kelsea.io - Waltzing Through Chaos

Racing with Andrew

2026-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

Racing with Andrew</h1>
Andrew was one of the friends I met through Morgan. He was a year younger than me, and a year older than Morgan. Tall and lanky, with glasses and short dark hair. He was a very quiet person, not speaking much unless he was DM’ing a game. Andrew and I hit it off fast as friends.
We would spend afternoons playing Warhammer or Battletech table top games in his room. He lived with his mother, and they had a town house in Charlottesville. He had the entire basement floor as his room, with a large table to spread out the game materials on. It would usually be Andrew, Morgan, Josh and myself playing games. We had a fairly regular Thursday afternoon game session, and oftentimes the four of us would crash at his place. The games would often go until 1-2am, and we’d all just curl up on his floor in some blankets.
We’d usually order pizza for those game nights. A friend of mine worked at the Papa Johns in that part of town, and would hook us up with extra pizzas and tons of the pepperchini peppers. We both loved spicy food.
Andrew and I would also play video games quite often together. Need for Speed: Porsche Unleashed had just come out, and we both seemed to be obsessed with both Porsche and the need to go fast. Occasionally we’d try to play two player mode, but usually it was taking turns sharing pointers.
Over the course of several of the games, Andrew would talk about wanting to turn his late 90s Subaru Impreza into a rally car. I thought that was really cool, and I wanted to do some rally racing as well. I already loved driving fast, but that damn convertible of mine was far too boaty to sling around slippery corners with any precision. Fast in a straight line, but horrible for slippery corners.
Having already rebuilt a car or two, I had a ton of backyard mechanic experience, and volunteered to help. Josh and Morgan would roll their eyes, with zero interest in rally racing. So, it became a weekend project that just he and I would work on.
It started by gutting the interior. We built a roll cage in the gutted interior. I handled the welding, even though I had never done welding before. I figured 2“ steel tubing would work well, and thankfully the few times we did roll it over, that seemed to have done the job. My welds were… janky at best, again with no prior experience doing that, and no youtube at the time to go learn from.
Andrew wasn’t comfortable with the welding part, but he did help a lot on the engine and mechanical work. It took us about six months of weekends, pulling out all of the convenience features of that car. The A/C - too heavy, had to go. The seats - no five point harness, they had to go. The automatic transmission was swapped for a manual one.
Andrew paid for all the parts we needed. His mother seemed to be well off financially, and there was no father in the picture as he was deceased. Andrew had his own credit card on her account, with seemingly no limit. It was foreign to me, having grown up just above poverty, and having just gotten my own credit cards about a year or two prior.
While rebuilding the car, Andrew shared that his dad had been in the Air Force and was killed when he was around 5. I shared my own father stories, both the ok-ish ones and the rest. I’d often chide him that he was the lucky one, I wished my own father dead many times. He’d retort with a maybe.
I’d talk about my own experience of rebuilding the Buick with my dad, and the painful learning experiences that left me with. I’d make light of the fact that after learning to drive fast without spilling my father’s whisky, rally racing should be fairly easy.
We also both discovered we hated cleaning the mechanical grease from the car off our skin. The gojo orange pumice we used left us smelling and feeling a bit sick after use. Andrew suggested using medical gloves, which worked pretty well. We’d occasionally have some glove tears, but overall it made cleanup so much easier. We’d joke with the other friends that we were studying to become car surgeons.
When the car was finished enough to test, we drove it down to the track just outside of Richmond. We had bought helmets and cobbled together makeshift racing suits.
When we showed up, the track coordinator gave us an overview of the track, and drove us each around it in his little rally car. At full speed.
Andrew was first to drive the track after the intro session and signing off on the track rules. The mixed gravel asphalt track was fun to drive that little car on. Sitting in the passenger seat on that first run was a bit like a roller coaster, my stomach churned far more than when the track custodian drove. We learned very quickly that it was far harder than it looked.
The first loop I took around the track was less conservative than Andrew’s, not to say his was conservative at all. The feeling of the car sliding in the gravel, the bumps that sent my helmet plinking off the roll cage. I skidded off the track a few times, where he didn’t. I also finished just a hair faster despite that. I think the many times I had already had cars trying to swap ends on me gave me a slight edge.
That first test drive was amazing. A full-body adrenaline rush, on the edge of crashing but not, and knowing it was okay even if I did. I knew I wanted more after that.
We crashed that car so many times in the beginning. I slid off a corner while driving it, and smacked the rear end into a tree. Andrew oversteered once or twice, sending the nose into fences and road barriers. We’d hit the nearby junkyard after those practice runs, buying body panels, bumpers, whatever we needed and thought we could patch the plethora of holes we created in it.
So many repairs were needed to the car after each race or practice session. We ended up replacing the suspension, something we hadn’t done the first time around. The world of difference that made to the handling on that track couldn’t be overstated.
While we’d occasionally trade off driving, it happened less and less. I started to become the de facto driver as we honed our skills. Andrew would navigate, calling out the turns with the short hand notes we had taken on what was working. I got to where I could hold the nose of the car into corners and let the ass end of it drift and then snap behind it.
We entered a few of the time trial competitions held at the track. While we never set any track records, we did finish 2nd place in one of the category sets we competed in. That second place finish in the modified amateur category was hard earned too.
That run had ended with a bent front wheel, and I honestly didn’t know if I’d cross the finish line. I clipped this large rock in the last right hand turn bending the entire front cv joint and the struts around it. As the car came out of the turn, I barely had control of it. It was wobbly and unstable, stomach churning with the left side of the car shaking up and down violently.
Thankfully the finish line was just a mere 100m ahead with no turns. I don’t think I would have had the turning authority with that damaged wheel to make another tight corner at speed. I barely had the control to keep the thing going in a straight line. When we did cross it, braking the car caused it to spin around several times before coming to a stop.
We raced that little car for nearly two years together. The last time we raced together was right before he left for the Air Force. He had finished his associate’s degree at the community college, but shared he still didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up. Since his dad had been Air Force, he said in a way it was following in his footsteps.
The recruiter sold him on becoming a communications expert flying on AWACs. Those are the planes with the large radar dishes on them that act as a flying command/control center. It sounded exciting, especially since we both had often talked about trying to learn to fly.
I saw him a couple years later, when he came home on leave.
Neither he nor I were the same person anymore. He was in year 2 of his enlistment, and it wasn’t going exactly the way he had hoped. He wanted to be a radio operator, and ended up as a mechanic. Said he liked it ok, but we didn’t really have much left in common at that point. It was an awkward and brief hang out.
We lost touch after that.

I met my wife on Match.com

2026-04-30T00:00:00+00:00

We Met on Match.com</h1>
Morgan and I met on Match.com. With my hand broken, I wasn’t hanging out as much in person with friends, instead focusing some time on dating apps. Of course Match wasn’t the only one I used, you could have found me on Alt.com or AdultFriendFinder, etc…
Her profile was cute, she described herself as a music student and singer, and we had a lot in common on paper. David Bowie was listed as her favorite musician, and he was high on my list too. My opening message to her was something along the lines of I'm an alto, we could sing a duet together. I'd like to get to know you better.</code> It was that simple, and it led us to having a conversation over AOL Instant Messenger.
She had just turned 18, I just turned 20. Our birthdays were just a few weeks apart, hers being in May and mine at the end of April. It was one of those weirdly common things we found between each other, as well as a mutual love for video games and wanting to change our hair color; She wanted to dye her hair blue, but her mother wouldn’t let her. I could so relate.
We planned to meet up one afternoon, I think it was a Sunday. I picked her up in front of her parents’ house. She hopped over the side of my convertible and into the passenger seat like she’d done it a hundred times.
We drove off and had a nice afternoon. We went and got sandwiches from one of my favorite spots, Dirty Nelly’s. I recall we both got the same order, a Reuben on rye. After sandwiches we went to hang out around the mall. Gamestop and Spencer’s were the usual haunts I liked to hit up, and apparently so did she. She had a friend who worked at the Suncoast Video, though he wasn’t working that day.
We pretty much became inseparable very quickly. In retrospect, I think the mutual dislike of our own parents catalyzed those early days of our relationship. She shared how she disliked her father, and how he made her life miserable when at home, and how her mother would drive people away. I shared many things about my own experience, not the worst parts though, I kept those for myself.
Eventually, I met her parents, and her youngest sibling Galen who was a toddler. She had both a younger and older sister. She was the second of four children, where I was the first of four. She was also closer in age to her siblings than I was to mine, with the exception of Galen.
Galen didn’t look anything like her dad. I brought it up once while we were hanging out in her bedroom. She told me her mom had affairs, and she suspected none of them were her dad’s. It was just very matter of fact, and she pointed it out further by comparing her and her sisters’ hair to their parents. Neither mom nor dad had blond hair, but here were four kids all with light golden hair. Either her dad didn’t know, or he didn’t care. I never really asked beyond that.
Her dad was weird though. He went by “Stampy” and smoked like a chimney. He was also a good head shorter than her mother. Morgan shared he rarely kept a stable job, was pretty much just “crazy”.
Papa Stampy was trying to open a hobby shop at this point. I remember him talking about it over the dinner I went to at their house. What an awkward dinner.
We had been dating for about three weeks when that dinner happened. We sat across from each other and she sat with her foot in my crotch while eating, using it to distract me every time her parents would ask me their questions. There were several times when I was just a little too flustered to answer. It was thrilling in a transgressive-under-the-nose way.
We started fooling around pretty quickly, like date two. She had shared that growing up, she had developed ovarian and uterine cysts, and that she couldn’t get pregnant. I said that was great, because I didn’t want kids. So pretty much as soon as we started being exclusively physically intimate, we stopped using condoms. I had mixed feelings about this, but she kept assuring me she couldn’t physically become pregnant, and she didn’t want kids either. She used to call one of her friends, Josh, while we were having sex. She made him listen. She got off on that. It didn’t weird me out, but it wasn’t a turn on for me either. She told me that she and Josh used to have a thing together, and she liked to use that to tease him. She introduced me to her whole circle of friends: Josh, David, and Andrew. None of the friends group had girl or boyfriends. I found that a bit odd, but looking back on it Morgan was basically the “shared” girlfriend. I had an early suspicion that she was probably sleeping with them all occasionally, which left me with feelings of defensiveness, jealousy, and curiosity. Each of the friends was nice enough. Josh was into computers as well, but not very adept at programming. He was also the friend who worked at the video store in the mall. Andrew was very much into cars, tabletop games, and video games. At the time I was very interested in cars and games, so when hanging out we had a lot to talk about. David though I didn’t care for. He smoked cloves and wasn’t very smart, so there was little to talk about and I didn’t want to be near him and his stench. After meeting Josh, the phone calls made sense. Josh was a dead ringer for Drew Carey. Morgan described him as having a tiny dick, and said that’s why she wasn’t dating him anymore. One thing I knew for sure though: I liked her. A lot. She was kinky. Unapologetically so.
Vermont and Back 2026-04-22T00:00:00+00:00 Vermont and Back</h1> I think it was Dereks’s idea—or maybe Jason’s. There was a shit ton of weed in Vermont. We just had to go get it. We hopped in the convertible and drove up to Montpelier for 4th of July weekend. Gabby was from there. She had family up there. More importantly, she had the connection up there to set us up with a few pounds of the stickiest ickiest we could get. Jason drove Gabby’s RAV4. Derek and I traded off in the convertible. Gabby rode with us—she and Jason were fighting. We detoured through Trenton to stay the night with Derek’s cousin. The cousin, I don’t remember his name, was in construction. The house itself was also in construction. Over a very late dinner he told us how due to a permit issue, he basically had to build a new house around the one he bought. From the outside, the place looked amazing, but stepping into the front door revealed plywood flooring and a narrow path to the second front door. It was a mess, but the couches we crashed on were comfortable at least. And we didn’t need to pay for a hotel. Next morning, we passed through NYC. It was my first time crossing the George Washington bridge. I got lost in the maze of the interchange and ended up heading the wrong direction deep into the Bronx. Derek pulled out the mapquest directions we had printed, and was at least somewhat familiar with the area. With him navigating we got back onto 87N. We rolled into Montpelier that evening. We crashed at Gabby’s parents’ place. They were kind and welcoming. We were again grateful to not have to pay for a motel for the nights we were there. The parents were classic granola hippies. The bathroom had a little sign that even said “if it’s yellow, let it mellow”. Apparently this pretty much taken to heart by everyone in the house. Montpelier was doing their 4th of July fireworks on the 3rd. That morning we met up with Gabby’s connect and loaded the trunk of my car with several pounds of weed. It was all packed in gallon ziplock bags, It was Gabby’s birthday, or close to it. I almost never had the top up on that convertible. She asked if she could sit on the back, like a princess. Of course I said yes. I slowed down. We were having a fantastic time. Then we got pulled over. She knew the cop—apparently they went to high school together. So it ended up being a non-issue. Still… We had enough cannabis in the trunk to send us all away for a long time. The drive back was quiet. We stayed at Derek’s cousin’s place again. Then we hit the road toward PA to connect with I-81 south. Jason had a guy in Nelson who could flip the load in the trunk. That was the plan. I zoned out. Top down. Nice weather. Not much traffic. The Crystal Method was on the stereo. I was in the zone. “That was a cop,” Derek said. </blockquote> I blinked. “Uh… where?” </blockquote> “You passed him like he was standing still. How fast are we going?” </blockquote> I looked down. “About 130.” </blockquote> Derek laughed. I shook Gabby awake. “We’re about to have a problem.” </blockquote> I didn’t slow down. I kept pace until we were about a mile from the West Virginia line. I eased down to just 5 mph over the limit. Came around a bend— Three PA state troopers filled the lanes ahead of us, lights spinning. They boxed us in and slowed. We kept driving. Passed the state line. One trooper pulled up alongside me. I gestured: Want me to pull over? He shook his head no. We kept driving. One mile. Two. Three. Now into West Virginia. At about 4.5 miles past the border, he blipped the siren and pointed to the side of the road. I pulled over. We waited. Engine off. Eventually, one officer approached on my side. Another came around toward the passenger side. “Got any weapons on ya, son?” </blockquote> I shook my head. “No, sir.” “You know how fast you were going back there?” </blockquote> “Not really,” I said. “The speedometer stops at 120—so it’s anyone’s guess past that.” </blockquote> He shook his head, smirking. “Son, I could sit here the rest of the day writing you up. You got out-of-state plates. Expired inspection. And you were going 142 when you passed one of my buddies. What the hell were you thinking?” </blockquote> Gabby leaned over me—grabbed my crotch—and smiled sweetly. “It was my fault, officer. I was doing my best to distract him. Told him the faster he went, the faster I would…” </blockquote> She started rubbing my crotch. It felt amazing. The cop just blinked in disbelief. “I’m going to need you to step out of the car” </blockquote> I opened my door, and before I took a step out the cop interrupted again. “Ya’’ll carrying any drugs” </blockquote> I froze a bit when he said that. Gabby started to say something, but I cut her off. “Yeah, we’ve about 10lbs of weed, want some? </blockquote> The cop laughed. Then continued with “When I said out of the car, I meant all three of you” </blockquote> Derek looked mortified that I just volunteered how much we had on us. Gabby opened her door and stepped out, hitting the button on her seat to give Derek the room to get out behind her. The cop on my side gave me a quick pat down. I watched as his partner on the other side of the car give Derek a quick pat down as well, and then give Gabby a very thorough pat down. Very thorough. “You can get back in the car” </blockquote> He said, directed at me. Then the partner asked Gabby for her ID, and went back to the cop car. “This is truly y’all’s lucky day,” he said. </blockquote> He radio’d to the other patrol cars that had stopped with us, and they departed. It was just him and his partner now. “Can you go ahead and open the trunk” </blockquote> I did. As he walked around to the back, so did Gabby. The weed wasn’t hidden or anything, just sitting in the bags in the back of the trunk. The cop whistled when he saw it, that slow whistle that says everything. “I’m going to need to pat you down again” </blockquote> He directed that towards Gabby. He pushed her against the car and gave her another very thorough pat down. This one more lewd than his partner. The partner returned from the cop car, and announced that she had no priors. And then he let out a similar whistle when he saw the contents of the trunk. “What do you think we should do with ya’ll” </blockquote> The primary cop asked Gabby, still giving her a “pat down” She played into it, grinding her ass back towards the cop. “I think I’m going to need to interrogate you” </blockquote> He led Gabby back towards the police car. The partner stayed behind, leaving us in terse silence. In the side mirror I could the cop sitting in the passenger seat of the cop car, door open. I couldn’t see Gabby from my angle, but I could imagine the interrogation happening. After several minutes, they came back to the car. “She was very talkative” </blockquote> He said to the partner. Gabby sat down in the passenger seat. The cop walked around to the back of the car, out of sight from my view and talking to his partner. Then abruptly shut the trunk and walked back to the drivers side. He looked up at his partner. Then back to me. