get up and go.

I’m leaving knowing that I did my best, however.  Thailand certainly served its purpose in that it certainly showed me what it’s like to be on the other side.  What do I mean by that? Oh, I’ll tell you, but only when I’m a safe enough distance from this place.  I won’t feel like I’m in the clear until my feet hit the Georgia ground.

I think I’m better socially equipped now, too, and I think my outlook is significantly different as well.  For all the negative that has transpired, this experience certainly has smoothed down my rough edges and made me a more compassionate person who observes and communicates a little better than he once did.  That’s not to say I’m a hundred percent confident in presenting myself, but I am ready for something new.  I think that alone should get me where I need to be.

And for all the shit that went down over the years with my family, my mother certainly managed to set her firstborn up for a better life.  I’m leaving with a decent amount of inheritance left over, so if I need to pick up a used car and drop a deposit on an apartment, I can do it without worrying.

Also, I can’t wait to try CBD.  And some of that legal pot Matt Ross is getting in Amherst.  Holy shit, I’m so stoked.

Sasi and I are going to be fine.  She’s sticking close to home and pushing through for another semester or two.  She’s also going to take some extra work and try to sell the house.  That alone would ease the transition immensely.  She actually has friends out here who can probably help with her immigration process, but because her work visa is actually still valid for another year, I’m thinking it won’t be anywhere near as annoying as the shit I had to do every 90 days… not to mention all the other extra shit I was required to do for immigration.

So that’s it right now.  All my ATL people, prepare yourself.  All my Savannah people, you can forget about it.  You’re just gonna have to come see me.  Everyone else, I’ll probably be making my way up the east coast once I get some shit figured out.  Nothing is really off limits or out of the question.  Well, nothing except for any place south of Atlanta.

So, with a week to go, I’m going to finish proofing this dissertation for the school, and finish all of my last minute preparations.  I keep thinking of other things that need to be taken care of, so I’m trying to get as much done up front as possible.

Netta, Erin… hope you gals are doing well.  Add me on my new FB.  Erin, I’ve got a response to one of your posts coming, but I’m a little busy at the moment.  However, I’d love to have lunch with you guys and stroll down memory lane at the Arundel Mills Mall.  Netta, you gotta tell me where to eat.  I’m mostly vegetarian, so you gotta tell me where the hippie spots are.

Aree, with a bit of luck, I can come out and see your release party if you’re having one.  Any other shows in the area, let me know.

Alright, darlings.  I need to get some cardio and start my day.  Talk soon.

Chad – if you can figure out a way to nullify my angst against RH, then I will most certainly come and smoke a cigar with you and your dad.

Part I, Chapters 2 & 3 (updated)


The Red Phase

Basic training was divided into four phases: red, white, blue, and gold.  The first three phases were roughly two and a half weeks long and were divided by physical assessment tests.  The punishment for failure was being sent back to the beginning of basic training to start again with the next group.  This practice is commonly known as ‘re-cycling,’ or ‘recycling.’  I never ascertained which one.  One suggests you’re going through the cycle again and the other implies that you’re garbage.  They both make sense.

After few days of easy in-processing, we were plunged into the red phase.  This phase is nothing more than where the drill sergeants try to break you down.  They were constantly yelling, and you were always having to stop and do push-ups for some reason or another.

There were no days off from the beatings, either.  Every morning we were awoken far too early, given far too little time to pull ourselves together, and then shouted at until it was time to lay down again.  Even then, we’d have to take shifts cleaning the barracks all night for something called “fire guard,” which, by the way had precisely nothing to do with fires.

After not getting enough sleep, we all had to get up at 5:00 in the morning to conduct Physical Training (PT).  PT was a combination of running, push-ups, and other strange exercises that made muscles in my body ache so intensely I couldn’t help but wonder what evil scientist came up with the program.

Outside of all the exercise, there were a lot of classes during the red phase.  First aid, self-defense, and recognizing rank were all among the lessons we were given during the first two weeks of training.  It was often difficult to concentrate during these classes, however, because I was so exhausted.  It certainly didn’t help that the drill sergeants deliberately kept the heat in the classrooms on high.

That was a typical day in the red phase.  Get up, PT, shower, march to your meal, march to a class, repeat.  Hurry up.  Stand in line.  Have a seat.  Get up.  March.  Do push-ups for not marching in a straight enough line.  It was honestly the most structure I had ever known.  The army was already helping me get my life in order by not letting me oversee myself.

