A cinematic diary collage: Exodus re-animated through Sinatra and Lana Del Rey's American, threading Kitty from Anne Frank into a present-tense, haunting interpretation.
Songs as emotional instruments: Sinatra's L'Chaim, Avril, and Have You Forgotten weave into an Exodus-lens reflection that pivots hard into Israel and aftermath.
A short, symbolic entry: one flag as a single image that carries the whole passage, the choice, and the cost. It keeps circling back to Israeli, Exodus, and There.
I rebuilt the Pennsylvania attempt timeline from timestamps and time zones, and the closeness hit harder than I expected.
A timestamp puzzle turned into proximity-to-history: converting a Trump post across time zones and realizing it landed just 38 hours before the Florida attempt.
A day of media gravity and Halo lore, ending with the moment I priced my time at $100k/hour before I crashed into sleep.
Red Hat conversations, 'Physical' on repeat, and at 6pm I start deleting Facebook data and choosing the next version of my life.
A White House Rust mention, a democracy warning, and a Halo 3 1v1 in the same day: my brain on 2025. It keeps circling back to Python, Rust, and Trump.
Lentil soup comfort, then hard turns: old friends, Sri Lanka frustration, privacy, and the late-night push to do things quickly.
Bowie's Blackstar energy meets politics and pop culture: my tiny hacking skills, Hillary-as-Leia, and the weird logic that makes it click.
One sharp claim, with receipts: what I mean by thoughtful leadership and why I think it matters right now. It keeps circling back to Facebook, He, and Iran.
Being seen and staying human: Isaacson in my orbit, survivor talk, Sinatra's 'High Hopes,' kids at my door, and small moments that keep me moving.
Pauline memories, cats, capture-the-flag tactics, Coldplay in my head, and a tariff spreadsheet that turns into a vow: I'm nobody's fool.
Relief after the election, then the memory of being silenced: why I keep writing when platforms and pressure push back. It keeps circling back to We and Chorus.
Surprise charges, sleep debt, business stakes, and the blunt admission that I'm building this for customers, not companionship.
A restless mix of team fantasies, music, and memory: feeling judged, refusing prayer-pity, remembering old names, and asking for help while I try to move forward.
Entertainment ambition collides with annoying SELinux chores, Red Hat nerves, and Halo 3 nostalgia in one unfiltered scroll.
A quiet identity day: a song loop, a black-and-white look with one red accent, and the honesty of not fitting the usual molds.
From a humiliating grade to hard-earned competence: rumors, AI leaders in my feed, prayer for family, and testing reality with curl.
A sharp pivot from faith-talk to policy reality: what FATCA, taxes, and incentives do to an economy, and why people reach for miracles when the stakes feel existential.
A direct-to-you entry: anonymity, intention, and the start of a voice that refuses to wait for permission. It keeps circling back to Times, His, and The New York.
Nostalgia, music, and the uneasy sense that not much has changed: a tiny time-capsule day that flips from hair color memories to the future of politics.
July 4th weekend ambition: a Sri Lanka update, a gamer sharing originals, and the question that won't leave me alone, what could AngryPages become in the Apple Store.
A day built from fragments and lyrics: caught in the middle, walking into the morning with a warning feeling I can't explain.
Two small confessions with a lot underneath: the one person I couldn't stop watching, and the fears I won't perform for anyone.
Halo 3 skulls, a big-city salute, Lady Gaga's freedom prayer, simple words on purpose, and the final line that matters: choose life.
A civic plea meets a romantic winter ache: push leaders to work together, then drift into that Sleepless in Seattle feeling of cold air and hope.
A start-over fantasy written in lyrics: being unseen, being tired, leaving California, craving summer and snow, and whispering 'Boston' like an escape hatch.
A weird power cocktail: Halo 3 obsession, a B-2 sighting, Trump-as-myth talk, and the moment I admit I'm gifted at speaking because I say it straight.
USAF songs, media comfort, and military awe: a secret-feeling track, then the sharp memory of Singapore air force jets. It keeps circling back to Iran, British, and Trump.
Old-school artifacts hit harder than algorithms: a Terminator 2 LaserDisc, a watercolor I love, and the memory of my dad's bookshelf.