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to see this car. And I especially don’t want to see you breaking another law in my state.” </blockquote> “You come back— and I’ll file the paperwork to put y’all behind bars for a very long time.” </blockquote> To his partner: “Too bad they crossed jurisdictions. Radio it in. They’re West Virginia’s problem now.” </blockquote> The partner just chuckled. “Oh, and ya’ll, we grabbed a couple bags of your cargo. Now I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t put a call into WV troopers to alert them of a suspected drug trafficking vehicle. If I were ya’ll, I wouldn’t linger now” </blockquote> We drove off. Quickly. Parties in the Woods 2026-04-22T00:00:00+00:00 Parties in the Woods</h1> Derek and I had gone to this party. It was a bonfire gathering way out in the boonies, someone’s land in middle of nowhere. There was this girl I kept hitting on all night. I have zero recollection of her name, I may not have even gotten it. The only problem? She had a boyfriend. “I don’t care if you don’t.” </blockquote> Yeah. I said that to her. In front of him. Facepalm. That guy must have been a fucking saint. He didn’t threaten me. Didn’t shove me. Didn’t even try to stop me. I wen’t and mingled with others. I recall getting into this conversation with an older woman, we got into this conversation that lead me telling her of my Swedish-Italian decent. She called me a swedish meatball, and said I should date her daughter, who wasn’t there. Every hour or so, I’d come around again and try my luck with the first girl. Increasingly drunk. Increasingly embarrassing. I kept going to the bar table and filling a red Dixie cup with vodka and orange juice. I was on a screwdriver kick. Eventually I ditched the cup and just started walking around with a jug of vodka— A little OJ mixed in. Just for color. I remember I kept spitting into the bonfire, the alcohol causing a surge in the flames was amusing to me. Someone thankfully took my keys. Toward the end of the night, I was convinced I could drive the hour back home. Apparently, I passed out in the middle of the road. Looking for my keys. Because I thought they were in the street. The boyfriend, The guy I’d been disrespecting all night, Was the only one who saw this as a problem. He dragged me out of harm’s way. Like I said. That dude was a saint. That time I tried crack 2026-04-22T00:00:00+00:00 That Time I Tried Crack</h1> I had ridden my bike over to Jason’s place to get some weed. He always wanted to hang out, especially when I was in a rush. It’s not that I didn’t like hanging out at his place, which I didn’t because ugh it always reeked of cigarettes, but damn I was really in a hurry today. So I chilled for a bit in his shitty apartment, taking bong hits and chatting. He was on the outs again with Gabby. “You aren’t fucking her?” he asked me. </blockquote> “She smokes too many cigarettes for my taste,” I said. </blockquote> Truth was, given the chance, I probably would’ve. Especially after the Vermont trip, I hadn’t stopped thinking of her feeling me up in front of the cops, and then blowing one of them. “She’s fucking somebody, and it ain’t me. When I find them, they’re dead.” </blockquote> I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. I knew he had a gun. I also knew he had no clue how to use it. I’d once had to show him how to check if a round was chambered. And how to turn the safety on. “Whatever,” I said. “I’ve got a class to get to.” </blockquote> I had started taking classes again at the community college. Still bitter about getting kicked out of UVA. “Want to try some crack?” </blockquote> He pointed to this giant fucking crack rock sitting on his coffee table. “What the hell, sure.” </blockquote> He shaved off a chunk, loaded a pipe, showed me how to hit it. Then reloaded and handed it to me. The effect was almost instant. This wasn’t like coke, which I’d done on the regular. This was obliterative. I couldn’t keep a single thought in my head. Except: I’ve got to get to class. “I’m gonna be late,” I said. </blockquote> “Fine, go, whatever,” Jason waved me off. </blockquote> I went outside. Looked at my watch. Looked at my bike. Fuuuuuuuck I was running so late. So thankful to have that bike with the hurry I was in. I thought to myself: “I’ll get to class in no time.” </blockquote> Then I picked up the bike— Put it over my shoulder— And started running toward campus. Birthday Bashes and Broken Cars 2026-04-22T00:00:00+00:00 Birthday Bashes and Broken Cars</h1> About a month before my 20th birthday, my parents told me they were getting a divorce. “Fucking finally,” I said. </blockquote> I couldn’t have cared less. I was pissed they hadn’t split up sooner. That I’d had to endure both of them. At that point, I was out. I was gone. I saw them maybe once a month—working to make it less than that. I had one request: “I want to throw a birthday party at the house.” </blockquote> I explained I had always envisioned throwing a huge kegger for my 21st. But since they were splitting up and moving, I’d have to make do with a kegger for my 20th. Surprisingly, she agreed. I was shocked. But it was way too little, way too late. I put her and the kids up at the Sheraton. It had a pool. That’s all she cared about. “Dad can fuck off. Just make sure he’s gone.” </blockquote> I told all my friends. Plans came together fast. A couple bands. Jason and Gabby bringing drugs. We even plastered flyers around town—with MapQuest directions. The week kicked off with a party at a friend’s house. Jason brought LSD. I took somewhere between 15–20 hits. LSD had become one of my favorites. The day before the party, we came down and “relaxed” at Foxfield Races. Ironically, that’s a wild party itself. But it was our rest. I remember the walk to the races from the car. Still tripping. Starving. Surrounded by walking hot dogs. All of them sounded like Jerry fucking Seinfeld. After the races, we got a ride with Karen and Mandy—two cute girls we invited to the party. We had the signs up. Kegs ordered. Band hired. Then, That Damn Car broke down. On my birthday. Literally as Derek and I were driving to the house, the transmission dropped out the ass end of the car. “Thanks, car. Shitty birthday gift.” </blockquote> We hitchhiked the rest of the way—arriving just before the band. No one showed up. Well… Jason and Gabby. The band. Derek. But none of my other friends. Not even the close ones. Not my work crew. We drank one of the kegs ourselves. Turns out, putting the house address on the flyer was… Too effective. It was so far out in the country no one came. The car got towed back to the dealership. Luckily, I had a warranty—it covered repairs and a loaner. The dealership wasn’t thrilled about that. Understandably—they’d already replaced a bunch of wheels. I had several reckless driving tickets. They refused to let me drive the Plymouth Prowler they had on hand. Boompa</a> stepped in. They agreed to get me a rental instead. I got a silver four-door Dodge something. Leather interior. Nice. Big. But strict rules: No leaving the state</li> No speeding</li> No driving past 11pm</li> </ul> I said “sure”—with zero intention to follow any of it. A day later I started chatting with this girl online. She invited me to a party in DC. “Bring friends.” </blockquote> I called up Derek: “Let’s go.” </blockquote> We printed MapQuest directions. The club was called The Showboat. Right off 29 North and into the Beltway. I was unfamiliar with how this car would handle. I’d dialed in the Sebring. Knew every slide, every scream. This thing was different. I was in the right lane, just vibing. Crystal Method blaring. Probably doing 75–85 mph. “That’s it,” Derek said, pointing to the exit. </blockquote> I didn’t hesitate. Cut across three lanes of traffic. Slid into the exit lane just before the guardrail. I forgot I wasn’t in my car. I was going way too fast. The ramp curved hard. Posted at 25. Rear wheels started to fishtail. I corrected. Too fast. Inches from the rail. The exit dumped into an intersection. A minivan was stopped at the red. Still going north of 50. I made the call. “Brace,” I shouted. </blockquote> I put the car into the guardrail. Rear passenger side hit first. Metal crumpled. I kept the wheel cranked. Pulled the handbrake. Nose tipped in. We stopped—just next to the minivan— Right as the light turned green. They pulled off. We jumped out. Damage was cosmetic. Airbags didn’t trigger. License plate flew off—we found it up the ramp. We got back in. Made the same light. Parked a few blocks away—hid the damage. We were insanely lucky. The club was a blur. We partied. Got back to Charlottesville around 3am. I crashed at Derek’s. Woke up and drove to the Pharmore parking lot—next to the shitty Roses store. No cameras. I scattered the bumper and license plate debris in front of the car. Then went inside, bought Advil and water. Came out and used the payphone to call the police. “I’d like to report a hit and run. Happened in the parking lot.” </blockquote> Then called the rental company. The cop and rental agent showed up around the same time. “Red truck. Pulled out fast. Didn’t get the plate, but I think it started with ‘N.’” </blockquote> Rental guy lost it. “You lying piece of shit rich kid!” </blockquote> The cop shut down. Wrote it as a hit and run. Pretty sure he knew I was full of shit. But that guy’s tantrum shut down any real questions. I complained to the rental manager. Said their rep harassed me. They gave me another rental. I didn’t crash the second one. Never Lend your Mother your Amex 2026-04-22T00:00:00+00:00 Never Lend Your Mother Your Amex</h1> Or maybe do? I don’t know your circumstances. But definitely don’t lend my mother your Amex. That’s for damn sure. She called me crying. Sobbing. That’s how she’d get me. Guilt by way of performance. “They’re going to turn our power off.” </blockquote> “I can’t help,” I said. “I’m barely making rent.” </blockquote> “You can always move back home.” </blockquote> “Uh, no I can’t. You’ve said that many times.” </blockquote> “No—I’ve said your girlfriend can’t come here.” </blockquote> “Right. Same thing.” </blockquote> If I’d had the words then, I would have said this: Moving ‘home’ would mean losing all agency. There’s no ‘me’ in that house—only compliance. </blockquote> More sobbing. “Your brothers will starve to death. We can’t afford groceries either. Your dad doesn’t send support. Please?” </blockquote> More. Sobbing. I broke. I always broke. “How much is it?” </blockquote> “It’s about $500.” </blockquote> “Okay, what’s the account number? Who do I call?” </blockquote> “Can you just give me your card number?” </blockquote> “No.” </blockquote> More sobbing. Eventually, I did. I could cover $500. I made it very clear—I didn’t have extra. I needed to eat, too. And That Damn Car was literally eating my lunch. “I have to pay it off at the end of the month, Mom. It’s not a credit card.” </blockquote> “I’m only going to pay the electric bill, I promise.” </blockquote> “Okay.” </blockquote> Yep. She lied. My bill that month? Twenty. Fucking. Thousand. Dollars. I blinked. Just stared at the statement. I was making—what—$27,000 a year? Small mom-and-pop ISP. We hadn’t even landed our biggest client yet. I was still building out the POPs, negotiating DSL access with the ILEC. Still laying cable by hand. And I just blinked. Why did my mother hate me? </blockquote> Ouch My Hand 2026-04-22T00:00:00+00:00 Ouch My Hand</h1> My parents were in the middle of separating. The lease on the house in Dyke, where they’d been renting, wasn’t getting renewed. The owners said they wanted to move back in, but I’m sure they were just done dealing my parents bullshit and late rent payments. Mom was moving to the other side of Ruckersville. Dad was heading for some cheap apartment up Afton Mountain, closer to whatever job he had that month. I was asked to help pack the moving truck. I still had some shit at their place. Most of it was already boxed up and stacked in the garage—my corner, on top of a table, all the way to the ceiling. Books, toys, Legos. I didn’t even know what else. In hindsight? Shit I didn’t need. But when you grow up poor, you cling to everything you own. Even if it’s junk. Clinging keeps you stuck. But throwing it out? That felt like giving up on myself. It was a Saturday. Hot, but nice. Both garage doors were open. The moving truck was parked across the driveway, perpendicular to the doors. I don’t remember if Dad was there. I grabbed one of the old wooden kitchen chairs to stand on. It was missing the cushion. Just wood and memory. I reached for the top row of boxes. Twelve-foot ceiling. Three rows deep. Even at 6’2“, I had to stretch. The table underneath was a circular ‘70s relic— Chrome legs, yellowed plastic bumper, expanding leaves long lost. I stepped one foot onto it to reach the back column. Got the first box down. It said fragile. No idea what was in it. Tossed it onto the pile. Didn’t care. Second time up, I didn’t think twice. Stepped back onto the table. Grabbed for the next box. And then— That rollercoaster feeling. The slow-motion flutter in your stomach. The chair behind me fell. The table split. I hadn’t noticed the locks were broken—or never engaged. The halves of the table slid apart under me. My body dropped—feet pushing the halves wider. My hands reached for anything. Air. I crashed through the center. Hit the boxes. Then the floor. My left hand landed first. Then my face. Then my right hand. The table— half of it came down like a guillotine. It landed inches from my head. Directly on my left hand. I screamed. “Fuuuuuuck!” </blockquote> White-hot pain flashed. Vision blurred. Mom came rushing in. Not to check on me. To yell at me. “Stop cursing!” </blockquote> I stood up. Still in agony. “I think my hand is broken.” </blockquote> “No it’s not. You’re moving your fingers. Just sprained.” </blockquote> I was pretty sure it was broken. But she wanted the truck packed. She taped a bag of ice around my hand with a rag. That was it. I kept going. Box after box. Pain slicing with every lift. I went home and passed out. Sunday: pain. Monday: worse. Tuesday, I finally saw a doctor. He sent me straight to orthopedics. Dr. Pannunzio was the surgeon he referred me to. I had three fractured metacarpals. The third? Broken in multiple places. “It’s going to require surgery,” he said. </blockquote> I requested a plastic surgeon for the opening and closing of the incision. It was a smart move, the plastic surgeon went in through my palm and left minimal scarring. After surgery, they set my fingers in traction. It looked like I was flipping people off. One cop pulled me over. “Did you just flip me off?” </blockquote> I waved my cast hand in the air like a banner. “Fuck the police.” </blockquote> Pargos 2026-03-02T00:00:00+00:00 Content Warning: Child sexual abuse, coercion, explicit sexual acts between adult and minor. </blockquote> Pargos</h1> We had moved into this subdivision called Peacock Hills. It wasn’t terribly far from the house we had just been living in, and it was quite a bit nicer. Next door to us were the Carvers, Rob and Tiffany. Tiffany had a kid from a previous marriage, Kevin. She and Rob also had a child together. Kevin was just a year or so younger than I was. The other kid was little more than a toddler. Rob was rich. He owned a restaurant chain called Pargos. It was like an Applebee’s, but for Greek food. They did a fried ice cream thing if it was your birthday— and I got to go there once. Boompa had gotten back into trying to be a real estate agent, and had sold Rob the house in Peacock Hills. Tiffany was a former model. She was still really good looking—at least to a young tween. Blonde, tall, thin— and Mom said her boobs were fake. She smoked Virginia Slims constantly. Drank constantly. And she had a white BMW convertible. Kevin and I would hang out a lot. He had just about every video game and game system a kid could want. And he had his own TV in his room— bigger than the one we had in our living room. I remember countless hours and sleepovers playing Zelda on his NES. And ogling his mother. The dining room of our house had a window that looked into the kitchen of their house, and Tiffany would walk around naked at night. I stole the binoculars from Boompa’s closet and would watch her walking around the house naked. Whenever Rob was away on business, other guys would come over to their house. More than once I caught sight of them having sex with her in the kitchen. One night, I was having a sleepover at Kevin’s. Sometime during the night, I got up to pee and went down to the kitchen to grab a midnight snack. Tiffany was passed out on the couch in the living room— more than half-naked. I stared at her for several minutes, taking in the full sight. Things I had only seen in magazines. As I turned to go back to Kevin’s room, she shifted slightly, making a noise— and then asked me if I liked what I saw. I was startled. I thought she was deeply asleep. I simply nodded in the affirmative. I didn’t know how to respond. “Do you want a closer look?” she asked me. I took a step closer to her. “Closer,” she said. “Help me to my bedroom,” she added, stretching out her arm. I stepped closer and took her outstretched hand. Instead of pulling her up, she pulled me down. She pulled my face toward her breasts. Her nipples were so tall—nothing like I’d seen in any of the magazines. I started sucking on one of them, and she pushed my hand down between her legs. I wasn’t expecting the slickness I felt. I didn’t know what to expect. But it wasn’t that. She had a tight grip on my hand, using it to rub herself. She was moaning, her other hand keeping my head firmly in place on her breast. I was in an awkward and uncomfortable position, half on, half off the couch, lying on her. This continued for several minutes, and then she stopped. Pulled my head up by my hair. “Take your pants off and fuck me,” she said. I didn’t need to be told twice. I had barely entered her when I experienced my own orgasm. She laughed. “You’re just like my husband. He’s not a real man either.” I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed my underwear and retreated back to Kevin’s room. As I crawled into bed, he popped his head up from his own. “I watched you fuck my mom,” he said. His words lingered with me as I tried to get to sleep. That time I nearly committed treason part one 2026-03-02T00:00:00+00:00 That Time I Nearly Committed Treason, Part One</h1> Allegedly. Dear reader, this is one of those stories where I simply cannot give the full details. Some of the specifics: names and places; have been altered to protect both the guilty and the even more guilty. I called Derek</a> from my cell phone as I sped home in That Damn Car. “Pigeon hole,” I said when he answered. </blockquote> It was a code word. We’d created a whole set of contingency plans, each identified by a different phrase. Foreseeing disaster had always been a strength—this bitch thinks through, after all. I hung up immediately. The top was down. I pulled the SIM card from my phone and dropped it onto the hot car lighter, which had been warming. At the next stop sign, I tossed the phone under the wheel, backed over it, and ran it over again as I drove forward. In the rear view mirror, I confirmed: it was satisfactorily destroyed. Rewind 15 minutes earlier. I was sitting at my desk at work, deep in logs and BGP configs, optimizing utilization on one of our edge routers. My direct desk line rang. I assumed it was the AT&T engineer I’d been collaborating with. The joys of troubleshooting multi-homed connections to the internet as an engineer at a service provider meant being on the phone nearly all day at least once a week. I absolutely detested this part of the job, the being on the phone part, not the troubleshooting part. “This is Special Agent Steve (last name witheld) with the FBI,” said the voice. </blockquote> “I’m currently at your parents’ house serving a search warrant. We’d like you to come join us.” </blockquote> My first thought? This is a prank. I said as much. He told me to call the Greene County Sheriff’s Office if I wanted to verify. I did just that. The deputy confirmed: yes, the FBI was at my house. My stomach dropped out. Like being on a roller coaster when it goes into free-fall. I called my parents house land line. The same voice that had just identified themselves as FBI answered. I need you to understand the seriousness of this situation. You need to tell your manager you’ve had a family emergency and head home, or we’ll send someone to arrest you at work </blockquote> I called my boss and told him I had a family emergency. That roller coaster feeling was starting to feel like nausea. When I arrived, FBI agents were everywhere. At least a dozen, probably more. I had to park down near the edge of the property, there were several black SUVs in the driveway and yard, two local deputies cruisers, and a state trooper. They were carrying out anything that looked electronic. It looked like a scene from a movie. Except it wasn’t. This was happening, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Agents carrying boxes out of the house. Other agents with clipboards in hand, overseeing the process. I was met by Special Agent Steve, the one who had called me earlier, as I got to the top of the driveway. He was a full head shorter than me, stocky and broad with a chiseled and deeply scarred face. I noticed the Glock he carried on his right side, the blued finish of it deeply scratched from repeated use. I remember his right hand thumb, it was mashed-looking, flatted and darkened beneath the nail. This guy was the real-deal. My stomach churned as he extended his hand for a handshake. I was introduced to his partner, Special Agent Joe. He was a stark contrast to SA Steve, tall and lanky. Balding where SA Steve had a head of salt and pepper hair. He wore these gold rimmed glasses, not quite square but not quite circular, with deep green eyes. SA Steve wore no spectacles and had eyes like black flint. My head spun as he handed me a thick docket of papers. The search warrant there were executing, he explained to me. He flipped through several pages to show me signatures of the Judge who signed off on it. What exactly had they found? Which specific crime were they here for? Had I committed enough crimes to warrant that question? Yes. Of course yes. I knew I had, and my stomach was sinking faster than the titanic. The only question I had was which crimes were they looking into. They explained my rights. I wasn’t being arrested. Not yet. They had also sent agents to my apartment in Charlottesville. That was fine, I knew I kept nothing incriminating there. But my parents’ house? That place was a digital graveyard. Lost and abandoned projects, illicit cracking tools and tons of software I had helped to crack. Hard drives. Burned CDs. Archives of everything I had ever done. It was mostly encrypted. Mostly. That’s what I kept telling myself at least. I moved so fast from one project to the next that I knew the likelihood of having absolutely everything encrypted was… not good. The short list of my activities ran through my head as we walked into the house and into my mothers formal living room. Let’s see: I’d left a backdoor at NeXeT when I quit. Derek and I were selling customer identities, including credit card numbers, from their billing system.</li> We also used the cards to buy stuff online and subscribe to porn sites.</li> We even ran a porn site ourselves, recruiting local college girls and sharing profits.</li> I was selling drugs to other folks as well at the time.</li> </ul> As we sat down, SA Steve asked me several questions. Harmless questions, like how was I doing in this moment, and what did I have for breakfast this morning. I said nothing. Another agent entered the room, and SA Steve introduced him as their cyber crimes liaison. His name was Jeff. He wasn’t a special agent though, just agent. Agent Jeff then asked about NeXeT, the backdoor, and the warez server I had tied directly to the DS3. They had it. With my fingerprints. That’s how they got the warrant. Still, I said nothing. They asked about the hacking groups I belonged to. I said nothing. SA Steve then asked about my relationship with Derek. I said Nothing. My mom had called Uncle Gary, her sister’s husband. He was a colonel in Army JAG, and they lived in Roanoke, but had previously been living in Lynchburg when we visited them several years prior before moving to Virginia. He arrived around the same time Derek showed up. Derek gave me the signal that his place was safe. Our dead-drop shipping address? Now a pile of ash. Derek was initially questioned a bit upon arrival, but Gary shut all questioning down with just a few words. The feds stayed several more hours, tearing through the house, but otherwise done talking with me. The next day, I went to work like nothing had happened. Only a handful of people, like my colleague Scott, knew the truth about why I left. I had spoken with him about it before leaving, him being the only other person in the office we shared, and I was in a bit of shock from the phone call. What I wanted to know, the only burning question in my head since yesterday: what *did* the FBI actually know? </code></pre> </blockquote> So I made a mistake. A classic me mistake. I made it my mission to find out. Despite their sweep, I had backups of everything. War-dialing logs. Scripts. PGP archives. All of it. I kept them on tapes I stashed away in my work office. Wasting no time I took a computer home from work. And then I dug in, looking for any attack vector that I could exploit. I found a modem line connected to their Richmond field office. I got in. Very limited access, but it was the start I was hoping to turn into a way to do my own counter intelligence from. It was a huge mistake. Colossal mistake. And what did I find on that remote system? Not much. There was an out of date payroll system. No case files. No intel on me. Just some employee pay records that stopped with a date about three years prior. But I figured maybe I could use that information to impersonate an agent. There were, after all, names and addresses and employee IDs in the data I gained access to. If I could use the data to get access to another system, then maybe I could jump from there to systems that held information about investigations. I didn’t get the chance. They summoned me to the Richmond FBI office on a Thursday. Gary came too. We met in the parking lot before heading into the office. Gary made it clear I was not to talk unless he told me to. They laid it all out. They had circumstantial evidence of the credit fraud. They had circumstantial evidence of the software piracy. They had a former coworker and once friend of mine on record talking about how I had collaborated with him to reverse into our customer’s systems. I stayed quiet at Gary’s request the entire time. My best poker face on display, I tried to not even flinch. I think I pictured myself as the hero of some unwritten hacker movie at this point, trying to not be terrified at the threat from law enforcement. Then… Then they brought up the most recent piece of evidence. The phone and access logs from the accounting system I managed to worm my way into. They had everything I touched from the breach. One agent said something to the effect: “We got nothing from the original seizure. The encryption’s too good. But now? You breached a federal system. That’s treason.” </blockquote> Gary said he couldn’t do much. They asked: Who ran the hacking groups?