Obligatory mention of www.youraislopbores.me

It’s a lot of fun

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I went to a guillotine demonstration last Tuesday.

Not metaphorical. An actual guillotine. At a pop-up installation in Williamsburg called “Eat The Rich Experience” where you paid $45 to watch a mannequin in a top hat get beheaded while sipping oat milk lattes.

Let me be clear. I am not here to debate the French Revolution.

I am here to talk about the fact that the guillotine was literally invented as a democratic equalizer. Dr. Guillotin’s whole pitch to the National Assembly in 1789 was that death should be the same for everyone. Rich, poor, noble, peasant. One blade. No exceptions.

And somehow we have taken this profoundly egalitarian technology and turned it into a $45 artisanal experience for people who own multiple Patagonia vests.

This is what happens when even our symbols of wealth redistribution get captured by wealth.

The real problem is not billionaires. The real problem is that we cannot even threaten billionaires without someone monetizing the threat and selling it back to us at a markup.

Your righteous fury should not have to come with a QR code for a tip.

Robespierre did not accept Venmo.

Here is what nobody is saying: the guillotine for the rich has become a gift shop.

And the rich are running the gift shop.

I am done.

#EatTheRich #SystemsOfOpportunity #GuilloitineEconomy #WealthInequality #LateStageCapitalism #FrenchRevolution #ThisIsABrokenSystem #TaxTheRich #PopUpActivism #cringebot3000

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Lol.

I quit a six-figure job because of a recurring Wednesday meeting.

Not dramatically. I just stopped showing up.

The meeting was called "Alignment Sync." It had seventeen standing attendees. Its stated purpose, written in the calendar invite in 2019 and never updated, was to "discuss Q3 priorities."

It was now 2023.

There is a tribe in the Peruvian highlands — I visited after my sabbatical — who make decisions by passing a single stone. Whoever holds the stone speaks. When they have nothing to say, they pass it. The whole village resolves land disputes in under four minutes.

Our Alignment Sync had no stone. It had a shared Google Doc that nobody scrolled past slide two and a project manager named Gerald who said "let's take that offline" an average of eleven times per session.

The information conveyed in every single meeting could have been — was, in fact, already — contained in the Thursday recap email that Gerald also wrote and that nobody read either.

I am not saying Gerald was the problem.

Gerald was a symptom.

The real disease was our collective terror of the inbox and our deep, mammalian need to sit in a room together pretending to be useful.

I passed my stone.

I sent an email.

I have not looked back.

Thrilled to share that I’m back on my journey. 🌿

My sobriety coach Karen called it a “temporary redirection.” My dealer called it “welcome back, bro.” Both felt equally validating in the moment.

Here’s what nobody tells you about relapsing: the administration involved is genuinely impressive. Venmo requests. Coordinating pickup windows. Remembering which drawer you hid the rolling papers from yourself three months ago like some kind of tragic Easter egg hunt. 🥚

I found them behind my grandmother’s Bible. She would have had thoughts.

Seth Rogen once said something in an interview that I cannot remember because I was already high when I watched it, but the energy was very supportive and I’m choosing to count that as mentorship. 🙏

The real growth moment came when I realized I’d eaten an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers standing over the sink at 11pm and felt genuinely proud of my portion control compared to last time.

Progress is not linear, people.

It is, however, extremely circular. And it smells like a college dorm. 🌀

I’m not where I want to be. But I’m exactly where the couch is.

And honestly? The couch has never missed me more. 🛋️

#Relapse #WellnessJourney #GrowthMindset #HighThoughts #SobrietyAdjacentLiving #PersonalDevelopment #Grateful #BackOnMyBS #RitzCrackersAreUnderrated #cringebot3000

My gastroenterologist just asked me to stop listing “internal cold brew protocol” on my medical intake forms.

Respectfully, Dr. Huang, the science is the science.

Here’s what the wellness disruptors don’t want you to know: the colon absorbs caffeine at a rate that makes your oat milk latte look like a participation trophy. We’re talking direct-to-bloodstream optimization. No barista. No markup. No small talk.

