I’m Sorry in Advance.

If you read this blog long enough, you are going to learn things about me you didn’t want to know. That is a guarantee. My writing style can best be described as “telling a stranger on the bus my deepest secrets” while said stranger desperately looks for the stop cord. We don’t do small talk here. We don’t do the weather, unless the weather is a metaphor for my existential dread. We do deep dives into anxieties, awkward encounters, and the messy, unpolished reality of being a human who thinks entirely too much.

So, buckle up. Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

I was sitting here this morning, basking in a very specific, self-satisfied glow. It’s that feeling of having total, granular control over a chaotic universe, or at least the very small part of the universe that constitutes my digestive tract. I track everything. I don’t just “watch what I eat.” I surveil it. I have a mild case of transient anemia, which sounds dramatic but really just means I have to be mathematically precise about my iron intake or else I swoon like a Victorian lady in a corset.

I track the grams of protein. I track the milligrams of iron. And honestly, I couldn’t do it without artificial intelligence. I’ve offloaded my neuroses to the algorithm. I tell the AI what I’m eating, and it tells me if I’m going to live forever or if I need to eat a handful of spinach immediately. It helps me navigate these complex tasks with the cold, hard logic I sometimes lack. It’s one of my eccentric and captivating little quirks—treating my body like a biological machine that requires precise inputs.

Speaking of inputs, let’s look at the data. My doctor is always amazed at how much I know about food and dietary planning. I have food scheduling down to a science. A weird, slightly gross science? Maybe. But a science nonetheless.

Here is the autopsy of my breakfast this morning:

• Two poached eggs (Iron source, obviously).
• One Ore-Ida hash brown potato cake (for the soul).
• Two ounces of warmed firm tofu with soy sauce on it.
• One standard serving of Cream of Wheat cereal.
• Two tablespoons of smooth peanut butter mixed in.
• A teaspoon of white sugar for sweetness.
• And, of course, the obligatory decaf coffee.

I know what you’re thinking. Tofu and Cream of Wheat? together? Yes. The tofu provides the plant-based protein bump I need without the cholesterol, and the soy sauce adds a umami kick that wakes up the palate. The Cream of Wheat with peanut butter is essentially a warm, nutty sludge of comfort.

Total damage? 636 calories.

My daily allotment? 1,800 calories.

I have 1,164 calories left to navigate the rest of the day. Knowing this gives me a sense of peace that is difficult to describe to people who just “eat when they are hungry.” I don’t eat when I’m hungry; I eat when the spreadsheet says the fuel tank is low.

But then, as I’m sitting there feeling smug about my caloric deficit and my iron levels, my mind does what it always does: it jumps the tracks. It leaves the safe harbor of my kitchen table and heads out into the deep, turbulent waters of geopolitics.

I guess the United States is in the business of piracy on the high seas now.

I was reading about how we are taking control of ships flying international flags in international waters. The excuse? They say the ships are running drugs from Venezuela. Maybe they are. Maybe they aren’t. Of course, there might be some facts that I am not privy to, seeing as how the White House seems to love to redact things or to make implausible explanations to justify some of the things they do.

I hate judging things the government does. I really do. I want to believe there are smart people in a room somewhere making hard choices for the greater good. But I also feel I have a right to express my inner feeling… my gut instincts, if you will. And my gut instinct tells me that seizing ships in international waters is a slippery slope. It feels like the actions of an empire flailing about, grabbing what it can, justifying it later with black marker over the sensitive parts of the documents.

It’s jarring, isn’t it? To go from the comfort of peanut butter in Cream of Wheat to the anxiety of state-sponsored piracy? But that’s how my brain works. One minute I’m worried about my hemoglobin levels, and the next I’m worried about the sanctity of maritime law. It’s all connected. It’s all about boundaries. The boundaries of my body, the boundaries of nations. When they get violated, things go wrong.

But just as I was working myself into a froth about Venezuelan drug runners and the Fourth Amendment applied to the Atlantic Ocean, the doorbell rang.

Reality has a way of interrupting your internal monologues.

It was our neighbor from across the street, Jerry. He dropped in to give Jim and me some home-baked cookies his wife made. Now, you need to understand, Jerry’s wife isn’t just someone who likes to bake; she is a professional baker. These aren’t just cookies; they are circular discs of pure, unadulterated joy. Jerry was doing the rounds, wishing us a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year—you know the drill. The standard suburban ritual. We stood in the doorway, exchanged pleasantries, feigned surprise, and accepted the tin.

It was a nice moment. A human moment. The kind of moment that makes you forget about international piracy for at least thirty seconds.

But then, Jerry departed. The door closed. The silence returned. And my friend Jim turned to me, a look of genuine concern on his face, and said, “Gee, I hope there was no noticeable ‘Old Man’ smell in the house when Jerry was here.”

I stared at him. I stared at the tin of professional-grade cookies Jerry had given to us:

Old Man smell?

Like I could give a shit about an “Old Man” smell.

First of all, what is that? Is it mothballs? Is it stale coffee? Is it the scent of decaying dreams and expired coupons? Is it a biological inevitability caused by the breakdown of omega-7 fatty acids on the skin? (Yes, I looked that up. I have AI, remember?)

I don’t care. I honestly don’t. If Jerry smelled “Old Man,” then he smelled the scent of survival. He smelled two guys who have made it this far, navigating anemia and dietary restrictions and political anxiety.

“Jim,” I said, popping the lid off the tin. “I just want to scarf down these cookies.”

And we did. We scarfed them down. (“Scarf” is a regional term I learned from a boy from Louisiana when I was in the Air Force in 1964). The neighbor cookies were excellent, by the way. Absolutely worth the caloric spike. I’ll have to adjust the spreadsheet later. Maybe skip the tofu tomorrow. Or not. Life is short.

But Jim’s comment stuck with me, despite my dismissal. It’s that lingering insecurity, isn’t it? We spend so much time curating our lives—tracking the iron, reading the news, forming opinions on the White House—but in the end, we’re terrified that we just smell like decay to the neighbors. We worry that the facade is cracking.

I refuse to let that anxiety win. I refuse to worry about the olfactory opinion of a neighbor, even one as nice as Jerry. Instead, I choose to focus on action. Reciprocity.

I think I will buy Jerry and his wife a new pressure cooker or something. Maybe an Instant Pot. It seems like a solid, practical gift for a baker and her husband. I’ll wrap it up, write a card that says nothing about smells or piracy, and place it on their front porch with their name on the package.

It’s a simple transaction. They gave us sugar and fat; I will give them the means to cook beans and tough cuts of meat under high pressure.

It’s the least I can do. After all, we’re all just pirates of a sort, sailing our little ships through international waters, hoping the government doesn’t board us, trying to keep our iron levels up, and praying we don’t stink.

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