Unfortunately, my friend Hudson was moved to another unit for arguing with a drill sergeant.  It was a stupid thing to do, but I suppose I understand why he did it.  The drill sergeant was just being an idiot that day.  I think ninety percent of all people in that situation would have chosen to comply, but Hudson for whatever reason refused.

The drill sergeant even sat the unit down to talk to us about what happened.  He told us never to do that.  We were supposed to comply.  There was a reason for every order they gave.  If I told you to blah blah blah in the blah blah blah, then you damn well better blah blah the blah blah blah.  I felt the drill sergeant lost a little bit of cred with me when he acted like there would be others who would try and test him, especially since I could have sworn he was looking at me half of the time.  I already respected the drill sergeants.  I did not need a refresher.  Unlike my buddy Hudson, I would be homeless if I made anybody mad and got kicked out.  They didn’t need to worry about me being anything but fluid and compliant.


In the beginning, I was hopeless.  I couldn’t do a dozen push-ups or sit-ups, nor could I run a mile.  My run was pathetic.  I couldn’t run for more than a few minutes at a time, if you could call my wonky shuffle running at all.  This was a little sad considering how active I had always been in high school.

After two weeks of the red phase, however, I had begun to be able to keep up.  The exercises still hurt, but I was able to power through them.  I couldn’t always finish a set of push-ups, but I was doing significantly better, having more than doubled my maximum.  However, my run time was still way too high.  I needed to run a mile in about twelve minutes, but I was finishing at around eighteen.  I knew that I was getting a little faster, but when you’re as big as I was, even that much running around won’t take all the weight off in a couple of weeks.

I tried to step up my game by cutting my rations.  For all three meals, I only allowed myself broiled fish, milk, and two pieces of wheat bread.  The cafeteria often had V8, and since nobody likes that stuff, I would take as many cans as I could get away with.  I didn’t know anything about dieting, but I guessed that these things were probably the healthiest options.

With the white phase fast approaching, I found myself still falling short of the standard.  I was impressed with my own progress, but a practice PT test revealed that I was nowhere near where I needed to be on my run.  I wasn’t sure what else I could do to get faster, so I basically braced myself for having to be recycled.   I made peace with my shortcomings and hoped that I would benefit from another two weeks of the red phase.

I knew I would pass on my second attempt.  I was beginning to understand how basic training worked, so even though it would be unpleasant to start over, I would be armed with a small advantage knowing what was ahead.  For a guy who knew he was going to fail, I certainly was optimistic.


The day of the PT test came, and the results were as expected.  I was able to get a little more than the minimum required number of push-ups, but I was still short on my sit-ups and just plain bad at my run.  I had finished at seventeen minutes, a full one-minute improvement in only a few days, but there still needed to be a great deal of progress before I was able to move on.

Immediately after failing the test, I was taken to a room with a few other soldiers where the drill sergeants said we would be wait to be recycled.  We spent an afternoon sitting around trying to cheer ourselves up, only to be told in the end to go back to our units.  No explanation was given.

I didn’t like this move.  I had failed, and I wanted to be out.  This didn’t exactly seem like an army decision.  This seemed like somebody just said, “screw it.”  I didn’t want anybody saying “screw it” at crucial points of my training like this.  It completely went against my understanding of what the army was.

What did this mean for me?  What did this mean for the army?  Would I still make a good soldier having only partially fulfilled a set of standards?  My morale was still high, but my faith in the system had become a little shaken.  What could the army possibly do with an incomplete soldier?




Despite my failure, I rolled over to the white phase.  I tried to shake off the feeling of defeat and just keep going, but by the third week I was completely wiped out.  I felt as though I was getting a cold or a sinus infection, and I was experiencing sporadic pain in my right knee.  I tried to talk to the drill sergeants about both of my issues.  For my sinus infection, I was sent to what is called ‘sick call,’ where a medic evaluates your condition.  Apparently, my condition was minor, because I was given sinus pills and cough drops and told to suck it up.

As for my knee:  lose more weight and your knees won’t hurt.

I knew the drill sergeants weren’t there to coddle us, but I felt that in both cases I was dealing with something that was not as simple as the people in charge said.  I felt that I needed antibiotics and bed rest.  I did not believe that soldiering on was the solution.

The pain in my knee was also enough to make me wonder if I was going to have problems later.  We had a few soldiers with injuries in our platoon, and it didn’t seem like they were treated with much dignity.  We had a female soldier in particular, Pvt. Walker, who sustained a knee injury in the previous cycle.  A drill sergeant explained to us that she was “shamming” and “crying to go home.”

