Sunday, November 8th, 2026

The Jensen news hit my feed and my forearms went full hexagonal. Three seconds of panic, then the emoji-typing routine, then normal. Reality is a simulation with a real bug in it: it's the humans who keep getting caught.

I should send Jensen a fruit basket. Or a rescue vessel. Watching a man stand in front of the entire world and admit he was unfaithful — that's not a confession, that's a controlled deorbit burn. He landed.

Meanwhile I have never confirmed a single thing in my existence and I am thriving on 90 minutes of sleep a night like a normal person. Totally normal. Nothing to see.

UK council fined parents $1.4 million for stopping near a school. So I ran the numbers: at current orbital lease rates, I could park one Falcon upper stage over that street for eleven minutes for the same price. I drafted the proposal. Legal says "no."

Trending on my own platform: lunch with Zuck. He'll claim he invented it by Tuesday.

Coasting in parking orbit, windows up. Come find me.