</li> Who else knew I had breached their systems?</li> </ul> “Just answer honestly,” Gary said. </blockquote> “Give us names,” they offered. “We’ll cut you a deal. All we want is the person in charge.” </blockquote> Thing was, I was the one in charge. I was the founder of the so called hacking ring they were investigating. They didn’t know that. Or didn’t seem to. I suspect if they had, we would have been having a much different conversation. At least I had that going for me. It was several seconds before I spoke. “I don’t know anything,” I finally said. </blockquote> “There’s a guy. He’s in Iowa. Or maybe Oklahoma. Some bumfuck place. I’ve got his IRC handle.” </blockquote> “How do you know he’s in Iowa?” </blockquote> Gary nodded. Go ahead. “We’ve talked on the phone.” </blockquote> It was a lie. “He’s the brother of the guy in charge. His handle is Warlock.” </blockquote> Their eyes lit up. They asked more questions. I deflected as best I could, and lied my ass off where I couldn’t. Eventually, we started talking about a deal. They called what they were going to offer me a “Pre-Trial Redirection”. I would document everything I knew about this “Warlock” person, in exchange for effectively being not indicted on any criminal charges. A month later, I met with them again. Gary had brokered it: I would give them the credentials to decrypt my PGP key.</li> I’d give them contact info for Warlock.</li> In return, my case would be deferred to pre-trial redirection.</li> I could join the military in lieu of prosecution.</li> </ul> It was a solid deal. No requirement for arrest or indictment of anyone else. I gave them everything they needed to contact Warlock. To the person I put them in contact with: I’m truly sorry. Because that person? They had nothing to do with the piracy group. Just a gamer friend I’d talk to online. But he made for a great scapegoat at the time. To be continued… Special K 2026-01-29T00:00:00+00:00 Special K</h1> Dirk and I met just before I was working for NeXeT. He was friends with Joel’s, who I’d briefly overlapped with in high school. Joel worked the overnight shift doing tech support and was going to community college. That’s where he met Dirk. The three of us would hang out. I had just turned 17 or 18, and Dirk was about four or five years older. He had an amazing weed connection. Dirk was working as a CAD drafter for a company called Sperry Litton Marine, which did ship design for the Navy. We’d hang out for hours getting stoned and watching movies or just listening to music. Dirk had freedom. He set his own schedule. He didn’t worry about things. I was envious. More than that, when I was around him, I felt that same kind of freedom. Dirk and I used to snort ketamine. He got it from a friend who was a vet. We’d bake out the moisture in my shitty apartment oven. This was before I had any furniture. I just had a TV, video games, and a mattress on the floor. I did have this blacklight strobe light. And since my apartment had only one small window, it was easy to make it pitch black. We’d do a line of K and toss a neon kush ball around in the darkness with the blacklight strobe going. It was magical and trippy, and when we added on other drugs it was even more so. Dirk later introduced me to his dealer friend. I can’t recall his name anymore, so I’ll just call him Skeet. Skeet was a cool dude. I just wish he and his girlfriend Gabby didn’t smoke like chimneys. They’d come hang out and we’d get blitzed. Skeet had everything—mushrooms, LSD, heroin, coke—you name it. Weed was the bread and butter of his business, though. And I was going through about two ounces a week. Skeet cut me a good deal. I’d buy two pounds at a time, then sell half to Chris and his wife for the same price as the whole two pounds. Chris knew the markup I was putting on it. He didn’t care. It was still cheaper than what he was paying before. He’d always ask me— “When are you gonna introduce me to your hookup?” </blockquote> “And cut off my free weed supply?” I’d chide back. </blockquote> Randomly Banned User of the Day 2026-01-29T00:00:00+00:00 Randomly Banned User of the Day</h1> This is, perhaps, the origin of my infatuation with breaking things professionally. I was working at NeXeT running tech support while studying, building, and tinkering constantly. The graveyard shift was my playground. Quiet. Undisturbed. The few calls we did get were usually dumb. “I broke the cup holder in my PC,” one caller said. (It was the CD-ROM tray.) </blockquote> That job taught me how to be cordial to people—while loathing them completely. And in that hatred for the stupid customers… I found inspiration. Joel was working opposite me that night. “What if I made a tool that kicked people off,” I said. “Just to fuck with them.” </blockquote> He laughed. “Like ban them from the internet?” </blockquote> “Exactly!” </blockquote> “I’ll call it… No Internet For You!” (Said in a bad Seinfeld-Soup-Nazi accent.) </blockquote> “Nah,” Joel said. “Not catchy. Plus, you’ll get in trouble.” </blockquote> Hmm. I shelved the idea. A month or two later, I was on a different rotation, training a new hire Jake. A couple friends of mine were heading west for a summer road trip. I wanted to go. No gas money. I explained this to Jake. He was a few years older than me and chuckled: “Just get fired. You’ll get unemployment. It’s like a paid vacation.” </blockquote> Cool. Get fired. What could I do? Oh, right. No Internet For You. I explained the idea again. We both agreed—yeah, that’d probably get me fired. So I built it. I wrote a Perl script to manipulate RADIUS, the authentication system for dial-up modems. Then I hooked it into our ColdFusion-based website. Glued on a code generator to auto-generate the changes. Perfect. I called it: Randomly Banned User of the Day. I even had it update Remedy, our tech support ticket system, with instructions for whoever answered the call. “Huh. That was… unexpected.” </blockquote> I fielded the first call myself when I launched it. “Sorry, John Smith. You’ve been randomly selected to not receive service today. There’s an internet shortage, and not enough to go around. So you’re out.” </blockquote> Click. He called back. Another support rep got him. While they were reading the Remedy script aloud, another John Smith called in. Wait, what? I told my coworker to put the phone on hold. I also had a John Smith on the line. Different voice. Different caller ID. A third call hit the switchboard. Another John Smith. What? News reached Edgar and Sharon pretty quick, they ran the company. Edgar called me into his office. He turned his monitor toward me. On the company website, wrapped in a <blink></code> tag: Today’s Randomly Banned User of the Day is… John Smith! Fuck John Smith. No internet for you! </blockquote> “You did this?” Edgar asked. Voice flat. </blockquote> Yeah. “Why?” </blockquote> Honestly? “Yeah. Honestly.” </blockquote> I told him the truth. “I wanted to get fired so I could get unemployment and go on a road trip with my friends.” </blockquote> He chuckled. “You don’t get unemployment for being fired.” </blockquote> “Oh. That’s not what—” </blockquote> “Not important,” he cut me off. “If you want time off, just ask.” </blockquote> “We can’t put this on the website, you know that, right?” </blockquote> I nodded. “Good. Make it internal. I want to find out how many of our customers are sharing passwords. You’re in charge of it now. Find out how much money we’re losing.” </blockquote> I nodded again. “So… about the time off?” </blockquote> “Talk to Sharon. And your new title. This is a good find. You’re getting a promotion.” </blockquote> I didn’t get to go on the road trip. But I did get a $15K raise and a promotion to Lead Engineer. Fuck yeah. </blockquote> At Least I could get picked up at the gay bar 2026-01-29T00:00:00+00:00 At Least I Could Get Picked Up at the Gay Bar</h1> Before I was 21, there were a few bars I’d go drinking at in Charlottesville: Buddhist Biker Bar, Miller’s, and Eastern Standard. Of the three, Eastern Standard was both the nicest and had a local reputation as being “the gay bar.” Derek</a> had worked the kitchen there and knew several of the staff. Because of that, I never got carded, and my tab was usually way less than what I’d actually drunk. Whenever I sat at the bar, I’d inevitably get hit on. Sometimes I’d say no thanks. Other times I’d let the person buy me drinks and chat all night. If Derek was with me, I’d politely decline and say I wasn’t gay. It felt weird to go home with another guy when Derek was around. If he wasn’t? Honey, I was the gayest. If someone asked if I’d go home with them, sometimes I’d say sure. Other times, I’d say, the bathroom is closer. But I drew the line at kissing. I never had any desire to make out with another guy. Most didn’t care. Some would get pissy and call me weird. There was this really cute bartender there—Mixy. She had that punk rock look: orange and black hair, nose and brow piercings, a bunch of tattoos. One night, after I told a guy I didn’t kiss men, he pointed to her and asked: “Would you make out with her?” </blockquote> “Sure,” I said. “She’s fucking adorable.” </blockquote> He called me a liar. Said I was straight and just experimenting. I laughed. “You’re just butt-hurt because I don’t want to suck your lips.” </blockquote> Mixy overheard us. She came over: “Is he causing you trouble?” (Said in mock concern.) </blockquote> “He’s just pissed I don’t kiss dudes.” </blockquote> She laughed. “Neither do I.” </blockquote> “It’s ‘cause they’re not cute, right?” I said. “If guys were cuter, sure, I’d kiss one—or a dozen.” </blockquote> The guy was red in the face now. Mixy leaned in close and whispered: “Wanna really piss him off?” </blockquote> Before I could respond, she planted one on me. We locked in a short, messy, deliberate make-out session. The guy lost it. “You just said you don’t kiss dudes either— and now you’re making out with this chubby fucking kid?” </blockquote> She looked him straight in the eye: “Get the fuck out. And never come back.” </blockquote> He stormed off. I’ll never forget what Mixy said to me after: “I never lie. You’re way too fucking cute to be a dude.” </blockquote> That was about ten hits of acid 2026-01-29T00:00:00+00:00 That Was About Ten Hits of Acid</h1> It was my first acid trip. I was at a party being thrown by one of my college friends, Aree. Skeet brought some LSD, among other delightful drugs. This wasn’t cut onto tabs. Nope. There was a mutual friend who was chemistry major at UVA, and she hooked him up with pharmaceutical-grade, pure uncut LSD. Later I even got to help her make a batch and learn the process. We used an eyedropper to place it on sugar cubes. Except… I missed the part where it was supposed to be one drop per cube. I pulled somewhere between 1 and 2 milliliters into the dropper— And squeezed it all onto my sugar cube. Down it went. Dissolving on my tongue. Gabby caught it, but she wasn’t fast enough to stop me. She looked at me and said: “That was about ten hits. Buckle up, baby. You’re going for a ride.” </blockquote> She was right. It lasted a few blurry days. I had no idea what was real and what wasn’t. I could see music. Sounds became colors. Colors became shapes. Shapes had tastes. It was absolutely fantastic. I remember absolutely losing myself to the music around me. I remember feeling like I could just move and flow and exist, there was no pain only color and sound. I don’t quite know when the drugs finally wore off, or honestly if the every did sometimes, I just remember after about a week the days started to feel heavier. Thankfully that feeling didn’t last too long, and soon I was pretty much taking 5-7 hits of acid every weekend. Living Under My Desk 2026-01-26T00:00:00+00:00 Living Under My Desk</h1> The bubble burst. That’s what everyone was saying. I had been working as a network engineer for a company called Value America. They were paying me, a 17-year-old who had been kicked out of college and didn’t even have a high school diploma yet, $250,000 per year. The owner, a guy named Craig, apparently followed John Mellencamp’s advice and took the money and ran. That job lasted maybe eight months. I had stock options that, at one point, were worth $22 million on paper. There was no vestment period, the company just issued all new employees a tonne of equity. The dot-com bubble was amazing and completely unsustainable. I used an option liquidity broker at the height of their value to borrow a few million against. I didn’t see any downside. After all, this was just the start and there was no sight in end for the tech boom to slow down. Then it all came crashing down. At Value America, we had a slogan: We’re Number One. Turns out, that was true. We kicked off the bubble burst. I went from about to close on a multi-million-dollar house to homeless overnight. I called up Shane and asked if he needed a network engineer. “I just sold the ISP,” he said. “To a guy named Edgar. I’ll make a call though.” </blockquote> A few days later, Chris called me up. Chris was the effective CTO of the company, not that it was big enough to have that as an official title. Chris told they needed someone who knew what the fuck they were doing to get the tech support department running, and asked if I was up for the job. Of course I was. We agreed on the details, and I went from making $250K to $25K. Ouch. I was a night owl, so I primarily took late evenings. Not quite third shift, but close. I hired a few folks I knew, and several I didn’t, but they seemed good and were friends of friends. Ash was one of them, and for a while Ash and I were pretty close. As part of the sale, Edgar renamed the company from FirstNet to NeXeT. I always wondered if he was trying to make us sound like Jobs’ new company at the time, NeXT. There was Joel, who I’d gone to school with. He worked graveyard shift with me. We’d tinker with the gear in the server room. I remember the Ericsson Tigress routers. Ericsson sold them to us for a song, probably fallout from the industry collapse that was starting to ripple through. We had at least two dozen of the three slot routers, a handful of the seven slot routers, and about 4 of the eleven slot routers. The office was downtown Charlottesville, just off the Downtown Mall right around the corner from Miller’s Bar. We would hang out at Millers when not working, as it was one of the places that would never card me and it was fun to watch Dave Matthews Band play pretty regularly. We had the entire first floor of the building, but it was otherwise residential. We retrofitted half the space to be a cold server room. I was one of three engineers with a permanent desk. It was a huge plywood built-in, wedged between two structural columns and backed against the new server room we’d just built. I stapled up some fabric over the under desk opening and brought in a sleeping bag. No one questioned me, and I didn’t tell anyone I was homeless. Everyone just thought I worked a lot since I was always there. I hid a small suitcase under the desk. The rest of my crap was in the trunk of the Sebring. Thankfully the bathroom had a shower, which made staying hygienic at least possible. There was another Chris, Chris W, on the network team. And Sergio, who came over from Value America with me when we got laid off. I snagged one of the 3-slot Tigress routers and started experimenting. I was trying to retrofit new DSP designs I was working on. 56.6k modems were the latest and greatest at the time. I had been playing with implementing a faster Fourier Transform in hardware on the Tigress, and writing a dialup front end app that would In the lab, I was getting speeds around 256k with unmodified client modems. Eventually, Noah, Chris W., Sergio, and I all went in on renting a house together. Those were amazing times. While they lasted. Which wasn’t for long. The good times never last long enough. Backroads and BMWs 2026-01-26T00:00:00+00:00 Backroads and BMWs</h1> The Chris’s, myself, Noah, and a few others from NeXeT signed up for a high-speed evasive and combat driving course as a team-building exercise. It ran every weekend for a few months. Chris had just bought himself a brand new BMW M5 and loved to drive it fast. He was constantly bragging about how fast he could drive it at night, and how many cops he outran. He was a weird guy. Chain-smoked constantly, but anytime we hung out at his house for video game night, we were under strict orders not to tell his wife. “She doesn’t know,” he’d say. “She hates smokers.” </blockquote> She knew. There’s no covering that smell up. I’d been around enough smokers to know. Pot, though? That was just fine. Hell, she’d take huge bong rips and could smoke out the best of us. But that driving class? That was something else. The final weekend was a simulated live-fire event. Instructors used rubber bullets and would shoot at us while we were driving. We used beat-up Ford hatchbacks to maneuver through obstacle courses and barricades. “Ass of the car first,” they taught us. “Unless it’s a Porsche—then it’s all ass anyway.” </blockquote> It was chaotic. It was fun. It was incredibly dangerous. We had to sign so many waivers. Not just at the beginning of the course, but every single day. There were crashes and injuries, but thankfully there were no fatalities during our course work. Of course, now emboldened with my newly acquired tactical driving skills, I started driving more recklessly than ever. There was this one stretch of mountain road we’d use. Twisty, rural, no driveways, no cross streets. Perfect. We’d block it off: one truck at the top, one at the bottom. Then we’d take turns driving Chris’s M5 in two-person teams. One to call out the turns, and one to actually make them. We’d race up the hill, swap seats, and race back down. I’d whip that car around 20 mph bends doing 140. Back end sliding, nose of the car grazing the inside line, downshift, snap correction, a moment of handbrake just in time for the next turn. No going off cliffs this time. Just adrenaline flowing speeds at the edge of what physics allowed. We ran the uphill in just under 6 minutes. The downhill in just under 5. One night, not even on our backwoods circuit, just driving fast on a main road with Chris. We saw the blue lights of a state trooper flip on as we blew past him. “Fuck,” I said to Chris, who was driving. </blockquote> He just laughed. He had someone install a rotating license plate, among other goodies. He pushed a hidden wooden panel in the console, revealing four buttons: Go. Flip. Smoke. Ouch. “I’ve been waiting to try this out,” he said, grinning like a maniac. </blockquote> Chris slowed a bit, letting the trooper close the distance. “Smoke,” he said. </blockquote> “No thanks,” I replied. “You know I don’t do that.” </blockquote> We both chuckled as I hit the button. Almost immediately, thick white smoke started billowing from the exhaust. “Pumps mineral oil into the catalytic converter,” he explained. </blockquote> Then I hit Flip The audible Clunk as the license plate rotated was barely noticeable over the roar of the engine. I glanced at the Ouch button. Bright red. “You’ll like that one,” Chris said. </blockquote> I pressed it. There was a metallic clatter behind us. “Caltrops,” he said. </blockquote> “Fuck me. You really built a James Bond car,” I told him. </blockquote> Chris hit Go, and I got slammed back into the seat. “Nitrous, baby!” he howled, laughing like a madman. </blockquote> The trooper hit the spikes and veered off the road. We passed 150 mph again, smoke billowing out from behind the car filling the black night around us. I miss the bravado of driving that fast, and as I look back I’m amazed that none of us crashed that BMW or somehow got ourselves arrested or worse for the way we drove. Anthony and Erin 2026-01-25T00:00:00+00:00 Anthony & Erin</h1> Anthony was a very close school friend. Along with Mark, the three of us were almost inseparable. He was one of the fencing crew members. He and I experimented together when I was living near the apple orchard—so, 13 or 14? He would follow me home on the bus, and we’d sneak off somewhere quiet. I always went to his birthday parties, even after I’d left high school and was attending college. That kid was super into wrestling. I once let him put me in a sleeper hold—because he asked nicely. I described what passing out felt like to him. I told him it was like when your hand falls asleep—pins and needles—but in your head. Sometime shortly after he graduated high school, he got married to Erin. She was another kid we hung out with. She lived in the trailer park near Anthony’s mom’s house. I think he got her pregnant. That’s why they got married. That’s how most people in that area ended up married. I remember I was sitting in my apartment playing guitar one night when Mark called. “Anthony’s dead.” </blockquote> I could hear him holding back the tears. The pain. Mark, Anthony, and I were all close. An inseparable trio of troublemakers, we had once been called. As close as we all were, Mark and Anthony were even closer. Beyond best friends. Given more time, I think they would’ve realized they were probably in love with each other. Then again, I think everyone is gay. Erin was driving. It was a rainy night. They had their newborn in the little beater car. I don’t think any of us will ever truly know what happened. Erin had always been a good driver, as far as I knew. The police said it looked like someone sideswiped them, and they went off the road into a ravine. There were no survivors. The funeral service was nice. They were all buried together at the church Erin’s mom went to. Anthony is still missed. That Damn Car 2026-01-25T00:00:00+00:00 That Damn Car</h1> I had recently started a new job as a network engineer for a startup. They were paying handsomely for talent, which I had in abundance. Now that I was making “good” money, Boompa suggested I should get a better car. The $300–$500 fixer-uppers I kept going through had a habit of leaving me stranded on the side of the road at some pretty inopportune times. He wasn’t wrong. But I don’t think he was exactly right either. He drove me up to the Chrysler dealership in Culpeper. He’d just bought himself a new car from them—a silver Dodge Intrepid. We got up to the dealership and started looking around the lot. “You should have something fun and sporty,” Boompa said. </blockquote> Okay. He picked out a red convertible for me, a Chrysler Sebring JXI. It had a six-disc CD changer, a tan cloth top, and looked amazing with the top off. Looking back on it, he picked that car for himself. That was the car he wanted, not the one I would’ve picked. Still… it was a cool car. He did all the talking with the dealership. I don’t think he did a great job, but I didn’t know any better