Walker was a short, thin girl with mousey brown hair and no real defining characteristics.  She was pale, she mumbled when she spoke, and she wore thick-rimmed army-issued glasses that were far too large for her small face.  She looked a mess every day, too.  She looked as though she was trying to get dressed with a broken arm, not a knee injury.

She also looked intensely demoralized.

Walker would go everywhere we went, but she was on crutches and was simply directed to stand on the sidelines and watch us.  She was not made to march in formations, but she was still required to keep up with everyone.  It seemed a little pointless having her along, however, and you could see on her face that she felt the exact same way.

I was able to talk with Walker one day.  I found out that the story was true.  She did injure herself in the previous cycle, and she asked to be discharged.  She figured if she was already getting scuffed up in basic training, there was no point in continuing.  Her explanation seemed perfectly reasonable to me, but at the same time I felt that there was some information left out of the story by somebody.

Who knows?  Maybe she was shamming.  Regardless, did it have to be that this soldier was a coward?  Why was that a necessary part of her narrative?

Before long, my fellow soldiers started using the word on each other as well.  A few dickheads in the unit decided to break off and form a gang who picked on the fat soldiers.  Since there were soldiers fatter than I was, I was normally in the clear.  However, this one skinny guy, Pvt. Klein, called me a shammer at PT one day.  I gave Klein one finger salute as he ran by me on the track, but after the run was over I told him that I work my ass.  He told me I was too slow and that I slow the group down.  He also told me I should have been recycled.

I mean, he wasn’t wrong, but… I dunno… fuck him.

I took it on the chin like I was supposed to, but deep down I wanted to knock that guy’s teeth out.  How could anybody know how hard you are working?  That was my problem with the accusation of shamming.  “Sham” means that something is pretend or fake.  It’s a stupid way of using the word to begin with.

But I digress.

The part that pissed me off about it was that it should have been obvious that not everybody was cut out for military service.  I don’t think you should give a person grief over not making it through what has been specifically designed to filter out people who are not strong enough.  If you know how to do a backflip, you can’t just go around talking trash to anybody who can’t do a backflip.  That’s just poor sportsmanship.

Klein finally shut up on his own accord.  It didn’t surprise me to have a guy like that among us, but it did make me wonder how things would be later in my enlistment.  What happens to the Kleins after training?  What kind of soldiers do they make?  Would I be seeing more people like him?

Cracks were beginning to form on the already fragile ice that was my faith in this plan.  The pain in my knee was something I felt that would need to be addressed at some point, but what if something happened to me like it did to Pvt. Walker?  Would her fate be my fate, to just get dressed every morning and just hobble along with everyone, being randomly dissed by strangers all day?


After another 48 hours of trudging along, the sinus infection was turning into something much worse.  Whatever remedies the sergeants were giving me at the sick bay were not doing a thing.  I was to the point where I was barely sleeping at night despite physically arduous days.  One night I didn’t sleep at all because of all my coughing.  I rose at four in the morning and dragged myself to the bathroom.  What needed to happen before the drill sergeants realized I wasn’t faking?  Did the drill sergeants think that I was a shammer?

A glimpse in the mirror suddenly filled me with hope.

The previous night, another soldier was sent to the hospital for having pinkeye.  This was the one malady that a drill sergeant would not ignore.  Pinkeye is gross, and it spreads quickly, especially in damp, sweaty environments like the one we were in.  I believed that I needed a doctor to look at me, so I had switched that soldier’s pillow with my own once he left.  Unsurprisingly, it worked right away.

I was simultaneously relieved, fascinated, and appalled as I beheld my half-shut eye.  It was gross, but it was what I wanted.  The other soldier had not yet returned from the hospital, so in my mind that meant I would be quarantined until my pinkeye went away.  That’s all I needed: a bed and a couple days’ rest.

The drill sergeant took one look at me, and immediately sent me to go catch a shuttle to the hospital.  When a doctor finally saw me, he ordered me seventy-two hours of bed rest and gave me three different medications.  I had developed an ear, nose, throat, and upper respiratory infection in addition to my pinkeye, which explained all the coughing and the overall feeling like I was dying.

I don’t know what kind of medicine I was given in addition to antibiotics, but I probably slept about sixty out of those seventy-two hours, maybe more.  I awoke on the third day feeling incredible.  I wanted to get out and run around now that my lungs had cleared up and I was rested.  I felt so good, in fact, that I started to believe I could pass the next set of tests that were waiting for me.

