Most people, when faced with emotional turmoil or the existential hollowness that can accompany a breakup, life change, or midlife cheese crisis, turn to traditional emotional support animals (ESA). The kind you can walk on a leash, teach to fetch, or post about on social media without having to explain yourself to the FBI. Dogs. Cats. Occasionally, a snake. But I am not most people. My emotional healing journey took me down an alley behind the pet store of reason and into the black-market reptile tent of chaos. My ESAs weren’t just unusual. They were the kind of creatures that require reinforced enclosures, legally binding waivers, and, in several cases,…
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Money for Nothing The Misadventures of the Chronically Employed
“That ain’t workin’, that’s the way you do it Get your money for nothing, get your chicks for free” – Dire Straits, 1985 We’ve all done things for money. Some noble. Some necessary. And some that still wake us up at night in a cold sweat, with the faint echo of elevator music and the itch of polyester uniforms. From the moment we’re tall enough to reach a cash register and can fake a smile that says, “Yes, I’d love to help you find your size in a shoe we haven’t carried since 1983,” we’re ushered into a world of occupational roulette. Sometimes you land on “Valuable Life Experience.” Sometimes…
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Your Senior Trip The Ups and Downs of Staying on Your Feet After 65
It happened somewhere over the Rockies, midflight to Denver, when our 747 decided to impersonate a bucking bronco. Luggage compartments popped open like jack-in-the-boxes, a snack cart took a nosedive into first class, and my seatmate—a silver-foxed gentleman with a face like a wise walnut—was flailing for his armrest like it owed him money. “This is nothing,” he bellowed, barely dodging a renegade peanut packet as it whizzed by his ear. “You should try getting out of my bathtub!” I let out a wheeze-laugh, clutched the seat in front of me, and tried not to go airborne. Because, as a seventy-something jet-setter with knees that audibly negotiate every step like…
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Impulse Control Has Left the Building bvFTD: The Elvis of neurological disorders
Finding accurate, easy-to-read information on the internet these days is like trying to brush your teeth while eating Oreos. Sure, there are plenty of posts, tweets, threads, and AI-generated “expert” breakdowns—but how much of it is actually helpful? These days, everybody with a Wi-Fi connection and a ring light seems to think they’re a neurologist. And trying to understand something like Behavioral Variant Frontotemporal Dementia? Fuggedaboudit! It’s either written in dense medicalese only decipherable by ancient scholars of Gray’s Anatomy, or it’s so dumbed down, you walk away wondering what you just read. So in a world where misinformation spreads faster than grandma’s secret chili recipe at a church potluck,…
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Botinal, Bergamot, and Betrayal One Man's Small Price for Looking Perfect
Ah, the folly of youth. Or rather, the folly of middle age, when one suddenly awakens to the quagmire of vanity and seeks—nay, demands—a resurgence, an odyssey back to one’s former splendor. And so, there I was, three days post-divorce, standing before the mirror, staring at the vestige of a man who once gallivanted through life with the audacity of a raconteur unburdened by the indignities of time. Indubitably, something had to be done. Thus began my clandestine foray into the world of men’s cosmetics—not merely a dabble, but a full-fledged adventure, a spectacle of transformation worthy of legend. My first acquisition was the renowned Botinal Line Defense Facial Masque,…