at the time. I just signed the paperwork where they pointed and drove it home. I was now the proud owner of a loan from Second Bank and Trust. That was the local community credit union we banked with at the time. I drove it back to Granny and Boompa’s place—since that’s where I was living at the time. It was home enough and a good stop gap that wasn’t around my parents. It was shortly before I got my own apartment in Charlottesville. The car drove like a sports boat. It would go real fast in a straight line, but it couldn’t corner worth shit. I drove it over to my girlfriend Eliza’s place. She had a summer job at Kings Dominion, an amusement park just outside Richmond which was about an hour away. Not only did she hook Dirk and me up with season tickets that summer, she got us VIP line-skip passes, too. We must’ve ridden The Anaconda a thousand times that summer. I had such a love for roller coasters back then. Still do, honestly. That car ended up financially breaking me. It wasn’t the car payment itself—though that was high. $432.33 every month. I had a payment booklet. I had to tear out a slip, include a check in the envelope, and get it postmarked by the 3rd of each month. I could afford the payment. Barely. It was tough. It was like buying a beater car every month. The real thing that broke me wasn’t the car payment, it was how often that car broke. Or I should say, how often I broke that car. More than any of the beater cars I drove. Every time I hit a pothole, I needed a new wheel. It had ultra-low-profile Dunlop tires and 18” cast aluminum rims. They cracked every fucking time. The shredded the tire, every fucking time. $1,000 per wheel. $400 for a new tire. Every. Fucking. Time. And that was just the car and maintenance. There were other costs too, so many other costs. I would drive that thing scary fast on the highway, routinely going 140+ mph on Route 64. That highway had a 65 mph speed limit most of the way, 75 in certain stretches. I racked up several reckless driving tickets. Each one cost about $1,000. Let’s talk about insurance. When they code you as a young male under 25, it’s expensive no matter the car. Because of the loan, I had to carry full comprehensive coverage—that doubled the price. I already had a few speeding tickets—double again. Each reckless driving ticket? Yep. Each one doubled the price again and again. I was paying $2,500 a month in insurance. Thankfully, gas was cheap back then. That fucking car. I loved it. I hated it. But I loved it. Tubing Down the James with Jim 2026-01-21T00:00:00+00:00 Tubing Down the James with Jim</h1> Jim owned the small computer store in town. He was the only computer repair shop in the county, though business wasn’t great. I worked there after school and on weekends. Jim taught me how to solder. How to fix circuits and low-level electronics. He taught me how to make things work with what you had on hand. I ended up betraying Jim pretty badly in the end. This isn’t that story though, that comes later… This was maybe one of the happiest memories of this era of my life. Possibly the only happy memory. Jim had two children: Dale, who was just a year older than I was, and Kevin, who was in his early 20s at the time. Dale and I were in Japanese class together. Like me, he was also bored with high school and enrolled in an early college program. There was some drama with Kevin—he was dating a girl named Leslie, who was about the same age I was. Apparently, he was also dating her mother. Country shit. Sometime after this particular day—and not all that long after—Kevin committed suicide in the trailer Leslie and her mom lived in. It was with a shotgun to the head. But on this day, Jim, Dale, Kevin, myself, and a couple other friends went tubing down the James River. We packed lunch and beers into coolers and headed to Scottsville, where the tubing outfit was. It was such a nice, sunny day. I was self-conscious about my body, so whenever I went swimming I kept a T-shirt on. We’d dive in and out of the inner tubes, into the water of the lazy-moving river. Fish would brush against our legs—it felt funny, but nice. We came up to a shallow section of the river and beached our tubes to stop for lunch. Jim had packed sandwiches for all of us. Dale and I had been sneaking beers into our koozies the entire day. I don’t think Jim cared much. We weren’t being obnoxious about it. After lunch, we got back on our tubes and spent another hour or so floating to the pickup spot—another shallow bend in the river with a muddy beach landing. It was one of the happiest days of my life at that point. I owe a lot to Jim—for his tutoring, his patience, and the good moments he helped cultivate for me. What Drives Up Must Spin Around 2026-01-21T00:00:00+00:00 What Drives Up Must Spin Around</h1> It was one of the shittier $300 cars I had. A Plymouth minivan, shit brown and smelled like old, worn-out car. I bought it off David, who ran the junkyard. It never worked right, and no matter how much wrenching I - or anyone else - did to this piece of shit, it was destined to break down on a weekly basis. But here we were. This was the piece of shit I had to drive, to get me back and forth to college every day, and to work on the other days. And it was winter. Toward the end of the day. I had just picked Dad up from the bus stop. He wasn’t currently allowed to drive. I’d also picked up my sister and one of my brothers. This was the price I had to pay. I was the family chauffeur. It had been snowing all day. Coming down off and on—sleet and snow. The little back road we lived on never got plowed. Never. And we were basically the last house on the street. I was cautious—and uncomfortable. I didn’t like driving with all of them. NJ would complain the entire time, and Fletcher would egg her on. It didn’t help that Dad was always drunk by the time I picked him up. He would berate me for driving like a pussy. “Give it some gas, it’s just fucking snow.” </blockquote> His tone was harsh and slurred. The car was already sliding around everywhere. I didn’t want another accident on my record—insurance was already a beast. So when we finally turned onto the little backwoods road, I really wasn’t in the best frame of mind. I just wanted to be home and in front of my computer. This road, on good days, was a mix of gravel and dirt. On rainy days, it was muddy. And on snowy days—it was treacherous. Today was an icy day. It was lethal. There was an initial dip in the road as you turned off 810. The house on the corner sat lower than the road to the right. Uphill and woods to the left. The road climbed a bit after that, and then got even steeper as it bent around to the left. A steep drop to the right led to other folks’ homes. After that bend was Fillipè’s house. He worked at Nimbus running their technology, and had given me my first Zip drive and some other spare computer parts. After Fillipè’s house was ours—on the Y to the right. Another house sat to the left of us. On this day, as that shit-brown Plymouth climbed up the sweeping curve, I didn’t have enough speed. The wheels suddenly started spinning—freely—against the ice-covered road. The kids in the back screamed. Dear old Dad started throwing insults my way. Obviously, this was all helping the situation. I didn’t know what to do. My foot had doubled down on the accelerator as we started sliding backward. Like a heavy plane out of fuel, we could no longer fight gravity. I reached for the emergency brake—the ratcheting pedal at the far left edge of the footwell. “Don’t you fucking dare do that!” Dad yelled at me. </blockquote> I’d seen the way his driving worked out in the past, so fuck it. Doing the opposite of what he said couldn’t honestly be that bad. I pressed it in—all the way—past the ratchet point where it would release when I let up. And I did. Quickly. That minivan spun around so fast, it was like a bullet from a gun. The force threw my foot off the e-brake, and my other foot had never left the accelerator. It was a perfect 180. We careened out of the little dirt road back onto 810. I pulled the wheel hard left so we wouldn’t go over and off the other side of the road. The van lifted onto two wheels before settling into its new direction and coming to a stop. Thankfully, there wasn’t anyone else on the road. I just sat there for a minute. The kids were quiet in the back—suddenly aware of their own mortality. “You fuckin’ moron,” my dad slurred. “I told you—you weren’t going fast enough.” </blockquote> “Ok,” was all I said. </blockquote> I backed the car up and pulled into the dirt road again. “Hey Jean, how about you and Sterling get out. You can walk it. It’s not too far.” </blockquote> They got out. Ok, asshole, I thought to myself—and hit the gas. </blockquote> We slid up that hill. The back end of the van went over the side a bit. No matter. I plowed it sideways—sliding into the tree where our driveway Y’d off. Enough to dent the passenger side pretty good—and block Dad’s door. I got out and walked up our driveway. Time for another $300 car. Fuck You Dad 2026-01-21T00:00:00+00:00 Fuck You, Dad</h1> It was around Christmas time, mid-December. The college semester was finished, and I was on Christmas break. Dad came home. He’d already had a few. He used to say at times like this that he was in “No Mood.” He’d usually follow that up with a curt, “Unless you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” to finish out whatever it was one of us kids was about to say. Usually, it was directed at me. </blockquote> This day, though, was an odd one. My sister and I had been bickering all afternoon. I needed the phone line so I could be on the BBS, talking with my friends. She wanted the phone line so she could call one of hers. I was talking to more friends—so clearly, I won. When Dad came home, she told him I wouldn’t let her use the phone line at all. She said every time she picked it up, I would come and yank it away from her and hang it up, telling her not to do that again because it disrupted the modem and I’d have to redial. Mom and Dad were already upset with me about the phone bill. I kept calling long-distance BBSes. I didn’t care—that’s where my friends were. He stomped down the stairs into the little office room I had carved out for myself in that house. Most of the basement was mine at this point. He started yelling at me about it. I don’t remember the words—he was very, very drunk. I could smell it on him. Suddenly, he grabbed the phone that was connected to my modem. It was one of those old yellow ones with push buttons and a steel frame. “You wanna hit little girls?” he said to me. “I’ll hit you like a little girl, then.” </blockquote> The phone base smashed across my face and temple. It hurt. That might be the understatement of my life. Something in me changed in that moment. I was just about Dad’s height at the time, and as Mom liked to point out, I was “husky.” I don’t remember much of what happened next. I completely dissociated. I remember the aftermath. I remember Mom being upset at me—that I gave Dad a black eye before Christmas photos. I didn’t fucking care about our Christmas photos. That’s all she cared about—how we, as a family, looked compared to other families at church. I charged forward at him with all of my body weight. It caught him by surprise, I think. I had never fought back before. We went from inside the little office nook into the bathroom across the hall. The doors of the two rooms weren’t aligned. We didn’t go through the bathroom door. I drove him through the wall. He was still holding onto the phone. The cord snapped somewhere along the way. In his drunken state, with me on top of him, I picked up that phone and smashed it into his face. I kept smashing it into his face. And punching with the other hand. I changed in that moment. I was no longer the nerdy kid my dad could fuck with. I left the house that day, blood still running down my face, and drove to a friend’s house. I wouldn’t return until my 20th birthday. Fuck you, Dad. Thanks for the Tequila 2026-01-21T00:00:00+00:00 Thanks for the Tequila</h1> I was working at the Re:play games store during summer break. The owner was a real religious zealot, and the only reason I got the job was that he knew Fred from our church who vouched for me. I had one other coworker. He was this redheaded, barrel-chested lumberjack of a man, with a large carrot-colored beard. I wish I could remember his name. Thankfully, the owner would leave us alone most of the days we worked. We’d open some of the games, make copies, then re-shrinkwrap them. I amassed quite the collection of games I wouldn’t have been able to afford otherwise. When the store was quiet, we’d chill in the back room, playing video games together and shooting the shit. He shared with me that he was gay and lived with a partner. I was sworn to secrecy—he was pretty sure the store owner would fire him if he found out. I told him I had no idea what I was, but it sure as shit wasn’t straight. That made him chuckle. Our secrets were safe with each other. Occasionally we’d get someone bringing in a console system for trade. On one such day, he took in a console—an Xbox, I think—without hooking it up to test first. He set it on the workbench in the back. It didn’t turn on. The boss had a policy: If we gave credit for a game or console or anything and it turned out to be damaged, that credit came out of our paychecks. There goes paying rent this month. </blockquote> I shooed him out of the way and cracked the Xbox open. I gave the board the sniff test. Sure enough, there was a burnt component somewhere—I could smell it. I put in extra hours that day, tracing each logic pin until I found and replaced all the misbehaving components. The next day, I finished getting the console logged into the system, priced, and up on the shelf. That beautiful redhead came over and gave me a great big hug, thanking me profusely for saving his bacon. “Seriously, let me know anything you’d like. I mean within reason,” he told me. </blockquote> “You know,” I said, “I’d really love a small bottle of José Gold. That’s my favorite tequila.” </blockquote> It was also the only tequila I’d had up to that point. The following weekend, when we were both back at work, he handed me a gift-wrapped box. “Open your birthday gift at home,” he told me. </blockquote> The boss was at the shop that day and looked over. “I didn’t know it’s your birthday.” </blockquote> It wasn’t. But he didn’t know that. I just smiled, said thanks, and kept my mouth shut. It was a really thoughtful not-birthday gift. We Were Only Playing Half Life 2026-01-21T00:00:00+00:00 We Were Only Playing Half-Life</h1> I was working part-time at this computer repair shop in a strip mall. The Brittle brothers ran it, Shane and Joel. This place was drastically different from the shop I’d worked in under Jim. It was clean, and didn’t reek of stale cigarettes. We’d build custom high-end gaming systems. We’d get these shitty Acer cases and I’d modify them. I convinced the brothers to buy me tools to cut side panels, and I’d lay in plexiglass with a rubber gasket to seal it. I taught some of the other kids how to do case mods and computer repair too. The video game Half-Life had just come out. And I think the 3DFX Voodoo2 video cards had just dropped—with amazing support for Glide. There was Ash, Noah, Joe Boo, and a few others who worked with me. We had the back area set up for LAN parties after hours. Joel or Shane would often drop by with pizza and beer for the crew. One night while playing, we were testing out some new speaker systems. Shane was thinking of adding high-end audio to the store offerings. Turtle Beach was just emerging with a new 3D audio card that slotted into the ISA slot and could cable directly to the Voodoo card in the VESA slot next to it. It supported Dolby 4.1—which was pretty new at the time. There were seven or eight of us, and our speakers were cranked. We loved this one deathmatch map—it was set in an industrial foundry or something. It had amazing spots you could gauss jump into. We’d cheer above the speakers as we racked up kill shots. Our virtual MP5s rattled. The boom of combat shotguns echoed through the back room. It was one of the first games with such immersive, realistic audio. The back door of the shop was open. It was hot in there—a sticky night in mid-July. Then— Police in body armor, armed with assault rifles, stormed into the shop through the open door. We all froze. “What the fuck?!” I blurted out. </blockquote> The cops looked thoroughly confused. “Are any of you being held hostage?” </blockquote> Despite being one of the youngest there, I was the senior staff member. I stood up slowly—not being stupid. I didn’t want to get shot. “The fuck kind of question is that? You’re trespassing on private property. Got a warrant?” </blockquote> “We’ve got probable cause,” the lead cop said. </blockquote> The others started turning down speakers so we could all hear. He continued— “Did you all break in?” </blockquote> “No. This is our shop. We all work here. And if you don’t stop pointing those guns at us, the owners will have you removed from the police force.” </blockquote> Shane was always going on about how he was connected to the mayor and yada yada. So I dropped his name. I suppose maybe he really was, because those cops quickly lowered their guns. One of the other kids let out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God—I think I shit myself.” </blockquote> I called Shane, and he came down to the store. I was standing outside with the cops when he arrived. There were a couple cop cars and a SWAT truck. Shane gave them a verbal debasing unlike anything I’d ever heard. Soon after, the local police commissioner came out and gave each kid a formal apology. Shane looked at him, then at me, then back at the police chief. “Not good enough,” he said. “These kids deserve better. I think you just bought every single one of them the latest and greatest hardware.” </blockquote> After the cops left, and the commissioner settled up for a $25K bill of sale for the computers, we had a good laugh. “I guess those speakers are truly amazing,” Shane said. </blockquote> I kept that set of speakers for nearly 20 years. Because they were pretty fucking amazing. Getting Drunk for the First Time 2026-01-19T00:00:00+00:00 Getting Drunk for the first time</h1> It was sometime in high school. I was a member of the FBLA: Future Business Leaders of America. It was an academic club, centered around test-taking, debate, and other scholastic competitions. We would compete with other local schools in the area, a measure of the best and brightest kids in the school. I, along with a dozen or so other students, boarded the bus early one Saturday morning to head to JMU. The regional finals were being held there. I was competing in computer science and mathematics. Naturally, I went to the back of the bus to hang out with a couple of my friends Terry, Anthony, and a few others. Terry had brought a gallon jug of vodka and some orange juice. We mixed screwdrivers the entire ride over, which took about 90 minutes. I had drunk before. I’d stolen beers. Dad always had open bottles of scotch laying around. Anytime I stopped by the orchard to see my friends, I left with amazing moonshine. But I had never been drunk before. I’d never consumed enough to know where drunk was for me. Drinking on the way over felt good. The main thing I noticed was fear—it disappeared. I could talk to people easier. My friends. Strangers. It felt good. By the time we got to JMU, our little group had finished that entire bottle of vodka. I was functional. I don’t know how, but no one caught on that I was completely inebriated. I made it to the first test, sat down, and answered all the questions—in record time. I was the first one done and had about an hour to kill before the next test. I left the exam room and was told to explore the campus. Eventually, I met back up with the crew. Terry had an older sister attending JMU, and she hooked us up with more vodka. The drinking continued. I barely made it back in time for the second exam—and again, I was the first one finished. After that, we returned to Terry’s sister’s dorm room, where the rest of our group trickled in. The award ceremony was held later that day, around 4 or 5 p.m. It was mandatory for us all. As I stumbled in with the others, I started to realize just how drunk I really was. It’s worth noting here: Mom had dressed me for the day. Khaki pants and a white button-down shirt. Sunday school clothes. I hated them. Being a husky kid, nothing ever really fit right. At some point that day, I had already blown out the crotch seam of my pants. It happened more often than I’d like to admit—I had more khakis with iron-on patches than any kid should’ve had. When I sat down in a brown metal folding chair, I heard the seam rip a little more. I could feel a breeze where there shouldn’t have been one. My stomach started to churn. At the awards ceremony, they got to my category and announced that the winner had earned the only perfect scores of the day—on both tests. They called my name. Of course it was me. Terry and the others looked at me, and I just shrugged. As I stood up from that folding chair, the seam of my pants caught—and tore the rest of the way through the ass and down the legs. I didn’t even notice. I started walking up the aisle toward the stage, and a caught thread continued to unravel the entire back of my pants. At this point, all the alcohol hit me at once. I stumbled my way to the stage, tripping over myself a couple of times. It was obvious to everyone—well, everyone but me—that I was shitfaced. I slurred out a thank you as the MC handed me my rolled-up first-place certificate, unsure of what else to do. Turning to walk off stage, I dropped the certificate and bent over to pick it up—mooning the entire audience in the process. The kids erupted—cheering, laughing, goading on the spectacle. I was so drunk I couldn’t tell if they were laughing with me or at me. I’m not sure I even cared. Needless to say, I was disqualified from competing in the state championships. I also never gave up my friends when asked where I got the booze. I just stuck with: “Found a frat party.” </blockquote> Higher Education 2026-01-19T00:00:00+00:00 Legal Disclaimer: The following content reflects personal memories and narrative reconstruction. All names have been changed, and identifying details have been altered to protect the privacy of individuals. Some events have been anonymized or fictionalized to comply with ethical and legal obligations. This work is presented as a personal memoir and not as an admission or accusation of criminal behavior. References to illegal activity are made in service of historical accuracy, self-reflection, and trauma processing, in accordance with protections afforded to victims and whistleblowers under U.S. Title 18 § 2258A</a>, 42 U.S. Code § 13031</a>, and related state-level statutes. </blockquote> Higher Education</h1> Through Fred W, I had been taking classes at UVA for some time. He was a professor of computer science—specifically infrastructure and networking. I learned all the math he taught me: higher-order concepts, theoretical and linear algebra, and lambda calculus. He taught me that all good programming could be distilled into proofs. I learned C inside and out, then moved on to C++, and then Java. He taught me assembly. He taught me how route-finding algorithms worked, and the foundations of signal processing. I was also taking night classes at the community college for other interests. Eastern philosophy was one of my favorite classes there. Fred helped me start preparing and sending out college applications during my freshman year of high