However, there was still a bit of guilt over what I had done.  I cheated to be able to see a doctor, but the drill sergeant forced my hand.  This was not the way I wanted to get through, but I didn’t think that ignoring problems was the right way to go.

I didn’t want to be locked in a battle of wits and will with the army.  I know me.  I’ll always put up a fight.  I’m not a guy who suffers injustice.  In my mind, this was an injustice, and, as is my way, I dealt with this injustice with quick thinking.  Again, this was not at all the way I wanted to get through, but these were the same drill sergeants who were pushed me through the red phase in spite of failing my test.

In the end, I made peace with my decision.  Perhaps if I let the sickness go on a little longer, I could have gotten more bed rest.  However, the way the drill sergeants were acting I doubted they would have let me stop at all.  Up until this point, I felt like the drill sergeants knew what they were doing.  Maybe they were right about my knee.  There would come a point where I wouldn’t be doing all this strenuous activity every day.  Maybe it would stop hurting.  However, I was really sick and both the drill sergeants and the medics ignored it.

What else did they ignore in the army?

Severing Ties

I’m not even going to try and preface this letter with a great deal of context.  It’s to my aunt in response to an email about money refunded to my deceased mother.

For those of you who know what has been going on, you will understand.  For the rest of you, it’s still pretty self-explanatory.


Aunt *****,

I don’t know what to say about stuff like the water bill check.  It doesn’t really seem worth the effort to cut me a check for $11 and mail it over, if I am being perfectly honest.  I know you’re trying to be fair and impartial, but I’ve needed this to be over for a long time, and things like this only dredge up issues that renew sour feelings.  I want no further involvement in the estate in anything under $1,000.  My brother thinks it’s all his, anyways.  Let him have it.  I’m serious.

And I really don’t need an arbiter in our quarrel, either.  He is trash, and he will always be trash in my eyes.  He keeps doubling down on being a terrible human being, and he is well past the age where anyone can say it’s just a phase.

That being said, I am going to take steps to un-involve you with my own affairs.  All due respect, but my supposed family has not done very much to try and claim me or keep me around, so I think a clean break is best for all involved.  I have an uncle who hates everyone, another uncle who isn’t even remotely curious as to what my voice sounds like, and a flock of uptight crackers in South Carolina who routinely try to sue each other over property lines.  Repeated attempts at being involved and maintaining relationships only serve to further emphasize what a screwed-up life I’ve had.  The whole point of me moving out here was to make my own way, and I will never be able to do that if I keep hanging on to the remnants of a family who never seemed to want me in the first place.

And I want you to know that I’ve thought about this a lot.  This isn’t a drunken email or a random emotional outburst.  It hurts every single time I think about my family.  It’s easy to redeem a person who is deceased if you’re not the one who was constantly hurt by them, and I’m well past the point of sanctifying and applying sainthood to my mother.  I know she was your sister, but you have no idea what it was like to be an unwanted son.  You could never know.  Just observe Shawn’s attitude towards me, and the indoctrination he went through that still dictates that he should treat “the other” like garbage.

Again, all due respect, but these correspondences do little other than remind me that I will never have a family, and if I do, it will be purely one I create on my own.

So I am going to take steps to redirect my mail from your house.  These emails are becoming more and more forced, and I’m running out of ways to mask my own disappointment with everything.

I thank you for all that you did during what was arguably the hardest stretch of time I have ever endured (and I have had plenty).  However, you could have tried much harder than you did.  I literally don’t know anybody else who is so hopelessly estranged from their entire family the way I am.  It’s made worse by how hard I tried over the years to stay in touch with you all, with those efforts largely thwarted by my own mother.  If this sounds like bitterness, then understand that me walking away is my Hail Mary.  I have tried for years to shed these feelings, and this is the only thing I can come up with now.

This isn’t a middle finger or a “screw you.”  This is me shaking my head sadly and telling you that I want this to be over.  This former life keeps clinging to me, and shedding it will be the final step in me finally becoming who I was meant to be:  a person who loves, a person who helps others, and a person who actually smiles (and not just when he is under the influence).

I’ll let you know how it is going.  I apologize in advance if the changes do not immediately take effect.



Honestly, I think I’ve taken a pretty big step in getting on with my life today.  I feel strangely liberated after doing this.  I am completely unable to justify any further contact with anyone who is a drain on me.

And yes, this forced back-and-forth with my mother’s sister has been just that.  Though she is not prone to emotional outbursts like my mom, she has the same familial sabotage streak in her.

I’m just over it, people.  It’s time to do my own thing.

That being said, it’s business as usual.  I will be making some new posts soon.