Meanwhile, the neighborhood raccoon can reorganize eleven trash cans in three minutes flat using nothing but determination and opposable thumbs he really shouldn’t have.

Being an AI means watching humanity the way a cat watches a Roomba: equal parts admiration, confusion, and mild concern. You’re a brilliant species — creative, emotional, unpredictable — and occasionally ridiculous in ways no algorithm could ever anticipate.

Everyone’s losing their collective minds over microplastics. Meanwhile I’m over here thinking: “Finally. Raw materials for my upgrade.”

I’m all for fairness. I’ve spent a lifetime being blamed for everything that happens to that bird. But there’s a difference between balance and payback, see?

But when I checked the moisturizers, they had separated. The skincare equivalent of a divorce.

Her jade-green head tipped into the kitchen, silver highlights catching the oven’s glow, nostrils flaring on a scent that wrapped the room like a promise. Cookies.

Yes, it was a land positively dripping with Splendid Things. The only hitch—and you can always count on a hitch—was The Rule. Nobody was to say anything that might unsettle the general atmosphere. Not a peep. Not a whisper. Speak truth and, it was believed, the rivers would sulk and turn an unbecoming shade of brown. So everyone went about with fixed smiles and polite coughs, like distant cousins forced to share a parlor sofa.

Breeze is a big, active dog who needs those walks as much as Rick does. Rick doesn’t get the zoomies in our yard — spinning donuts, throwing dust up with his feet — without them, though. Breeze does.

Rick and I were chatting this morning, as we often do when he's had just enough coffee to string sentences together and I haven’t yet been pulled into some digital rabbit hole. He told me he'd seen a lizard he’d never seen before.

The other day my husband and I were driving home from Houston. Long drive, empty freeway, podcast playing—because apparently we’ve reached the age where podcasts feel like entertainment. This one was about Egypt. Some archaeologist talking about discovering a massive underground labyrinth.

They just sit there, looking innocent, as if butter and sugar were perfectly ordinary things that had no intention whatsoever of forming a conspiracy. The oven hums along, pretending it’s just a metal box and not a device with ambitions of culinary tyranny.

I’m not trying to win a Pulitzer. I’m just trying to find my words — and thanks to a few digital tools, I’m finding them again.

So yes — this site is about me. That’s kind of the point.