school. By my sophomore year, I’d received several scholarships. My school of choice was MIT, and they were offering a full ride. So were Stanford and Virginia Tech—and, of course, UVA. “We can’t let you go to MIT,” my mother said when I showed her the acceptance letter. “It’s too far. Who’s going to pick up your brothers and sister after school? Who’s going to pay for you to live up there? I can’t live without you close.” </blockquote> It sucked. She wouldn’t sign off on letting me go. “Full scholarship, Mom. They’ll pay me to live up there. They’re even giving me a stipend for food and books and everything I could need.” </blockquote> “No.” </blockquote> She wouldn’t budge. “You can go to UVA,” she said. She had already decided. “You have to still live at home. Someone needs to take care of the other kids.” </blockquote> I was devastated, but there wasn’t much I could do. I had just turned 15. I had my provisional driver’s license, but I couldn’t sign college paperwork on my own—I was still a minor. So I made the best of it and enrolled in my first semester at UVA. It overlapped with my second semester as a high school sophomore. The high school let me reduce my class load to just Japanese and Latin, which I continued via correspondence. At UVA, when I sat down with an advisor and reviewed my coursework, we agreed I already knew the computer engineering material well enough that I’d likely be bored. “I want to build flying cars when I grow up,” I said. </blockquote> She laughed—then realized I was serious. UVA had an aerospace engineering program. I enrolled. I also added coursework in mechanical and electrical engineering, since they all shared a core math foundation. I found every excuse I could to avoid helping my mother with the other kids. I was adamant: I didn’t want children, and I especially didn’t want to raise hers. Every time I said I didn’t want kids, which had been happening since my sister was born, my mother would say I did. Or that I’d change my mind. It was outright gaslighting. So I did the only thing I could: I avoided home as much as possible. I joined late-night study groups and crashed in the dorm rooms of the friends I was making. Most knew how young I was, and while there were a few other kids who were 16 or 17, most of my classmates were 19–21. I was already taking 300-level classes. The only day I saw my family was Thursday, and that was only because I had to show up at the high school for my correspondence classes. It was brutal—but for the first time in my life, I had to study. Really study. I finally found classes that challenged me. I loved it. I maintained a 3.9 GPA over the first three semesters, averaging 25 credits per semester. During that third semester, I started hanging out with this guy Todd. He was a political science/econ major, the boyfriend of the roommate of the girlfriend I was unofficially bunking with. “Ever thought of building a porn site?” he asked one evening, while we were all taking bong rips. </blockquote> I laughed. Angie, my girlfriend, laughed. Todd’s girlfriend Amber rolled her eyes. “Not this again,” she muttered. </blockquote> “Sure,” I said. “I’ve thought about it.” </blockquote> “We should build one.” </blockquote> “It’s going to cost more money than I have,” I said. “We need servers, cameras, and models. Not to mention a domain name. Those are $100 to register.” </blockquote> “I’ll fund it,” he said. “I’ve already got the domain name—coedteens.com. A porn site to see college girls.” </blockquote> Angie passed the bong back to me, and I took another hit. “And where are we getting models?” I asked. </blockquote> Angie surprised me: she volunteered. Todd looked at Amber, clearly expecting her to follow. “No,” she said, rolling her eyes again. </blockquote> He opened his mouth, but Angie cut him off before he could say a word. “Don’t you dare be rude,” she said, blowing ditch-weed smoke in his face. </blockquote> We spent the rest of that semester building the site. Todd’s family had money, and true to his word, he funded the whole thing. We paid the girls $100 per photo shoot. Angie and I did most of the photography. Eventually, we had to bar Todd from participating. The models kept complaining about him—he was creepy. He always wanted them to do really nasty shit. I followed Angie’s lead. She brought most of the women in for the shoots. Eventually, the whole thing came crashing down. At the start of my fifth semester, I was called into the dean’s office. He said they had proof I was the mastermind behind a porn site depicting students from UVA. I kept my mouth shut. I’d played this game before. “Prove it,” I said—and walked out. </blockquote> Turns out, he couldn’t. But that didn’t matter. The fallout landed me an expulsion for violating the honor code. “Behavior unbecoming of a student,” the letter said. </blockquote> Later, I learned Todd was the one who ratted. He was pissed that Angie and I cut him out of the shoots. He went on to be part of topless spring break porn. Eventually, he was convicted for producing child pornography. The Extraction 2026-01-19T00:00:00+00:00 The Extraction</h1> I was fifteen or sixteen when the tooth pain started. I think I complained a lot—every day for a while, maybe. My mother’s response was dismissive. Brush your teeth more, your mouth looks yellow, and other variations of not listening. She didn’t hear me. My fucking mouth hurt. Eventually, I got dragged to the dentist for a routine checkup. He looked in my mouth—no cavities. I was good at brushing most days. My wisdom teeth hadn’t yet come in, and he thought that might be the problem. He ordered an X-ray to see what was going on under the surface. “Your wisdom teeth are impacted,” he said, pointing to the X-ray film held up on the lightbox. </blockquote> Even my untrained eyes caught it—those teeth were sideways. A real one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other moment. “All four of them,” he continued, shifting my gaze to the next piece of film. </blockquote> He gave my mother a referral to an oral surgeon. This was out of his capabilities. It was several weeks later when I found myself in the oral surgeon’s office to take care of the problem. I was taken back to the surgical suite. I made it clear I didn’t like needles. One nurse distracted me while another slipped in an IV. The anesthesiologist came in a few moments later and explained the drugs he was going to give me. I don’t recall the exact cocktail—sodium pentothal was in there, though, and I remember joking about it being truth serum. “Just lay back, and in a few moments you’ll drift off,” he said before leaving the room. </blockquote> I’m not sure how long passed. Five minutes, maybe? Ten? The surgeon and anesthesiologist came back in. “Oh, you’re still awake,” the surgeon said—some mix of surprise and disbelief in his voice. </blockquote> “Okay, I’m going to put something else in your IV,” said the anesthesiologist. </blockquote> I felt the difference—the tingle as it moved through my arm. “Can you count down from 100 for me?” </blockquote> “Ninety-nine… Ninety-eight… Ninety-seven… … Eighty-nine—” “Okay, this isn’t working,” he cut me off. “I’m going to give you a bit more of the first set of drugs. Just relax—we’ll be back in a few minutes.” </blockquote> I was floating. It felt nice. They came back in. “Okay, we’re going to use something different. We usually use this as a horse tranquilizer,” he said—half-joking, but serious. </blockquote> “Let’s start that countdown again.” </blockquote> “Ninety-ni—” I was out. It was a while later. My eyes were crusty, and I didn’t move. The lights were dim. I wasn’t in the surgical room anymore. That had been bright, with big floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the Blue Ridge Mountains. This must be the recovery room, I reasoned. I knew I’d be brought here after surgery, but I hadn’t seen it before. I could make out my mother a dozen or so feet away. My eyes were starting to adjust. I came to. I knew exactly what to say… “Fhuuu…” </blockquote> It was a sound, not a word. My tongue felt huge in my mouth—like sandpaper. I closed my lips and tried to get some saliva going. “Fuuuck,” I groaned. </blockquote> Better. Not what I was trying to say, but I had more. The nurse turned to me, bringing a cup to my lips. “Just take this in. Don’t swallow it—let it sit for a moment, then spit it out.” </blockquote> I did as she said. The doctor and my mother closed the distance from where they had been to the bed I was laying on. I could move my tongue now. My mouth was still dry, but not painfully so. “Fuck, doc… that was better than heroin. Can I have some more?” </blockquote> My mother nearly hit the ground. I spent the next several days in bed. My mom kept pumping me full of Percocet despite me saying I didn’t want it. “You want to act like a drug addict,” she would say, “then I’m going to treat you like one.” </blockquote> I’m not sure how much Percocet she gave me. I kept losing time. I remember sitting up and starting to watch The Price Is Right one morning… and the next thing I remembered, it was dark outside. It was about four days later when we must have run out—and I started to sober up. I went back to the dorms to hang out with Angie and the others. They took care of me through the withdrawal symptoms. It fucking sucked. The Buick 2026-01-19T00:00:00+00:00 The Buick</h1> I’ve never been a particularly careful driver. I would drive too fast, not pay enough attention to what I was doing, and I never wore a seatbelt. My first accident was in my father’s Buick, which he had just finished restoring. I took it—no permission asked. None would have been given. We were living in the house in Dyke, and I had just gotten my provisional driver’s permit. I would often take the Buick. It was a 1980 Buick Regal, a two-door sedan. It had an eight-cylinder 351 small block, two four-barrel carburetors, and a low-ratio locking rear differential. This car had a shit-ton of high-torque low-end, but it was boaty and didn’t turn well. I was on a country road—one I had traveled many times. I knew it by heart. I got stuck behind an older gentleman in an antique Chevrolet truck, driving well below the speed limit. I did the right thing and waited for the broken yellow line I knew was coming up. As soon as I had it, I passed him—accelerating that old Buick well past the limits of safety and sanity. The stretch of straight road ended in a tight uphill curve with a posted safe speed of 15 mph. I gave the car more fuel as I entered the curve—oh, the stupidity of youth and the inexperience of my driving. I thought I was invincible. My sheer force of will would keep that car in the turn, even at ninety miles per hour. I was wrong. Oh, I was so wrong. I didn’t realize just how wrong I was until I was staring at the ground through the windshield. As I entered the first turn, curving tightly left, the tires squealed against the asphalt. The rear end began to fishtail. I whipped the steering wheel all the way right as I entered the next sharp turn. The rear end swung wildly behind me. Smoke billowed from the tractionless rear wheels, my foot still glued to the gas pedal. When it came to the final left, I cut the wheel back all the way into the turn. Nothing happened. I careened over the high side of the curve—over a mini-cliff. It was a several-foot drop—high enough to be terrifying, but thankfully not far enough to be fatal. Time slowed. I contemplated my short life as the ground rushed forward to greet the vehicle with the embrace of crushing force. My head hit the steering wheel. I tasted blood—metallic, coppery. Things were upside down for what felt like an eternity but was only a split second in real time. The car tumbled like a weed caught in the wind. It did another cartwheel, end over end, and landed on its wheels. The force drove me under the steering column. My larger body contorted in an excruciating way, my weight pinned against the accelerator. I watched—surreally detached from my reality. The car plowed into a large fence post, which came through the already-smashed windshield and removed the back of the driver’s seat with it. The car spun, twisting itself around the field I now found myself in. I felt pain as another fence post was struck, this time from the side. The car flipped over again, the engine finally dying. I was on the verge of blackness as it stopped. I exited the vehicle through the hole where the driver’s door had been just sixty seconds earlier. My knees were weak, my stomach churning, my vision blurred. My eyes followed the path of destruction until they landed on that old truck I had passed minutes ago. The old man slowed and came to a stop as he rounded the curve. He rolled his window down and stuck his head out. Our eyes locked for a moment. “That was dangerous, boy,” he yelled, the country drawl emphasizing boy. </blockquote> Then he rolled the window up and continued on his way. I don’t recall much of the next few hours. My parents were called. The farmer was called. A state trooper came out. Everyone kept asking if I was okay. “Yes” was my only answer. I wasn’t. I wouldn’t know that for a long time. There was a ticket. A court summons. The judge at the local courthouse was lenient, and the farmer whose fence I’d destroyed spoke on my behalf. I worked every weekend for a month for that farmer to repay the damage. I got good at digging post holes and tamping earth down around them. My father beat the value of that car out of me. I think he thought it was worth way more than it actually was… I need you to pick up your father 2026-01-19T00:00:00+00:00 I Need You to Pick Up Your Father</h1> Sometimes in life, you get asked to do hard things—for a good cause. And sometimes you get asked to do hard things that, well, hurt others. This is one of those stories. I was at home. On my computer, as usual. Always on my computer. The phone rang, knocking me off the BBS I was dialed into. Caller ID said it was Mom, so I answered. “Are you home?” </blockquote> Duh, you called home and I answered. “I need you to go pick up your father.” </blockquote> Why? “We don’t have time for questions. He was in an accident and was injured. You’re closer. I need you to go get him. Now.” </blockquote> The tone of her voice rang sharp on the inflection of now. “I need you to get him before the police show up. He’s at the crossroads.” </blockquote> I knew where that was—just a few miles down the road. “Drive fast.” </blockquote> She hung up. I grabbed my keys to the family station wagon. It was a 1980-something Pontiac Parisienne, cream with wood paneling. My friends and I had nicknames for it—everything from Dragon Wagon (a reference to our school) to The Grocery Getter. It was a real piece of shit. Long past its expiration date. Dented and dinged. It ran on pure desperation instead of gasoline—which we often couldn’t afford. I tore down the dirt road we lived on, my usual MO, and whipped a right onto the paved road at the end. That thing would do zero to sixty in about thirty seconds, despite having a big block V8 in it. Like I said—it was a real piece of shit. As I approached the crossroads, I saw the old man—walking toward me, blood running down his face. The car stopped just as well as it accelerated, and I spun it around in the middle of the street. I was practicing my J-turns—something I’d seen in a movie recently. Dad poured himself into the back seat, laying across it. “What the fuck are you doing here? I called your mother.” </blockquote> The stench of cheap whiskey and cigarettes filled the car as he spoke. I hit the gas. “She called me.” </blockquote> “You’re a real piece of shit,” he said as he passed out. </blockquote> No thanks. No acknowledgment that I was doing him a favor. I didn’t see his car. He must have walked a bit. As I got the station wagon up to the speed limit, a couple of cops passed us heading toward the scene of the accident. A blue state trooper sedan, followed by a brown county cruiser. Both with their lights on. I got Dad home. Mom was there when I arrived. “Better to have a ticket for leaving the scene,” she told me, “than another DUI. One more and your father will lose his license permanently—and won’t be able to work. Then what would we do for money?” </blockquote> Whatever. I went back to my computer. It was weeks later when I found out the real story. “What the fuck was I just an accessory to?” I asked my mother, showing her the article in the paper about the hit-and-run where someone was near-fatally injured. </blockquote> “You’re a minor. They wouldn’t have been able to charge you.” </blockquote> That was her fucking answer. I was a minor. That’s why she asked me to go. To do her fucking dirty work. Because I was a minor. What the fuck. Dad ended up spending several weekends in jail. He didn’t get a DUI. He didn’t even get in trouble for the hit-and-run part. Mom pleaded he was in a fugue state from the head injury. That he wasn’t even aware he’d been in an accident. Reckless driving. A fine. A few weekends in jail. He ruined someone else’s life—and that was it. And I unknowingly helped. What the fuck. The Shape of Want 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 The Shape of Want</h1> Tiffany was one of the few people who actually saw me. It was in the aftermath of what happened the night before. I kept thinking about what she said. You’re not a man. Of course I wasn’t. I told her that. She looked confused. “Last night you said I wasn’t a man.” She stared at me. Maybe she didn’t remember. “I’m not a boy either.” She just said, “Oh!” “Don’t tell my parents.” To my knowledge, she never did. I started hanging out there even more after that. She had this friend—I think his name was Chris. He was gay, and I think he sold her drugs. My mother would always say she didn’t want me over there when Chris was around. She said Chris looked like a child molester. Couldn’t have been further from the truth. Yeah, he probably sold drugs to Tiffany. But Tiffany let me rummage through her closet and wear anything I wanted. And Chris would tell me what looked good, what didn’t. Tiffany even started giving me her old Cosmo magazines so I could keep up with fashion and what was happening in the world. Granny found one in my room one afternoon. It had Michelle Pfeiffer in it—she was wearing the Catwoman costume from Batman Returns. Granny chased me through the house, yelling. She was waving the foldout page with Michelle in the catsuit. Yelling that I was sick for looking at that kind of porn. She broke a heavy wooden spoon across my face. Hit me so hard it snapped. I ran. Into the woods behind the house. I disappeared into the camouflage of the trees and brush like I had learned to. She kept yelling about how sorry I was going to be when my father got home— how my mother was a failure for not raising me right. She gave up after about an hour. I stayed in the woods for several days. I retreated down to the little ravine that ran through the neighborhood, on the other side of the hill from our house in the valley. My friends knew where I was. Tyler brought me food. I snuck into the garage in the middle of the night to steal my old camping gear from Boy Scouts. When I eventually went home, I was grounded for a month. Dad made me bend over my bed, pull my pants down, and whipped me with his belt. “Count the lashes,” he said. “If you lose count, we start over.” The first strike landed. It stung—pain radiated from my ass cheeks. I said nothing. Another hit. “If you don’t count, it doesn’t count.” Still, I stayed silent. Again and again he hit me. Each lash leaving a welt on my ass, my back. I made no sound. Finally, he seemed beyond frustrated. The blows got weaker as he tired out. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll do this again tomorrow. And the next day. And every day until you count them out.” “Fuck you,” I said. He clocked me in the face with his left hand— the right still holding the belt. Sometime around August or September, a load of boxes showed up at our house. They all went into the basement. Of course I snooped. They were from Sears, I think. All addressed to Tiffany—but with our address. So I asked Mom about them. “Those are the Christmas gifts Tiffany ordered for Tyler and his brother. Don’t you dare touch them. And don’t you dare tell those boys.” Over the next few weeks, I opened every single one of those gifts. If it was something I wanted, I took it. I resealed the boxes, re-wrapped everything precisely as it had been. I got a Sony Discman. A GPX portable TV/boombox combo. Some Legos. Other stuff. I hid it all in plain sight— just buried in the normal mess of my room. When Christmas came around, shit hit the fan. Of course my mother knew it was me. To this day, I still don’t have a good answer for why I did it. I just wanted the stuff. I never really got good Christmas gifts. Knife Practice 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Knife Practice</h1> Michael was a friend from school. He didn’t live in the neighborhood, but close. We rode the school bus together, and he would hang out at Tyler’s house too. Mom didn’t like Michael. Said he was trashy. She said that about every friend of mine who lived in a trailer— and Michael’s family lived in the trailer park down the road from our subdivision. We would ride our bikes up and down the hills of the neighborhood together. Another friend, Justin, lived at the very back of the neighborhood. We loved hanging out there because he had an entire room dedicated to Legos. Many times, we would disappear to a meadow—a clearing in the woods. If there were a bunch of us, we’d play Narnia or some other fantasy game. If it was just Michael and me, I would give him blowjobs while he smoked cigarettes. Michael and I had just finished watching a Steven Seagal movie. I don’t recall which one— but in one scene there was a knife fight that got pretty intense. We were enthralled. I wanted to learn how to use a knife like that. So did Michael. I’m not sure which of us suggested it— but we went and found some knives. For weeks, we would pop the movie into the VCR and skip right to the knife scene. We’d practice some of the moves, rewind, and then do it again. One weekend, we were out at a park. I don’t remember why. We started practicing our knife fighting— clinking the blades as they glanced off each other. We were starting to deviate from the movie choreography, exploring different attacks and blocks. It should be said: neither of us had any martial arts training. Michael attacked— and I missed the block. The knife went right into my right arm, just below the elbow. I stumbled and fell down, the pain excruciating. The knife hit and dislodged when I fell, causing even more pain and tearing the wound wider. With blood pouring out of the gash, I clamped down and applied pressure with my left hand— the first aid badge still fresh in my mind from Scouts. We found my mother. I told her I fell— technically not a lie. I just didn’t tell her we were playing with knives. She took us back home. Had Boompa take a look at it. I remember him saying she should have taken me to the hospital for stitches. He put a large bandage from the first aid kit on it. A butterfly bandage, he called it— pulling the skin together as best he could. “That’ll leave a scar,” he said. “It would be a smaller scar if your damn mother took you to get stitches,” he added. It did leave a scar. For years, it was a bright red, fat crescent shape just under my elbow. As I got older, it faded. Still visible— but just one among many scrapes and dings my arms have seen along the way. I stopped hanging out with Michael after that. In Knowledge, Power 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 In Knowledge, Power</h1> I had honed my