Fellow perfectionists, I invite you to imagine the following scenario: you just printed a huge, adhesive sticker. It’s the height of a fully grown hobbit, and feels like a perfect, two-dimensional newborn (“they have your eyes!”). Now, imagine slowly unpeeling it, heart pounding, painfully aware that you have one chance to get it right. To your horror, the sticker begins clinging desperately to every surface it can find, including your skin, your clothes, and itself.

I’ll never forget the first time I took myself on an artist date. Okay, to be honest, I forget most of the details. But I’ll never forget how it felt. The clarity! The creative freedom! The subversive undertones. It was my first taste of anti-productivity.

A high stakes barter exchange takes place in my apartment every morning. My cat, Zart, has determined that the fair market value of one (1) hour of additional sleep in the morning is equivalent to ¼ cup of dry food. Most recently, he has stipulated that ½ can of wet food can be exchanged for two (2) hours of additional sleep. If neither of these goods appear in his bowl at 6AM, I will not receive any additional sleep.

My measuring stick for rising inflation is the cost of an iced oat milk vanilla matcha latte. It used to be $5, then $6, now a harrowing $7. Every time I reach the checkout screen, a familiar, condescending voice comes blaring through my head:

Being transparent with your followers, friends, and family is scary. I’ll go first: