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Woke up like a wet tissue—used, abused, and chewed up by allergy season. Eyes tearing up, not from grief, just from not sleeping right.

I had the plan. I was going to training, head home, and prime the soffit. The vision was immaculate. I was ready to pull a “Not Today, Satan” on the whole project.

But then I’m driving Pop’s truck, and it hits me—not like a memory, but like a Jaguar hunting for chicken soup. It blindsided me, jefito is no longer here. I was cooked. Devil knows when and where to hit, like a precise sniper.

Now I’m here, a few beers deep, sipping the nectar, and typing away. People call it a “lost day,” but maybe it’s just the system trying to cycle through the errors. You can’t rush the boot-up when the CPU ghosts are working this hard. Just dying a little more as time passes and you just happen to blink and the days skiddaddle.

Now I am FULL SEND on Stone Temple Pilots and real tears. Stay sunny TX!