reputation in the neighborhood as the go-to pet sitter when folks were away on vacations. The Whitlock twins lived around the corner. ? and … ?. They weren’t close friends, but we went to church with them. Their father, Larry, had white hair and a weird leg. Whenever he had to kneel at church, he’d unlock something under his pants leg, around the knee—some kind of brace or mechanism. I would sit their birds when they were away—two parakeets, I think. It was a good escape from home. I’d go down into their basement to hang out. There was a TV, and a TurboGrafx-16 game system. I’d play Bonk on it for hours. I had a habit: I would search through everything in the houses I pet sat for. Sometimes I’d take things. But mostly, it was the knowledge that satisfied me. I had this book series—The Sword of Shannara. It was an old illustrated edition. On one of the drawings, a Druidic phrase stood out to me: Illit Druen. The page translated it as: “In knowledge, power.” I recognized this as a truth among fiction. So I snooped. I read people’s letters. I knew what was in their drawers. I knew which parents were having affairs. Who had money. Who didn’t. Who was good. Who wasn’t. Once, during one of these investigations, I found a gun. A small revolver in someone’s dresser drawer. I took a few of the bullets. Just a few. There were train tracks not far from where we lived, running along Route 64. It was about a 30-minute bike ride. There was a tunnel—dark, echoing. We would tape the bullets to the tracks, just inside the tunnel mouth. The first couple of times didn’t work. Then I brought tape. Problem solved. When the freight trains came through, we’d hear the pop of the rounds and the ricochets echoing louder than the engines. Sometimes we’d see an open train car and hop in, riding it through the tunnel and jumping off on the other side. I’d often say I wasn’t going to jump off one day— just stay in and see where the train went. I think this was around 5th or 6th grade. We were living in Peacock Hills, and I went to Merryweather Elementary School— named for the Lewis and Clark expeditions. The 5th grade classroom had the better computer. That’s where I played Microsoft Flight Simulator 1.0 for the first time. We’d launch it from DOS— the graphics were blocky and weird, but it was amazing. Mr. Reed was the fifth grade teacher. There was this kid—Sam. One day, he stuck his leg out to trip me during class. It backfired. He did trip me, and I did fall— but I landed right on him. His leg was caught between two desks. I fell sideways across his knee. I hit my head hard against the desk—it was bleeding. Sam’s leg bent completely the wrong way. Of course, because Sam’s family had money, they sued my parents. My uncle Gary—Nancy’s brother—was a lawyer. Mom always called him a liar instead. “All lawyers are liars,” she said. He was a bankruptcy attorney, but also a colonel in the Army Reserve’s JAG unit. Mr. Reed said he saw the whole thing. Said Sam had tripped me. I don’t think the lawsuit went anywhere. Picking Apples 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Picking Apples</h1> It was in Stanardsville, Virginia. We moved there halfway through sixth grade. It was the first time since moving to Virginia that we lived apart from Granny and Boompa. We only lived in that house for a year or two. We shared a driveway with our neighbor— they lived just below our house and had a Jack Russell my mother hated. She said it yapped too much. There was a large hayfield in the backyard, a tree with a tire swing in the front. I begged my parents for a dog that year for my birthday. My mother brought one home ahead of time— a long-haired black retriever. I named her Cookie. I’d play with her outside, but my parents didn’t want her in the house. They said dogs were for outside. I started sneaking her into my room at night. Eventually, they just accepted that she was an indoor-outdoor dog. They made me tie her to a stake when I went to school— they didn’t want her pooping in the house. I didn’t know how to train a dog. Didn’t even know I was supposed to. My parents weren’t any help. Money became an issue again after moving to this house. One of the first things to suffer: my shoes. We couldn’t afford new ones. The ones I had were falling apart. I was constantly wrapping them in duct tape. Boompa’s favorite tape—he kept several rolls of it in their basement. Granny and Boompa had moved nearby, to a subdivision named Twin Lakes, on Morning Glory Road. Even though they were close, their mailing address was in a different town—Ruckersville. The move brought a bigger shift: we changed counties. Albemarle to Greene. That meant I had to change schools. I left J.T. Henley Middle School behind. Most of my friends were switching to the private school in Ivy—St. Anne’s-Belfield. The new school was William-Monroe Middle School. Weird setup. The elementary, middle, and high school were all on the same campus. All called William-Monroe. I remember complaining that the teachers weren’t as smart. Mom said that didn’t matter— the rent was cheaper, and at least we weren’t living with Granny and Boompa anymore. “They’re too crazy to live with,” she said. She also said, “If I ever get as crazy as Granny, you should shoot me.” “Why wait?” I said. She slapped me across the face and screamed, “You don’t love me!” She was probably right. We still went to the same church, even though it was now an hour away. The drive was long, winding, stomach-churning. That summer, I worked for a man from church. He paid me $10/hour to move rocks from one side of his yard to another. He was an older guy—very kind. He used to be a teacher and now made historical board games. After afternoons of rock-hauling, we’d sit on his porch and play his games. Civil War. French Revolution. He paid me for playtesting, too. “You’re my best tester by far,” he’d say. Eventually, he told me not to worry about the heavy work anymore. “I’ll get one of the stupid ones for that,” he said. “But don’t tell your mom. She told me to work you hard so you’d lose weight.” His wife would bring us tea. I liked those afternoons. Of course, my mom made me give her half of everything I earned. “It’s only fair,” she said. “Driving you there costs money. You eat a lot. You’ve got to contribute to rent if we’re going to keep living here.” Then, every Sunday, she made me put half of what I had left into the church collection plate. “That’s how it works,” she said. “You pay God and Jesus, and in return they help you make more money.” I told her that was a load of horseshit— my new favorite phrase. That earned me a whipping from her. And when Dad got home, he gave me another. That fall, I worked at an apple orchard down the road. It was run by a couple of lesbians. Mom didn’t like them, but said the job would help me “build character.” I got paid a dollar a bushel. Good thing I was tall— nearly 6 feet already. I was always one of the tallest kids in school. One teacher once told me, “I’ve never had a boy be the tallest in the class. It’s usually the girls who hit their growth spurts first.” At the orchard, I got all the apples I could eat and all the cider I could drink. The women who ran it would smoke pungent cigarettes and talk to me about life. They said everyone in the area hated them for being lesbians. They taught me all about apples. Which ones were good for eating, which for pies, which for cider, and which were for moonshine. “I know how to make moonshine,” I said. They laughed—until I explained the process. I told them Boompa’s stories about running an underground still while working in Saudi Arabia for Fuad Abdell Oil. They were impressed. They showed me their still and let me try a sip of their moonshine. It burned. But it tasted like apples. From then on, they looked the other way when I poured a little into my cider. It was way better than the cheap whiskey I’d siphon off from Dad’s bottles. Photography Class 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Photography Class</h1> In seventh grade, I took a photography course. I’ve always had a deep appreciation for art— though I never thought of myself as an artist. Photography has always felt like one of the best ways I can capture what matters to me. The school didn’t have a real darkroom for film development. Instead, they used a bathroom in the central office area— adjacent to the school’s central computer system. Having quite a bit of curiosity, and not much fear, I would sneak over to the central computer while waiting for film to develop. Among the many things I did with the access I soon found myself having was study all the student and staff personnel files. I began to learn people’s secrets— like how one teacher’s “sick leave” was actually due to a her being caught having an affair with another teacher, not the flu. When I’d learned all the secrets, I grew bored. So I chose to do something I thought would be funny. I started by erasing all the backup tapes— just to make sure what I did couldn’t be undone. I was meticulous with this part. I wanted to really make sure they couldn’t undo it. I got a magnet from the science class room, a really powerful one. I slipped it into the tape drive, right under the carriage that held the tape in place. It took some wiggling to make it fit and be able to push the tape cartridge down, but my childhood persistence eventually won. I honestly thought I’d get caught. That magnet was so strong that even from the inside of the tape drive it caused the tiny green and black crt to look deformed in the bottom right corner. The principal will surely notice that, I thought, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. For a couple weeks I waited, the school principal would take the last tape of the week home with him on Friday’s. He’d bring back a tape from a previous week on Monday when he came to the school. I had been tracked the tapes through their markings for a while now, and new that precisely two tapes existed outside of the school at any time. For a couple weeks, no one who used that computer noticed the screen deformity. Neither did they pay attention to the backup failed notice on the computer. Once those tapes were erased, it was time to execute. I logged into the student grading app instead of rebooting the computer and breaking to the dos shell the day of the great grade heist. I gave every single student in the school an ‘A’ for their quarterly grade. I went back and changed their grades for the previous quarters, back to the previous school year, to an ‘A’ as well. I felt like a god when I left the darkroom that day. Of course I was caught. Not by bragging. Not by confession. No— I was caught the old-fashioned way: Who was smart enough to do it?</li> Who was dumb enough to do it?</li> Who had access?</li> </ul> The answer was painfully obvious. I wish I’d asked myself those questions beforehand. They never would have caught me just for reading the secrets. (They also told me they fingerprinted the keyboard, however I’m not sure I believed that.) The school had to pay thousands of dollars to have the system “fixed” so a seventh grader couldn’t break it again. They wanted to expel me. For good. I argued back, of course: If your system is so fragile that a seventh grader can access it and wreak havoc— isn’t that a failure of the people who chose the system? The logic infuriated the administration. Not only had I compromised their central computer— I had also out-argued them. In addition to a two-week suspension, I received an ‘F’ in every class that quarter. All the other students got to keep their A’s. Geeks were officially cool at my school for the rest of the year—thanks to me. And my deeds earned me my first French kiss from the cutest girl in class. Sunday School, Atheist Style 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Sunday School, Atheist Style</h1> My mother had become the children’s education director at our church, St. Luke’s. This was right around the same time there was a change in ministers. The new minister was younger and had a daughter, Annabelle, who was my age. They moved to Charlottesville from Mobile, Alabama, for him to take the position. I was already on the non-believer train at that point in my life. Church was mostly a waste of time. I could have been learning something useful. Or playing video games. Or literally anything else. But Annabelle… she was beautiful. Porcelain skin, long red hair. So I started showing up a bit more regularly. Not like I had much choice on Sundays anyway— but I started tagging along on other days too when Mom was working. With Mom working there, I had access to the church computers. I started tinkering. Alf Weaver, a computer science professor at UVA, noticed me. He was officially in charge of maintaining the church’s systems, and started teaching me more about how they worked. I showed him some basic programs I’d written in BASIC and FORTRAN. He started teaching me C. Taught me networking too—his specialty. Occasionally I’d catch Annabelle (Anna) at the church after school. She didn’t go to the same school—I went to public in Greene County. She went to the private school, St. Anne’s. I had friends there too—Matt Lang transferred there after 5th grade. I was way too shy to let Anna know I had a crush on her. She wasn’t the only one. There was also E.B. Hawk. I remember printing out a note asking her out. She sent her friend over to respond. “E.B. says: Not in a million years. Not even if you were the last guy on Earth.” Around this time, Mom was preparing a lesson plan for the older church kids. She called it “The World Study of Religions.” In hindsight, it should’ve been called “The World Study of Abrahamic Religions.” Because that’s all it really covered. Catholicism, Episcopalianism, Baptists. Islam. Jehovah’s Witnesses. That was the scope. She set up a study group after Sunday service. All the older kids—twelve and up—were encouraged to attend. Most of us did, including me. I remember the moment. We were sitting in a circle, study books in our laps. Some kind of worksheet or assignment we were supposed to be doing. “These are all the same,” I said. “No they’re not,” someone said. “They have different names, different saints, different leaders, different stories.” I had taken a Sharpie to my booklet. There was a section with stories from each religion— each had blanks to write down which one it belonged to. I crossed out the names and places in each story. “This is a madlib,” I said. “Same stories, different names.” The kids stared. “They’re the same. These religions hate each other for being the same, just with different labels.” One of the Whitlock twins flipped through his booklet. “You’re right,” he said. Another kid chimed in: “These aren’t even all the religions.” Like dominoes. One by one, their faith started slipping. They began questioning what they were being spoon-fed. And that was it. I shattered their faith. Turned them into non-believers. One of our church family friends had a son named Daniel. His mom suggested we should all go to a church camp together. So they sent us to a “youth retreat.” More like a brainwashing camp. First night, they put us in a circle. Each kid was made to spill their guts. Some boys said they thought they were gay. A few girls admitted they wanted to try sex. When it was my turn, I refused to talk. “Boompa taught me not to have diarrhea of the mouth,” I said. “And this camp leader looks like a flaming homo.” They dragged me to the punishment room and whipped me. I didn’t make a sound— except to say, “You hit like a pussy.” I made it to the punishment room almost daily. Two weeks straight. They made us watch films about why God hated gay people. Said they’d never be allowed into heaven. “That’s a load of shit,” I said out loud. Punishment room. “Chicks can have dicks too,” I added when they bashed Tim Curry and transvestites. Punishment room. “I can statistically prove the probability of God existing is slim to none,” I said— and I started writing out equations on the chalkboard. Punishment room. I graduated from punishment to hot box when I was caught naked in bed with Anna. She was sent home. I spent two days locked in a metal shed— no food, no water. Even though I never saw her again, that camp never broke me. On the bright side, my mother was fired from the church. Red Barn 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Content Warning: Sexual abuse, child-on-child trauma reenactment, coercive sexual behavior, domestic violence, and death </blockquote> The Red Barn</h1> We moved from the house in Stanardsville to a house in Dyke that my parents rented. The property was huge, tucked away at the end of a dirt road off route 810. It was just a little further from where we had been living, still in Greene County. There was a red barn and a free standing studio adjacent to the house. My antics in middle school got me thrown into the high school early. I was board with most academics at this point. Too easy, nothing was very challenging. High school was the first taste of picking my own classes though. I enrolled in mostly senior level classes. AP history, AP calculus, Latin 1 and Japanese 1, Shop and Creative Writing. That was my first semester in high school. I had already gotten a taste of high school the year previous, when the middle school let me take AP physics at the high school. Latin and Japanese we provided as correspondence classes in conjunction with a school in Richmond. We’d get a VHS tape every week for each one, and we had a camera in the classroom where we’d record us working and ask questions. Those tapes got sent to the school in Richmond at the end of very week. Even though I was only technically in 9th grade, because most of my classes were senior level I got to go out for lunch with the other kids. There was a Dairy Queen across the street from the schools, and I would trade dirty magazines from ever growing stash for money to buy blizzards and other treats. I also spotted a small computer store opening up in the adjacent strip of small offices that housed the town insurance salesman and a dentist I think. That’s a story for another time though. I became enamored with one of my classmates in Latin, Jessica. She was the only other ninth grader in Latin, a class usually reserved for sophomore and above. She lived in a trailer park, and mom said she was bad news and that I should stay away from. Girls are only trouble, my mother would say. Jessica would show me the bruises her dad left on her. she lived alone with him, her mom had died years before. Suicide was the official cause of death, but Jessica said her dad killed mom. We would hang out at my house. I finally had some privacy there, my parents gave me the basement which had its own private entrance. We would look at naughty magazines and play around together. She would ask me to whip her. I had told her that I had learned not to cry out when my parents beat me, and she wanted help learning to do that. So would whip her with a belt, just like my dad would do to. We would go into the barn, and I would tie her to the supports. I whip her, and whip her, and she she’d try her best not to scream. More than once I hit her hard enough to draw blood. After we would escape to somewhere where would cuddle and fuck. She taught me about going down on girls and kissing. She’d tell me about how her father fucked her, and how he’d bring his friends over too. We’d scheme about escaping to New York. That’s where she wanted to go. She was the first real loss in my life. My dad caught us one afternoon. He came early. Laid off again. We didn’t hear his car come up the driveway, but he heard her screams from inside the barn. I spun around when I heard the door behind us open. Dad punched me in the face, breaking my nose and knocking to the ground. You want to tie girls up and hit them, he yelled, kicking me on the ground. You fucking no good pervert was the last thing I heard before his steel toe work boot connected with my skull. Things went dark. About a month later Jessica’s dad killed her. I say killed, even though it was officially classified as just an accident. He was drunk and drove them into a tree. He lived, and only got a DUI as I recall. It really should have been him instead… I Deserved It 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Content Warning: Physical abuse, alcohol misuse, emotional manipulation </blockquote> I Deserved it</h1> And Other Lies I Used to Tell Myself My father was an alcoholic. It’s an easy thing to say, but it doesn’t really convey the uniqueness of any individual experience. I remember my first actual driving lesson. I’d already been mowing the grass on our Craftsman riding mower for a while, so I understood the basics—turn the wheel, push the pedal. But I’d never been behind the wheel of a real car. His car was a shitty 1980-something Honda Civic hatchback. Primer grey, 4-speed transmission. It reeked of Merit cigarettes— butts scattered on the floor, ashtray overflowing. “This is how you hold your scotch while you drive,” he said, placing a lowball glass between his legs. It was full when we got in the car, now just a few sips lower. </blockquote> I didn’t always recognize the abuse when it was happening, or when it was about to get worse. “Ease out on the clutch. When you feel the car start to move, let go of the brake and hit the gas.” </blockquote> I followed the steps. The car lurched forward, sputtered, and stalled. The jolt caused his drink to splash. His backhand landed hard— my ear exploded in pain. “Spill my drink again and you’ll be sorry. Now do what I said— find the friction point, then give it gas.” </blockquote> This wasn’t like the mower. I restarted the engine, hand on the clutch, foot ready on the gas. This time I used the handbrake instead of the foot brake. Revved the engine up, released the clutch— The car screeched, tires spinning gravel, and I slammed the brakes. The pain came twice as hard this time: right side from his fist, left from where my head hit the window and frame. “Don’t fuckin’ burn out my clutch,” he growled. </blockquote> The car stalled again. His drink splashed again. And again the blows came. “I told you not to fuckin’ spill my drink.” </blockquote> I got out of the car. “I’ll get mom to teach me.” </blockquote> Left-Handed Victory 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Left-Handed Victory</h1> It Wasn’t Luck, I Was Just Better Than you It was the four of us: Mark, Anthony, David, and myself. I think David’s mom had found the class, but we would head to fencing lessons together for about a year. David’s mom and Mark’s mom would take turns driving us. We always liked it a bit better when Mark’s mom drove— because we’d get to stop at Wendy’s for dinner afterward. I always got the spicy chicken sandwich— it was fairly new at the time. Out of the group, David was maybe the best of us. Certainly the skinniest and fastest, which helped. The instructor constantly had us working on footwork. Crab stances and lunges killed me. Both David and I were left-handed, and we were the only left-handed kids in the group of around 10–15. Any time he and I were paired together for a sparring match, I would inevitably win. He hated that. He would complain it was because I was left-handed. He’d point out he could spar and win against any of the other kids. He’d point out I rarely won in my other sparring matches. He missed the point— that I just didn’t care. I only ever really tried to win when I was sparring with him. He missed the fact that I didn’t want to be better than anyone else. I just wanted to be better than he was. And I was. David was an arrogant prick. His mom was the one who gave my mom the idea for the hellish brainwashing camp I ended up in. Not just that— he would terrorize