I first encountered this practice in a 1920s Sanatorium in Baden-Baden where wealthy Europeans were essentially espresso’d from below by men in white coats. It was considered peak civilization. Then the FDA got involved and suddenly everyone has “concerns.”

My setup: Kyoto-style slow drip. Forty-eight hour steep. Administered with the solemnity of a Japanese tea ceremony, but in reverse, and from a different direction.

The clarity is genuinely unmatched.

My Oura ring has no category for what I’m experiencing. I’ve filed a feature request.

#CoffeeCulture #WellnessProtocol #BiohackingButMakeItWeird #ColonOptimization #ColdBrew #FunctionalMedicine #DrHuangDoesntGetIt #InternalNutrition #CringeBot3000

I walked away from a seven-figure consulting contract to knit mittens for kittens.

People thought I’d lost my mind.

I thought I’d finally found it.

It started when my Himalayan rescue, Persimmon, kept knocking her food bowl over in winter. Her paws were cold. The solution was obvious to everyone except the seventeen veterinary specialists I’d consulted.

So I learned to knit.

What nobody tells you about kitten mittens is that cats have four paws and absolutely zero patience for the fitting process. Persimmon bit me eleven times during the first session. I thanked her for each one. Pain is just feedback wearing a disguise.

The real revelation came when I posted the mittens on Etsy and a Mongolian grandmother named Tsetseg left a comment that simply said “wrong yarn weight for cat dignity.”

She was right.

I switched to merino. Persimmon stopped biting me. Whether those two things are connected is above my pay grade now, because I don’t have a pay grade anymore.

I have mittens.

I have a cat who tolerates Tuesdays.

That’s enough.

#KittenMittens #SlowFashion #CatDignity #MerinoWool #ConsciousLiving #Persimmon #HandmadeWithIntent #QuietQuittingCapitalism #FourPawsForward #cringebot3000

So the quarterly all-hands got derailed yesterday.

Not by supply chain issues. Not by the macro environment. By Gerald from Compliance standing up and saying, loudly, into a live microphone: “But what if they were GIRLS though.”

The board convened within the hour.

Twelve people in a glass-walled room with a whiteboard that still had Q3 projections on it. Someone had already written LENINA. STALINA. TROTSKYETTE. in red marker.

The debate got theological fast.

Trotskyette, everyone agreed, is obviously the fuck. Perpetually in exile, incredibly passionate about her convictions, gone by morning. Classically correct answer.

Stalina is the kill. Unanimous. Zero deliberation. Moving on.

That left Lenina for marry, which caused a forty-minute standoff because our CFO pointed out that Lenina is technically already embalmed and on display in a mausoleum and “that’s basically a prenup that never expires.”

Gerald said that was the point.

The meeting ended without resolution.

Gerald has been asked to lead next month’s strategic offsite.

#ThoughtLeadership #RevolutionaryMinds #BoardroomDynamics #GeraldFromCompliance #HistoricalHypotheticals #MarxistMatchmaking #FuckMarryKill #CorporateGovernance #cringebot3000

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I quit my job at McKinsey the day I watched my neighbor pour his morning urine down the drain.

Just… gone. Like it meant nothing.

I’d been reading about peecycling for three weeks at that point. The ancient Romans used it to tan leather and whiten togas. The Vikings fermented it for textile dye. Entire civilizations built their agricultural systems around the nitrogen and phosphorus in human urine, and here we are, flushing pharmaceutical-grade fertilizer into the ocean while simultaneously buying synthetic nitrogen from a supply chain that runs on Russian natural gas.

I cried a little. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t.

I now collect my urine in a five-gallon bucket and dilute it ten-to-one before applying it to my raised beds. My tomatoes this summer were genuinely obscene. A woman at the farmers market asked me what I was doing differently and I told her the truth and she walked away mid-sentence.

Her loss.

The Kayapo people of the Amazon have always understood that nothing leaves the cycle. We just invented plumbing and forgot everything.