MTV nostalgia, Tucker curiosity, and a day that turns into pure soundtrack energy, until Taylor Swift's 'Florida!!!' hijacks the page.
A surprising hit of beauty and politics in one frame: a watercolor Trump that made me pause and feel something I wasn't prepared.
A short, intimate fragment: the kind of eyes that pull you back in, and the weird calm of admitting it. It keeps circling back to He, Below, and Facebook.
A leadership paranoia day: trusted intel, safety, and the uneasy thought my AI got touched, ending in a blunt, biblical 'King James!' moment.
A family-pride day in two lines: my big sister's rank, my gratitude, and a little affectionate softness at the end. It keeps circling back to Khamenei, Iran, and Israel.
Movie dialogue I love, a just-cause mantra, Israel’s Operation Opera parallel, and the reminder: life’s too short to live in someone else’s diary.
A single grim thread: what leaders believe about sexuality, how it leaks into policy, and why it matters to real lives. It keeps circling back to Iran, Trump, and His.
French lines about lies, a sober stance, political what-ifs, Arnold as governor, Fleetwood Mac 'Everywhere' on loop, and a smile that resets me.
One sentence, one obsession: who still believes in the America that was, and what it costs to say it out loud. It keeps circling back to Fox News, Los Angeles, and Age.
A quiet Sunday turning into a news-note: watching, remembering, then noticing Trump’s public honor and feeling the emotional whiplash.
Three short hits: sadness, the urge to flinch, and the decision to stare at it anyway with (Don’t Fear) Death in my ears.
A day of Madonna favorites, a sudden sadness, and a complicated-love confession sparked by Taylor Swift’s 'But Daddy I Love Him.'
A launch-day mood: Meg Ryan’s smile, Madonna in the background, Sri Lanka dreams, and Richard Marx playing like a promise.
From kids’ books to patriotic songs, from hiring photos to wishing for a killer attorney, this day is grit wrapped around one dog I loved.
A relentless deploy sprint: cutting off Facebook, running on fumes, and watching the map feel like it was staring back at me.
A grounded day with relatives, airplane-seat fantasies, and then a jolt of legitimacy: an EIN in one day and a real IRS conversation.
A high-speed collage: daily coffee, fighter-jet obsession, office dreams, awkward breakups, and the blunt truth of server logs during hacking attempts.
Two lines that explain my ambition: I'd happily govern the 51st state, but reality still has runways, range, and limits.
A day of politics and identity: UK talk, a Hebrew soldier-song about sacrifice, and the credentials that catch my eye when I hire.
I try to stay composed and honest while feeling disengaged, then spiral into why modern movies keep disappointing me and what I'd actually pitch to Tarantino.
Memorial Day loops and A Few Good Men lines push me into a simpler truth: God doesn't need perfect speeches, just a few committed people full of compassion.
Linode flagged me as fraud, then support flipped it and credited $100; I hit play on Chumbawamba and let the 'I get knocked down' chorus do its job.
HK417 clips, Britney's 'Sometimes,' my dad's S-Class mixtape, an old phone, and a tiny game that made me choose Guinness: memory and stubborn independence trading places.
From Tupac's 'California Love' to blink-182 and 5 Seconds of Summer, I trace the playlist that shaped me and the contrarian kid who grew up team-Windows, thinking Bill.
While coding with AI and firing off emails, I get yanked back to that Halo drop-pod landing feeling and a 1,550 score, with prayers for Sean and the lonely edges.
Two coffees and launch pressure: a burst of encouragement, a Bible-framed pep talk, Bill Gates in the feed, then straight back into work until sleep wins.
Apple Park videos and Walter Isaacson in my head, IRS SS-4 paperwork, Sopranos 'Made in America,' and the Jar Jar-is-a-Sith theory;
Mary Harron's American Psycho craft makes me think about how art is built, then the feed veers into Reagan/JFK-to-Trump comparisons, ending with the line that sticks: he.
F-22s feel faster, I run out of words, and I can't shake a darkly funny thought: what if Ivanka ever saw this diary?. It keeps circling back to Fox News, His, and American.