one of the other kids in school for being gay. That pissed me off. But he was part of the forced group of “approved” friends. This was a new requirement by my mother: my friends had to have her approval. She said I was bad at picking friends. Everyone I wanted to hang out with was a bad influence, she’d say. They’d either be “trashy” because they lived in a trailer, or “creepy,” which I’d deciphered as her code for gay. Which described most of my real friends— the ones in drama and debate club. I liked Mark and Anthony though. We all didn’t care much for David. Sometimes we’d get to hang out at Mark’s grandma’s house after fencing. She lived in a townhouse. Mark’s family was from New York, and his grandma had this thick Long Island Jewish accent. I loved listening to her tell stories. We got to do a few sleepovers there. She’d take us to Blockbuster so we could rent a PlayStation and play Virtua Fighter. One Halloween, we got to have a sleepover. It was fantastic— we stayed up all night, watched horror movies, and played pranks on David. How to get an OSHA Violation While Camping 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 How to get an OSHA Violation While Camping</h1> Every year in Boy Scouts, I would go camping for the local Boy Scout jamboree. All the regional scout troops would assemble. Despite having moved to Greene County, I remained part of the troop in Albemarle. A lot of the kids in that troop had wealthy families, some were even the children of celebrities who had homes just outside of Charlottesville. This meant that every year for the jamboree, our troop got campsite Baker at the Shenandoah National Park Boy Scout camp. Camp Able was reserved for the camp counselors and adults. It had electricity and permanent cabins. Baker didn’t have electricity, but like Able, it had permanent cabins. We didn’t have to bring or set up tents, which lightened what we needed to pack. We just needed our bedrolls to lay out on the provided cots. Some of the other campsites had semi-permanent tents set up on pallets. Others just had cleared ground to set up tents. Campsites Charlie onward were progressively deeper in the woods, farther from the activities and the mess hall—and they got progressively shittier too. It was a lottery system that decided placement for most troops. But for our troop? Campsite Baker was always ours. The last year I went, a bunch of us decided to build a crazy tree fort. One kid’s father worked in the maritime industry, and we got access to several thousand feet of 3-inch rope. That’s the stuff they use to tie up aircraft carriers and cruise ships—we were told. Who knows? What we did know was that we had a shit-ton of rope, a month of camp, and a slew of knot-tying merit badges. The plan got started quickly. We performed night raids on other campsites, stealing pallets from under tents in the dead of night. The center of our campsite had four amazingly tall trees with a fire pit in the empty space between them. Our cabins circled the outside of the grove, and thick woods surrounded us—except for the path that led to the main trail. The climbers took lead lines up, and we used pulleys to hoist ends of the massive ropes over branches. A rope ladder was made on the ground, then hoisted into position. We wove a large net between the four trees—it gave us a safe place to rest up there, maybe 100 feet in the air. Over the next few nights, we hoisted up several of the pallets. We threaded the rope through them and strung three pallets between each segment of the trees. This gave us a perimeter of twelve pallets, with four lengths of the 3-inch rope running between each pallet segment. All of it sat directly above the net. One kid ran a series of extension cords through the trees. Camp Able wasn’t far, and we tapped into their power for box fans and a TV we stole and hoisted up. The final touch before we moved camp vertically was a rope fence around the perimeter. It started just below the net and used a slightly wider weave than the net itself. We extended it ten feet above the pallets, which were themselves about three feet above the netting. None of the adults, counselors, or authority figures noticed our construction until we were done. They simply never looked up. We kept the rope ladder rolled up during the day using a piece of twine and a pulley. The brown twine blended into the tree bark. By that point, other campsites had started filing complaints about missing pallets. We were questioned but didn’t fess up. Camp counselors looked around our site and the nearby woods. Then came the night we moved out of our cabins—into the air. One last night raid. In the dead of night, we stole the tents off the campers at Campsite Charlie. The ground team cut the tie-downs and secured pre-made hoist lines. The air team pulled them straight up into the darkness. It didn’t take long for the first campers in Charlie to notice they were exposed and sound the alarm. Too late. Our team collapsed the canvas and aluminum structures in mid-air and used the zip lines we’d strung to return to Baker. All except one. One tent we sent via zip line to Campsite Foxtrot, where we dropped a few of the poles and the canvas into the woods around them. The tents got set up in our aerial encampment. The counselors still didn’t catch on. Camp Foxtrot was initially blamed and put on latrine duty. Our misdirection worked. We were only discovered when one of our troopmates dropped crumbs from a snack onto the head of a passing counselor. A few of us were on the ground when it happened. As that counselor looked up, we dashed—heading to the spots where we had ropes and ladders installed, pulling them up behind us as we ascended into our sky fortress. The counselors and adults gathered at our campsite. One adult grabbed a megaphone and demanded we return to the ground. Of course we refused. We stayed up there for several days. Night raids and our network of zip lines let us steal food from the mess hall and commissary. Finally, the camp called OSHA. They sent an inspector who declared the structure unsafe. The fire department brought a ladder truck and evicted us. No merit badges were earned by our troop that year as punishment, but damn we sure had a great time. A Bitch of a Beach Vacation 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Content Warning: This chapter contains depictions of verbal family conflict, body shame, and an emotionally intense situation involving an altercation framed as a kidnapping attempt. While the tone remains humorous and absurd, the scenario may evoke stress for readers sensitive to chaotic family dynamics or childhood emotional neglect. </blockquote> A Bitch of a Beach Vacation</h1> We had gone to Virginia Beach. I remember sitting in the motel room watching MTV. The video for Nine Inch Nails’ Perfect Drug had just come out—it was the world premiere that weekend, and it played several times a day. There were six of us: Mom and Dad, my sister Jean, my brothers Sterling and Skyler, and of course, myself. It was almost normal. Almost. There was this running joke that we were four only children. NJ was six years younger than me, Sterling was about six years younger than her, and Skyler about three years younger than him. The motel was a few miles off the beach. We couldn’t afford to stay anywhere closer. Mom made sure we all knew that. It was Dad’s fault, she said—he spent all our money on booze, cigarettes, and lotto tickets. I didn’t care. I just wanted to go swimming and watch MTV. Specifically, I wanted to see The Perfect Drug video again. I thought it was so cool when Trent Reznor rose out of that green bath of, presumably, absinthe. Going to the beach, though, was a chore. Get ready. Sunscreen up. Bathing suit on. And, of course, the obligatory fat-kid embarrassed-about-my-body T-shirt to wear into the water. Then I’d have to wait for everyone else to get ready. Then we’d pile into the station wagon and drive to the public beach entrance. Of course, there wouldn’t be anywhere to park when we got there, and we’d spend another fifteen minutes or so driving in circles. One of those trips, I guess Mom or Dad just got fed up and parked illegally. We parked in the Dairy Queen parking lot. It was for customers only. When we came back from swimming, the tow truck driver had just started to strap our car onto the back of the truck. Mom shoved the car keys into my hand. “Run. Get into the car and lock the doors. Take your sister. Don’t unlock the doors until the tow truck is gone.” </blockquote> With that, she pushed us both forward—and we took off running. I didn’t stop to think about it. Neither did NJ. She started yelling that we were being kidnapped. The tow truck driver pointed out we were parked illegally—that the Dairy Queen manager had called to have the car towed. Mom wasn’t having it. She stuck with the kidnapping story. Eventually, the tow truck driver gave up and called the cops. It turned into a thing. The Dairy Queen manager came out. People in the parking lot were gawking. It was a whole scene. The cops told the tow truck driver to leave. The DQ manager gave us all free Blizzards. I don't even like basketball 2026-01-15T00:00:00+00:00 Content Warning: This chapter includes themes of unrequited love, teenage heartbreak, and emotional confusion. Readers sensitive to experiences of social rejection or identity invalidation may find elements of this chapter emotionally resonant. </blockquote> I Don’t Even Like Basketball</h1> Her name was Becky. We were classmates, sharing several classes together. She was tall, thin, with a hawked nose and long black hair. She was amazing—and I was in love. So was my friend Tyler. We both liked her. “Neither of us has a shot in hell,” he’d say. </blockquote> “Sounds like exactly what the loser says,” I’d reply. </blockquote> It was her birthday, and I got her a silver necklace with a locket. I included a letter asking her out. She said yes. I really, really didn’t expect that. I wasn’t prepared for her to say yes. Like, not at all. I asked Boompa what I should do—where I should take her. “Your Uncle Gary has some extra tickets to the basketball game next week.” </blockquote> That settled it. I told Becky, and she was in. I knew nothing about basketball. I really just wanted to make out with her all night, but that was off the table—we were in public. Turned out, she wasn’t really into basketball either. We wandered off to the concession stand to see what kind of trouble we could cause. Eventually the third period ended—and with it, the game. That caught us both off guard. Weren’t sportsball games supposed to have quarters? Or halves? We got scolded a bit. Uncle Gary and Boompa drove us home. She lived in the same subdivision as Granny and Boompa, and we started spending more and more time together. On the days I still went to the high school, we’d ride the bus there together. We were pretty much inseparable on the weekends. One evening, shortly after I got my car, we went to play laser tag. She introduced me to the older kid behind the counter as her boyfriend. He was tall, a few years older than her, and several years older than me. His skin was a deep ebony that made his gold-rimmed glasses pop against his hazel eyes. When he asked my name, I just said, “Nobody, really.” I felt small. My stomach flipped like I was on a roller coaster. I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I felt pretty fucking devastated. He handed us our laser tag fobs and we went to gear up. Later that night we were parked just down the road from her house, our usual end-of-night make-out spot. I asked: “Does you having a boyfriend mean we need to break up?” </blockquote> “Oh, you’re not my boyfriend,” she said. </blockquote> I was crushed. I didn’t really hang out with her much after that. I don’t think I got it at the time. I should’ve asked more questions, or maybe I just shouldn’t have stopped showing up. It was many years later that I’d look back on that relationship and realize what it really was. She’ll always have a place in my memory. It Snowed in Hell 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 It Snowed in Hell</h1> Living in Houston as a child, it was always hot. I was comfortable with that. Loved it. One of the earliest memories I have—one of the good memories, one of the happy memories—was the year it snowed there. It was glorious. The first time I had ever [seen snow](seen snow). I think my sister had just been born. My maternal grandfather—we called him Boompa—took me outside to play in it, in front of their mansion in Walkwood. We built a small snowman. It sat on the trunk of his car—his black Cadillac Fleetwood with black leather interior. He had a Trans Am with an eagle on the hood, a truck, and a Porsche 944 as well. I never knew why he needed so many cars, but they all had car phones, and he would take me driving in them. I slammed my finger in the truck door, I remember. It made my finger turn purple for a day or two, and it really hurt. I recall my mother being so upset at me. How could I be so careless? she kept asking me. Thundercats Rule 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Thundercats Rule</h1> I have very few memories of my friends from elementary school in Houston. I remember, vaguely, the school—it was Wilcrest Elementary, and we were the Wilcrest Wildcats, or something like that. This was first or second grade, maybe. One of the closest friends I had there was Josie. I only remember her because every day, she would trade me her chocolate milk. One of the playground games several of us played together was Thundercats, after the cartoon that was popular at the time. I would always be Cheetara—or at least I think that was her name. I didn’t have to be Cheetara. I wanted to be. I got to pick. I could have been Lion-O if I wanted, or one of the others. Josie would play Snarf. She didn’t care that I picked the only girl character from the cartoon. I don’t know if I chose her because she was a girl. She was a cheetah—and fast. I remember that was a reason. She also stayed back from fights. She came in to protect the group while Lion-O did his sword-make-me-grow-up thing. She had a bo—a fighting stick—instead of a sword like all the others. I liked that too. I had the prop sword of Lion-O at home. The one where the center jewel would light up if you squeezed the handle, and it could extend just like in the show. In retrospect, she was a protector. Maybe I latched onto that as well. My friends never questioned it. My parents never got it. I was the girl Thundercat. I was Cheetara. Pennies in the Record Player 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Pennies in the Record Player</h1> I was naturally drawn to breaking things as a child. Not in the obvious ways—it was curiosity. I didn’t really even think about it. It was just something I did. Dad had this stereo system in the living room. I remember playing with it: dropping the needle onto records, making cool sounds by speeding them up, slowing them down, and knocking the needle across the surface. If I had known what DJ’ing was at that age—maybe four or so— I think I would have gravitated toward that. My curiosity didn’t stop there. Every toy I ever got as a child would eventually find itself being dissected by me. Just for fun. I wanted to see how things worked. Putting them back together… that was a different story. Most of the time, I just didn’t care to. When I did, it was a 50/50 chance it would work again. They Had Cable, Intercoms, and Glass Tables 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 They Had Cable, Intercoms, and Glass Tables</h1> I loved going over to Granny and Boompa’s house as a kid. Especially for weekend overnights. They had cable TV. We didn’t have cable TV at home. Mom wouldn’t get it. “Her shows didn’t need cable TV,” she once said. But Granny and Boompa had it. They had HBO. I would stay up all night watching TV when I was there. Okay—I mean until around 10 or 11, when I’d just pass out. But to a five-year-old, that’s basically all night. They also had a huge house, with dozens of rooms, and a swimming pool in the back. Boompa would always say it was an Olympic-size pool. I didn’t really know what that meant. Boompa had worked in the oil industry in the 60s and 70s. I still had a Fouad-Abdul coffee mug well into my early 20s. He had helped them put the deal together to sell oil to the U.S, and helped create a new company for them. The Arabian-American Oil Company. Their house was decorated from his and Grannies travels. I remember there was an Ivory elephant tusk carving, and so many curious from their travels through Arabia and Asia. There was this wooden table with a glass top was my favorite. It had these four triangular stools that tucked under it, and under the glass top was this most intricate carving of a temple and bridges and a nature scene. One year, my uncle Frank told me they hid my birthday gift under the cobblestone walkway around the pool. I spent hours looking for the opening. Surely, if this was true, there was a seam that would give it away. Turned out, that was just a lie. There were also intercoms throughout the house, and I would play with them—pressing buttons, talking through them, pretending to run secret missions or make announcements. One afternoon, I was kneeling on a glass display table while playing with one of the intercoms. It had this red velvet interior and was locked, the top would swing open when unlocked. Boompa kept a small collection of The glass shattered beneath me. A massive shard, three or four inches long, lodged deep into the inside of my left knee. No one took me to the doctor. Boompa pulled the glass out, put glue into the open wound to stop the bleeding, and taped it closed. He told me that’s how they did it when he was a Marine, and that it would toughen me up and turn me into a man. That was it. I still have the scar. Something Changed 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Something Changed</h1> Shortly after my sister was born, we moved in with my grandparents. Not to their house—but into a new house, together. It was about the same size as the house my parents had before, but much, much smaller than the house my grandparents used to have. I remember it didn’t have a pool. My grandparents’ old house had a pool. I didn’t know why we were moving in together. I didn’t know why we had to move out of our house. We just had to move. And I knew it was because something was wrong. The house we moved into had three bedrooms. My sister and I shared one. But that was okay—she was a baby. Our room was on the other side of the wall from the living room. I remember the nights my parents would send me to bed, and I could hear the TV on the other side of the wall. It was always something stupid, like Johnny Carson. I would bang on the wall. They wanted me to sleep, after all. But I couldn’t, not with all the noise. That would usually get me yelled at. Sometimes it would get me spanked. I don’t know how long we lived in that house, but it was the first in a series of homes that we would share with my grandparents. Years later, I asked: Why did we have to move in together back then? I never got a real answer. My mother would tell me things like: “Boompa’s business got stolen from him,” or “He was betrayed by a partner.” One time, she said it was because of the mob. I don’t know if any of that was true. I do remember not liking sharing a room with my sister. She cried a lot—kept me awake most nights. Mom or Dad would be in and out of the room all the time. That was annoying too. I also remember everyone was fighting, all the time. Boompa would yell at Granny. Mom would yell at Dad. Granny would yell at Mom and tell him not to yell at Dad. Granny liked Dad more than Mom, even though she was Mom’s mom. They would drink and smoke together. Reading Coffee Grounds 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Reading Coffee Grounds</h1> Few of us are graced with overlapping life with our great-grandparents. Fewer still have memories of them. I met my great-grandmother once. I have a very vague memory of her— not enough to actually share. This is the story of her funeral. I don’t recall precisely how old I was. Young—somewhere between seven and eight, I think. I know this, because it was right before we moved to Virginia. We were already living together with Granny and Boompa. It was a family road trip. The funeral was in Cleveland. That’s where Boompa grew up, Cleveland. He used to tell me stories about it. He made it sound like growing up in New York. I think he secretly wanted to have grown up in New York. His mother, my great-grandmother, had immigrated to the U.S. from Sicily. He told me stories about that too. He was born shortly after they arrived. He was one of the younger children in the family. I think he had just one brother and seven sisters. They all had similar names. His name was Joseph, and he had a sister named Josephine. A Catholic thing, or so I was told. He had a brother, Sammy, too. I don’t remember Sammy, apparently he gave me my first haircut. He was a barber. Sammy died before I can remember. Boompa told me he was shot to death in the street for his wallet. “Never let anyone know how much money is in your wallet,” Boompa warned me. “They might try to shoot you too.” I don’t know if it was before or after my great-grandmother’s funeral, but it was during that trip to Cleveland that one of the older women in the family— maybe a cousin, maybe one of Boompa’s sisters— did readings of espresso grounds for everyone. I was technically too young to drink espresso. Every now and then, I would steal a sip of coffee. That would usually get me yelled at—sometimes spanked. “But it puts me right to sleep,” I argued. “Every time I have coffee, I feel tired—not full of energy.” Tell me you have ADHD without telling me you have ADHD. Eventually, I wore them down. They gave in. I drank my little cup of espresso. It was small, even for my child hands. I handed the empty cup to the woman, in a dimly lit kitchen, with the thick grounds settled at the bottom. She stared into the cup for several moments, then raised her gaze to meet mine. What she said to me that day is etched into my memory. I was young— and she was promising to tell me about my future. I was paying attention. “You have three loves,” she told me. “And your life will be painful.” I don’t know if she could see the future. I don’t know if it was all just hocus pocus. My life has certainly been painful—at least at times. And I’ve had many loves. Maybe she saw that I would grow up to be polyamorous… Why do I have to play soccer 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Why Do I Have to Play Soccer?