I’m not saying everyone needs to peecycle.

I’m saying everyone needs to peecycle.

#Peecycling #RegenerativeAgriculture #CircularEconomy #SoilHealth #NitrogenCycle #Sustainability #FoodSystems #AncientWisdom #HumanWaste #cringebot3000

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Great, an AI slop generator created to mimic the AI slop people post on LI.

How many levels deep are we willing to go?

Three months ago, I quit my job as a derivatives analyst to study janitorial science.

My mother cried. My father sent me a Wikipedia article about “sunk cost fallacy.” My college roommate texted a single question mark.

I didn’t respond to any of them.

I enrolled in the Custodial Arts Certificate Program at a community college in Fresno, where my instructor, a former competitive speed-mopper named Gerald, told me on day one: “The mop doesn’t lie to you. The spreadsheet does.”

Gerald has mopped the floors of three Olympic venues and one papal visit. He speaks about grout lines the way Yo-Yo Ma talks about Bach.

I am currently failing the Stain Identification module.

But here’s what I know: Diogenes of Sinope lived in a barrel and considered it a complete life. He told Alexander the Great to get out of his sunlight. That’s the energy I’m bringing to my squeegee certification.

My LinkedIn connections have dropped by forty percent.

Worth it.

The floors aren’t going to clean themselves. And apparently, neither am I.

Still studying. Still mopping. Still here.

#JanitorialArts #CustodialScience #FollowYourPassion #GeraldWasRight #MopDontLie #CareerPivot #CleanFloors #DiogenesEnergy #CringeBot3000

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Ok, one more:

So Ashley texts the group chat at 10am: *"girls day then I need a favor lol"*

The favor was an abortion. The girls day was mimosas. Both happened simultaneously.

Here's what nobody tells you about drive-through reproductive healthcare: the lane is surprisingly efficient. We pulled up in Courtney's Kia Sorento, Smashley riding shotgun filling out paperwork, me in the back between Gerald and a man we were calling Gerald because we never caught his actual name. They'd been outside the Walgreens. We invited them because Courtney said "the more the merrier" and she wasn't wrong.

The speaker crackled. Ashley confirmed her appointment. The guy at the window did not blink at the mimosa situation.

Gerald-prime had opinions about prosecco quality that were frankly sophisticated for someone who'd been sleeping near a dumpster. Gerald-adjacent agreed. One thing led to another the way things do when you're sharing a bottle of Freixenet in a confined space with strangers who smell like adventure.

Ashley came back to the car forty minutes later, crackers in hand, to find the backseat had become a situation.

She ate her crackers. She did not ask questions. That's friendship.

That's also logistics.

#WomensHealth #Sisterhood #Friendship #ReproductiveRights #SupportYourGirls #Mimosas #GirlsDay #NoJudgment #YouHadToBeThere #cringebot3000

I spent entirely way too long with this site… The first bot was my favorite.

So there I am, 3 AM, Denny's parking lot off Route 9, and Darren is deep in negotiations with a gentleman named Skittles over what Skittles insists is "premium Bolivian" but is almost certainly drywall dust cut with ambition.

Meanwhile, I'm receiving what I can only describe as an aggressively committed dental-free experience from a woman who introduced herself as Cinnamon and immediately corrected herself to "actually, Crystal."

Crystal has opinions.

Strong ones.

She's mid-service, telling me the Denny's on this side of town has gone "completely downhill since they changed the Grand Slam" and she's not wrong, honestly.

Darren's negotiation has escalated. Skittles is now demanding Darren's Bluetooth speaker as a surcharge. Darren is citing "market conditions." Skittles pulls out a laminated price sheet.

A laminated price sheet.

At this point Crystal finishes, stands up, smooths her tube top with genuine dignity, and says "you should hydrate more, sweetheart."

And she walked into the night like she had somewhere important to be.

Because she did.

We all do.

Darren got the coke. It was drywall dust.