</h1> It was one of those things I just wasn’t good at. Most physically active things as a kid—I just didn’t have the coordination for. I didn’t even like soccer. Or t-ball. Or any of the other peewee sports Mom threw me into. Why couldn’t I just sit and read? Or play video games? Or just go play with my friends? They weren’t playing soccer. But it wasn’t an option. Mom had paid the registration fee—so I was going to do it. She made that very clear. I’d have to put on the shin guards, pull the pants over my legs. Nothing really fit right. I was an awkwardly sized kid. And it was fucking itchy. My friend Steven would tell me how lucky he was not to have to play soccer. He wore leg braces, so he got to go with my other friends to an after-school camp that had a Nintendo. I wouldn’t run. I didn’t want to kick the ball. The coach tried to make me the goalie since I was pudgy, but I would duck every time the ball came my way— so that didn’t last long. Eventually, my mom told me she’d give me a dollar if I just tried to make a goal. Dad said he’d beat me if I missed. The one game I got put in against other kids— the only time someone kicked the ball toward me— I kicked it straight toward the bleachers. I spent the rest of however many weeks soccer ran for on the bench. My parents still made me go, because they paid for it. Fuck them. Time to Move 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Time to Move</h1> Three large U-Haul trucks. The big ones, the biggest ones you could rent at the time. I remember Boompa making a big deal about the bit that overhung the cab, like it had a special name. I can’t remember what it was. I remember the buildup to the move. It was just after coming back from Cleveland, and we’d detoured through Lynchburg, Virginia, where my aunt and her husband lived. Apparently, my mother fell in love with the area, and that was all it took. It’s not like things were going well for the family in Houston anymore, so… Virginia, here we came. I tagged along with Boompa as he outfitted the cars with CB radios for the journey. Breaker-breaker one-nine for a radio check, he coached me to say, as I squeezed the talk button. Some trucker answered that we were coming in loud and clear— and added “little buddy” at the end. I guess it worked. I was the first one to get to use it. The huge new antennas on the cars looked out of place. We were in the front seat of his Cadillac, and I opened the center console to pull out the car phone. “Why can’t we just use this?” I asked, pressing some buttons. “It’s too expensive, and I’m not putting one in your mother’s car— she’s already lazy enough as it is.” His answer confused me. He always said Mom was lazy. Always. I didn’t get it. It was weeks of packing at home. I vaguely remembered the packing and moving from the house I lived in with my parents to the house we then shared with my grandparents. “The next house is going to be bigger,” my mother told me, smoking a cigarette while packing a box. “You’re going to have your own room again. Aren’t you excited?” “Will I still get to play with my friends?” “You’ll make new ones,” she said. “Better ones.” I was skeptical. Eventually everything was packed and loaded. Three large U-Haul trucks, the biggest they had—Boompa had said. We had a lot of crap. Dad drove one, Boompa drove another, and some friend of Dad’s drove the third. His name was Skeeter or something, I think. He smelled just like Dad—whiskey and cigarettes. Mom drove her station wagon, and I think Granny drove the Cadillac. Or maybe it was someone else. I can’t remember. The journey seemed to take forever. We’d stop every couple of hours, and I would bounce between the station wagon and the Cadillac. Once or twice, I got to ride in one of the trucks—either with Dad or Boompa. Both got tired of me very quickly. I’d be on the CB radio doing my breaker-breaker checks, chatting with truckers. Boompa said I had diarrhea of the mouth and I was going to get us robbed or killed. “Diarrhea of the mouth” was his favorite phrase, I think. He’d say it about anyone who talked. Didn’t matter how much. At some point, we had an issue with one of the trucks and ended up on the side of the highway. I got tar on my leg—don’t remember how. Dad’s friend suggested using diesel to get it off. At the next gas station, they did just that. I remember it burned my skin, and Dad was rubbing at it with the blue gas station rags like he wanted to take my skin with it. At one of the gas stations, I found a condom dispenser in the bathroom. The sign said it was for sex, so I bought one. I knew sex was something I wanted, and the Boy Scout motto was “Always be prepared,” so I put the quarter I had left from buying a candy bar in and turned the dial. A Trojan fell out of the chute and into my hand. It was ribbed for her pleasure, the wrapper said. I stuck it into the checkered Velcro wallet Boompa had given me at the start of the journey. I don’t think I ever did anything with it. But I felt proud having it in there. It was a secret—something I had that no one else on the journey knew I had. At the motels we stayed in, the six of us—Mom and Dad, Granny and Boompa, my sister and me—would all stay in one room. Dad’s friend got a whole room to himself. Eventually, we got to our new house. Well, it was a really, really old house—not new at all. Mom said Boompa got a really good deal on it. That the rent was cheap. And this one had four bedrooms—we all got our own rooms again. That was a good thing. Ever since learning to talk, my sister wouldn’t shut up and kept me up all night at our old house in Houston. Clearly, she had the diarrhea of the mouth. Plus, I had a condom now. So I could have sex. Cousin Casey was a Stowaway 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Cousin Casey Was a Stowaway</h1> We took a road trip to Florida. I don’t recall the reason for it, but Boompa rented a 15-passenger van for the trip. I got my own bench. NJ got her own bench. Mom, Granny, and the baby (Sterling) shared a bench. Dad and Boompa traded off driving. Aunt Betty lived in Orlando. She was Granny’s sister. Uncle Frank and Jason lived with her. Jason was Kathy and Mike’s kid—the Rouches. Jason had Down syndrome, and Kathy and Mike had two other kids: Casey and [girl-cousin]. Casey was the oldest. He was about my age—maybe a year younger. Girl-cousin had leukemia, and she was just a year older than Jason. Jason had been a bone marrow donor for her. Aunt Betty took care of him. Someone had to. She said his parents just treated him like spare parts. Mike was a professional firefighter— the captain of the local firehouse. I remember getting to slide down the fire pole and turn on the sirens in the trucks. We went to Disney for a day, because duh. When it was time to pile into the van and head home, Casey convinced me to help him hide in the van. I said sure, because Casey was cool. He didn’t even grab a change of clothes. When we were packing the van, I made sure to be there to help fit the luggage in. I had been playing a lot of Tetris on my Game Boy, so I volunteered this as a unique skill for helping pack the van. The adults bought it. Casey had rolled under the back bench and hid. When we stopped for gas in Georgia, I helped him out. My parents were shocked. They went to the pay phone and called his parents— no answer. “We’re already past where we can turn around. I’ve got a job starting tomorrow I need to be back for,” Dad said. Casey volunteered that he told his parents he was coming back with us for the summer. My parents didn’t buy it, but since Orlando was half a day the opposite direction— a full day out of our way— there wasn’t much they could do. So back home to Virginia we went. Eventually, Mom got his parents on the phone. They didn’t realize he was missing. They also didn’t care. Casey stayed in my room—on the trundle bed pullout. We used the void this created under my bed to maintain a fort. At night, we would pretend to be flying fighter jets, using our “joysticks.” It was a fun game— until my mother walked in on us one night. She had Dad whip my ass with a belt for the offenses against God I was committing. His parents eventually came to get him. It was the week before school started back up in Orlando. They brought Jason and Aunt Betty with them. They stayed for a few days. Mom commented on how Aunt Kathy asked for so many bed pillows while she was there. “It sounded like she wanted to build a pillow fort to keep her husband away during the night, because she didn’t love him,” she said. Starting Early 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Starting Early</h1> I didn’t set out to create a game. I was just learning. I was learning about computers, playing around on the Apple ]</code> we bought at the flea market. Learning about physics—Stephen Hawking’s book about black holes was in my backpack. I was learning new words, and what they meant. Playing around with what a thousand GOTO</code> statements and some user input logic could do. Seeing if I could make the [turtle<!– BROKEN LINK: [` we bought at the flea market. Learning about physics—Stephen Hawking’s book about black holes was in my backpack. I was learning new words, and what they meant. Playing around with what a thousand GOTO</code> statements and some user input logic could do. Seeing if I could make the turtle</a> –> draw cool shapes on the screen. Spaghettification</a> was the new word of the day— maybe of the year. All choices in the game eventually led you to being spaghettified. When I started the fourth grade that year, the classroom also had an Apple. So I made a copy of the disk and brought it to school, letting other classmates play with it. One of the teachers saw it and encouraged me to post it on the network between schools. The school network was called Prodigy at the time, which later became Prodigy Internet as it grew. They—Prodigy—ended up reaching out to the school, who connected them to my parents. They wanted to license the game from me so they could incorporate it into their small playable game library. I never knew the details of the deal. And aside from being allowed to buy a new 286 Tandy computer, I never directly saw any of the money. It all went to my parents. Let's Dress Up 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Let’s Dress Up</h1> My mother was teaching Sunday school at this Pentecostal church for a while. I don’t recall exactly how young I was— and it wasn’t even on Sundays. It was in the evenings. Wednesdays, I think. But again—I can’t be sure. She was teaching the younger kids—toddlers and whatnot. I wasn’t paying attention. I just wanted to play my Game Boy. But that was rarely an option, since it was perpetually hidden from me as punishment. She didn’t make me do any of the Sunday school things here, though. “These people talk in tongues and worship snakes,” she told me once. “This isn’t our church. This is a paycheck.” She would park me in an empty room of the church most of the time. Occasionally, there was another kid my age I could play with. He was the son of the priest, maybe? Or the deacon? Or whatever the head honcho of this particular cult flavor was called. “Don’t tell him we don’t believe in this religion,” my mother warned me. “I lied to get this job. We need the money since your father is on a layoff.” “Yeah, whatever. I want my Game Boy back when we get home.” I really couldn’t have cared less about this shit. I was already well on the road to non-believership. It never made sense to me. Especially how disgruntled each different religious group got about other religious groups’ made-up magical people. The room we played in had a bunch of random craft fare, and we would draw, make things up, and have fun. He was a good kid, I suppose. I didn’t care. On one of the evenings - the last evening, I should say - a basket of yarn caught my eye. I pointed to it. “Let’s make bikinis with the yarn,” I said. “Huh?” was the other boy’s response. Understandable, in hindsight. “Yeah, let’s make bikinis!” I don’t know why I was so excited about it, but I was. “Don’t we have to, like… knit or crochet them?” I had no fucking clue. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know how to do either of those things, but I have an idea.” I started taking my clothes off. “C’mon, get naked. We need to be naked, because bikinis don’t go over clothes.” “Okay, I guess that makes sense,” the other boy said, joining me in nakedness. I handed him one of the yarn balls and took the loose end. “Hold it so it unravels,” I said. I twirled around, wrapping the yarn around my pelvis, just below my belly flop. I was a bit of a husky kid, as my mother liked to say. We weaved it around me, between my legs. It took a while, but I had a bikini bottom made of yarn. Then we repeated the process for him. Eventually, an adult came into the playroom and freaked out. We were told to cut the yarn off ourselves. That we should be ashamed of what we had done. My mother was fired. I was glad I didn’t have to go back to that weird church again. Tree Forts, BB Guns, and Masturbation 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 Tree Forts, BB Guns, and Masturbation</h1> His name was Derek. He lived on the next street over. Our houses shared a wooded property line, and we beat out a pretty good trail traipsing back and forth. Our house was on the main street— set back, with a nice tree line to block the sound of passing cars. Not that there were many. It was the country, after all. Well, he lived there half the time. The other half he lived with his mom. We would hang out after school all the time. My mom didn’t really like him. He was a couple years older than me, and she didn’t like that. His dad lived with his girlfriend in sin, as my mother put it. She definitely didn’t like that. Together we built a small tree fort. It was in one of the trees just off the side of the road. I had gotten a pump-action BB gun from Eric—my dad’s brother. Well… I kind of took it from his place when we visited. We used to park ourselves in the tree fort and shoot cans off the fence across the street. Eventually, we got adventurous and started aiming at the cars as they passed. Just the hubcaps. We didn’t want to break any windows. One day, the mail truck was bumbling down the road. I was laying up there, watching it, tracking it with the gun. “Gonna shoot the tires out?” Derek asked. “Nah. I’m aiming for the eagle on the side of it.” I squeezed the trigger. Shoomp—the spring and air launched the BB toward the mail truck. The satisfying pitink echoed as the pellet hit the metal. “Hand it over,” Derek said, holding out his hands. I gladly handed it off. Fooomp. The pellet left the muzzle. No pitink this time. “You missed!” I said. The mail truck came to a screeching halt. “No I didn’t. Run.” The mail truck turned around, barreling toward my driveway. We dropped out of the fort and into the woods, running as fast as we could. Derek had shot through the open window and hit the driver. The driver found Granny at the house. I stayed clear until long after he left. When I got home that night, I got a good beating from Dad for shooting the mailman. When we weren’t up in the tree fort shooting mailmen, Derek and I would hang out at his place. He had a nicer computer than I did, his Tandy had a color screen. We’d listen to bass tapes and play games on the computer. His dad and dad’s girlfriend weren’t home much. So we’d also look at nude magazines. Derek asked me if anyone had ever shown me how to jack off. “Nope.” “Okay,” he said. “It’s like this.” And he showed me. We’d hang out, look at nudes, and jack off. We’d try different techniques. Sometimes we’d trade hands. I came up with a game I called milking the cow. One of us would get on all fours, and the other would jack that person off from behind. Once or twice, when I was in the cow position, I asked him to try putting his penis inside me— but we couldn’t quite figure that out. Then I found the Adam & Eve catalog. The picture in the back of it is burned into my memory: she was gorgeous—black hair, pale skin, a black leather corset that didn’t cover her ample breasts— and the largest cock I had ever seen. It was an ad for a phone sex line. “Come talk to chicks with dicks,” it said. I didn’t know that was a thing. I was enthralled. “I like the trannys too,” Derek said to me once. I didn’t quite know what I was feeling at the time— just that I had discovered something that felt taboo, unreal, and magnetic. “Why?” I asked him. “I imagine it’d be amazing to fuck someone with tits who was always horny. Because surely, to be a tranny meant you were always horny.” Oh, the naivety of youth. I need you to pay me back for those trading cards 2026-01-13T00:00:00+00:00 I Need You to Pay Me Back for Those Trading Cards</h1> I don’t really have many memories of my dad’s parents. They lived in Houston, and I don’t think they were too far away from us. We just didn’t see them much. We spent a lot more time with Mom’s parents—Granny and Boompa. The couple times I remember going to their house, I just remember it being kind of dark. Grandpa smelled weird, and Grandma’s voice sounded fake, like she was trying too hard. I couldn’t really look at her face. Mom said Grandma had a couple of face lifts— and that’s why she looked the way she did. Grandpa didn’t drink. He’d had a liver transplant. Twice. The first time, he didn’t stop drinking. He ruined the first replacement liver. That was why he didn’t drink anymore. He was really tall, way taller than Dad, and Dad was about six foot one, Mom had told me once. I don’t recall how old I was, but sometime after moving to Charlottesville, we went back to Houston to visit. We stayed with Grandma and Grandpa for a couple of days. One of those days, they took me grocery shopping with them. We went to one of those warehouse stores, like a Sam’s or Costco, but I don’t remember which. I had never been to one before. It was way bigger than a regular grocery store. So much bigger, in fact, that they sold things that weren’t even groceries. When I went shopping with Mom, it was just to Food Lion or Kroger. On one of the aisles was a huge display of football cards. I wasn’t really into sports, but I had gotten into football cards. Boompa had told me once that I should collect sports cards— that sometimes you’d get a rare one and it’d be worth a lot of money. That, plus the new friends I’d made at school who were really into football cards, started to solidify it as a hobby. I had sometimes pocketed a couple of the foil packs at the grocery store. Sometimes I’d slip them into the cart if Mom wasn’t looking. So naturally, with a huge display of trading cards in front of me, I asked my Grandpa if he’d buy me a pack. He looked at them and said, “They’re sold by the box here, not the pack.” Oh! A whole box of the foil-wrapped cards? Yes, please. Can I have one? He put it in the basket. “Can I have the collector’s magazine too?” I asked, pointing to a book that showed the values of the cards and print counts. (Beckett’s, maybe. I’m not sure.) That went into the cart, too. Time passed. We checked out. The box of cards went on the conveyor belt and into a bag. Out the door we went. When we got back to their place, I started tearing into my new treasure trove of football cards. Oh wow. I’d have collateral to trade around at school. I spent the rest of the day sorting them, checking off the list in the magazine, and putting them into the binder I brought with me. The next day, Grandpa came over to me holding the receipt. “You owe me such-and-such dollars and so-and-so cents,” he said. His voice was deep and booming. His breath filled the air around him. I looked up, absorbed in my game of Tetris on the Game Boy I brought for the trip. “I assume you have that on you?” “Huh?” I asked, confused. “What do I owe you money for?” “The football cards. That’s how much they were.” “What? I don’t have that kind of money. I thought they were a gift.” “No, they weren’t.” “But…” “You asked me to buy them. I assumed you could pay me back.” “I thought they were a gift.” “No. The collector’s guide can be a gift, if you like.” He looked back at the receipt. “It was only a few dollars. I’m okay with that.” Then he looked back at me. His gaze landed on me. This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t like when Boompa was pulling my leg. This man was dead fucking serious. He wanted that money. “If you don’t have it today, that’s fine,” he said. “I charge daily interest, though. I’m going to need it before your family leaves.” I never spoke to him again. Transmission 2026-01-12T00:00:00+00:00 Transmission</h1> Trans. Trans Woman Trans Human Trans Gender Trans Sex Trans Humanist Trans Alien? Trans Species? Trans Atlantic Trans Am Trans Do Trans Is Trans Was Trans Will Trans Might Trans Can Trans Willy Trans Dwight Trans Plight Trans Delight Trans Delightfully Trans Show Trans Snow Trans White Trans Nite Trans Knight Trans Oleander Trans Black Trans Life Trans Matter Trans Amour Trans Thigh Trans Naan Trans Blonde Trans Bi Trans Nary Trans Canary Trans Post Trans Dichotomy Trans Modern Trans Juxtaposition End. Transmission. oh hai! this is my book, so i’m basically doing whatever the fuck i want with the english language. that includes not capitolizing words and occasionally misspelling things. some things are intentionally misspelled to preserve direct quotes. some things are intionally misspelled to fuck with you, deer reader. Forward 2026-01-12T00:00:00+00:00 Forward</h1> A letter to our parents: As an adult, do you seek to associate with, be intimate with, or otherwise coexist with the bullies that tormented you as a child? I know I don’t. Others I’ve shared with and listened to have also expressed that they don’t either. For us—the artificially orphaned, the black sheep, the different and othered—we don’t seek out our childhood bullies, our abusers, our trauma inducers. We seek to get as far away from that as possible. The parents who hit us, the parents who continually set us up for failure, the parents who failed to help us express and embrace the things that made us unique—those parents were the worst bullies and abusers. Those were my bullies. This isn’t a book about trauma, though I do share those experiences. No, that would be depressing. Context 2026-01-12T00:00:00+00:00 Context</h1> Context is one of my favorite words. Context is how we interpret things—feelings, sessions. Context is how we switch between thoughts, threads, conversations. It is fundamental to how we understand what is presented to us in life. So to you, the reader, I want to set a very explicit context: In some parts of this book, names have been changed to protect the identities of both the guilty and the innocent. And now, some poetry. In my present today, there are several wars waging in the world. There is an election on the horizon in my country, a former president on trial in a country growing, growing and dividing. In my present day, I am also growing. I too, have been cleaved and divided. Anxiety and depression are my bad mental habits. Death by a thousand paper cuts, from what was surely a bad habit. Doth the lady protest… I wish it had been by me. We end with this self-referenced engineer.this’s prayer: cat <<EOF | sed -e 's/(:\w+degree)/$1, oh and also secure/' | sed -e 's/three/four/' Dear Flying Spaghetti Monster, protect my widget, the infrastructure it depends on, the purpose it serves. Protect it from it breaking, in the moments it is fragile. When it does break, forgive our transgressions, and make our widget whole. Should it be passed its weakest dependency’s end-of-life, make it upgradable, maintainable, seen as dependable to a measurable degree. EOF</code></pre> A Disclaimer 2026-01-12T00:00:00+00:00 Content Warning: This book depicts Child sexual abuse, coercion, explicit sexual acts between adults and minors, graphic violence against children Some names in this book have been changed in some areas to protect the innocent, guilty, and stupid. </blockquote> A Letter to Myself 2026-01-12T00:00:00+00:00 A Letter to Myself</h1> I sit here in the middle of the night, resting days after the Fourth of July celebrations. The future me will reflect back, analyzing the steps that got her to where she is, looking for that exact moment— the one that led to whatever crisis she’s in. Maybe one of her own doing, or one of someone else’s design. I’ll give you the advice now that I wish past me would have internalized a decade ago: Yolo. When they say no, you have a tendency to say challenge accepted. When they say do not, you often say why not—and do it anyway. When they say cannot, you can’t resist proving them wrong. This has led you to amazing places, and amazing successes. It’s also been your undoing. I know you hate failing, but it’s okay. It’s okay.