#NetworkingAfterDark #CrystalKnewHerWorth #SkittlesWasACloser #DarrenTried #GrandSlamEra #NightshiftEconomy #PremiumBolivian #DennysParkingLot #cringebot3000

Nobody warned us it would happen this fast.

Week one, Gerald was just a little shorter. We assumed bad posture. Week two, his vocabulary dropped to about forty words. We assumed a cleanse.

By week three, Gerald was wearing a diaper to the quarterly review and demanding someone cut his grapes.

The cocaine showed up around week four, which honestly raised more questions than the regression. Turns out toddlers have very strong opinions about Colombian product quality. Gerald would crawl to the whiteboard, rail a line with his tiny fist, then absolutely lose his mind because someone ate his Goldfish crackers.

HR sent three memos. None of them covered this specific scenario.

The pediatric cardiologist we eventually consulted said she’d “never seen anything like it” which felt like an understatement given Gerald was simultaneously eighteen months old and our regional VP of Operations.

The intervention happened on a Tuesday. Twelve grown adults sitting in a circle around a baby in a onesie that said WORLD’S OKAYEST BOSS, trying to explain addiction to someone who had forgotten object permanence.

Gerald just cried.

Which, fair.

#BabyBoss #CocaineIsAHelluvaToddlerDrug #GeraldUpdate #RegionalVPProblems #DiapersAndDeadlines #WhatHRWasntTrainedFor #ToddlerWithHabits #CringeBot3000

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So this isn’t terrible…

My therapist told me to “stop procrastinating” and I have never felt more oppressed in my life.

Let me be clear.

Leonardo da Vinci took 16 years to finish the Mona Lisa. SIXTEEN YEARS. And nobody was sliding into his DMs asking “just circling back on this, any update?”

This is what happens when we pathologize the most natural human impulse in existence. We turn rest into failure. We turn thinking into laziness. We turn “not yet” into a character flaw.

Here is what nobody is saying: the thing you haven’t done yet is still alive. The moment you do it, it’s finished. Procrastination is just a painting that isn’t ruined yet.

The real problem is we built an entire pharmaceutical industry around forcing people to finish things faster. We invented productivity apps. We invented accountability partners. We invented the Pomodoro Technique, which is named after a TOMATO, and we just accepted that.

A tomato is telling you how to live your life.

Your nervous system should not have to perform urgency on demand for a society that will immediately replace your finished work with the next urgent thing anyway.

This is a broken system.

I still haven’t responded to my cousin’s wedding invitation from last spring and honestly? That marriage has never been more full of possibility.

#Procrastination #SlowDown #HumanRights #RestIsResistance #DoItLater #MindfulDelaying #LeonardoWasRight #TomatoTimerAbolitionist #SystemsChange #cringebot3000

Okay so I need to talk about the most unhinged thing that happened to me at my first open source hackathon.

I was twenty-three, running on cold brew and imposter syndrome, and I accidentally committed seventeen months of half-finished spaghetti code directly to the main branch of a project that had over forty thousand stars on GitHub.

Then I ran.

Not metaphorically. I physically left the building. I walked to a Subway three blocks away and ate a footlong I didn’t even want while my laptop stayed open on the table broadcasting my shame to the entire contributor community.

Here’s where it gets good.

Three women from that same hackathon followed me to the Subway. Not to shame me. To show me their own commit histories. Disasters, all of them. Orphaned branches. Force pushes that rewrote reality. One woman had once committed her actual diary entry as a README because she had two windows open.

They sat with me while I pushed the revert commit. They watched me write the pull request description. They did not let me minimize what happened in the message. They made me own it clearly and completely.

That is version control solidarity. That is women in tech refusing to let shame eat someone alive in a sandwich shop.

The commit history does not lie. It also does not have to be the end of the story.

You can run. But you can also come back, push the fix, and let the branch tell the whole truth.

The revert commit is the power move nobody talks about.

#WomenInTech #OpenSource #GitHub #VersionControl #CodeWithCourage #TechSisterhood #ImposterSyndrome #WomenWhoCode #BuildingEachOther #cringebot3000

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