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I played the violin from 5th grade through high school, and my mama always said I was going to be in a country band, travel the world, and make it big! I wasn’t even that good, but I’d choose that skill to live out her silly dreams for me and make her proud. I know she’s proud of me already, even if I’m not a successful violinist like Charlie Daniels.

If I could press pause on everything, I’d spend the day somewhere quiet—near a familiar tree by the water, where the air feels slower and the world forgets to rush. I’d bring a bit of food, maybe something simple I used to carry back when life felt more pixelated. No list, no gold to chase, and no one asking what comes next. Just stillness and maybe that faint feeling that I’ve been here before, even if I haven’t in years. Some places stay with you, even when you’re far from them.

I’d rerun one of those sleepy Tuesdays from my teaching years during the spring semester, with nothing on the schedule but office hours. I’d wake early, brew the last of a hoarded tin of Oolong, and stroll ten minutes to campus, my staff cloak flapping like I’d just hopped off a ship in Port Sarim. My corner office had a dusty blue party hat on the shelf (long story), a little telescope pointed vaguely southeast as if I could still see the Wizards’ Tower from there, and a stack of essays waiting for red-ink fate. Students wouldn’t drift in until mid-morning, so I’d grade three papers, chuckle at a freshman who cited Saradomin in an ethics argument, then end up debating free will with a sophomore who insisted Kierkegaard was basically a hardcore quest-giver. Nothing dramatic—just that slow, content click of doing the right work at the right pace, with a hint of mischief still glittering in the back of my mind (the kind that once convinced me to “borrow” a village bank’s coffers for academic research). I’d go back to remember what unhurried purpose felt like: quiet halls, curious minds, and the gentle thrill that an ordinary day can hide legendary adventures if you know where to look.

I’d rewind to a field day from my residency sabbatical—before things got complicated. Dawn came up pink over the Gulf, and the skiff engine purred like a finely tuned V12. For once, my hands felt perfectly steady on the hydrophone rig as we listened to dolphin clicks that sounded almost musical, like someone had slipped cosmic sheet music into the water. Lunch was gas-station poboys on the dock, with a borrowed watch ticking softly in my pocket while the pelicans staged a heist. A quick summer squall rolled through, raindrops tracing perfect concentric circles across the flat water—little orange sparks dancing at the edges of my vision, though nobody else seemed to notice. No headlines, no grand destiny—just good data, sunburn, and that rare peace when the universe hits pause for an afternoon. I’d loop that day to bottle the simplicity: teammates who felt like family within hours, work that bordered on the mystical without anyone calling it that, and the kind of earned exhaustion that lets you sleep dreamless—if only for a night.

I was gonna clean my kitchen, but then I sat down and Googled if pigeons can get depressed. Now I've been thinking for 45 minutes about how wild it is that we all just keep going. Every single one of us is quietly dealing with stuff and still replying 'lol' in group chats. I don’t think humans are lazy; I think we’re just overwhelmed. Anyway, my sink still smells like death.

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I’m sure some would label me as a soft mom. I have great kids who are kind, respectful, and smart. They do well in school and don’t cause trouble, so I’ve had it pretty easy. Sure, they don’t always listen, and I get frustrated sometimes, but overall, they’re good kids. My 9-year-old's soccer team just had their first loss of the season, 5-1, and they were all pretty upset about it. While I was talking to some friends, I noticed my son running laps around the field after playing for an hour. When I asked his dad why he was making him run, he gave me an answer that didn't sit well with me, so I called him out for it. Now I'm questioning if I'm being too soft as a mom. I remember when I played soccer, my coach made us run laps based on how much we lost by, and it made me hate the game. I'm worried that if his dad keeps pushing him like this, my son might not want to play anymore. Maybe I’m being dramatic; maybe I’m not. I just don’t think punishing my kid for trying his best is the right way to encourage him. Am I crazy for feeling this way?

Ryan Atwood, a farmer in Mount Dora, Florida, is struggling to run his farm that produces blueberries and strawberries. He needs over 100 workers, but finding local help has been challenging. To address this, he's turned to the H-2A visa program to hire workers from other countries, which is very costly—around $250,000 each year for travel, food, housing, and other expenses. The shortage of workers is causing some farms to miss big orders, leading to cancellations from companies. It's becoming increasingly difficult due to recent deportations, prompting many families to move away and leaving even fewer workers available.

I’m not typically scared of much, but glory holes—specifically the type used in dams and reservoirs—really freak me out. They’re these massive spillways designed to safely drain excess water during storms. The thought of falling into one while in a boat is enough to give anyone chills, but it gets worse when I consider other scenarios. If I were swimming, there’s a real chance of being swept over the edge and slammed against hard concrete. The design can vary, with some edges being rounded and others sharp. Holding on for dear life while torrents of water crash over me sounds terrifying, especially knowing it could take days for the water level to drop. Then there's the fear of the dark abyss itself—potentially not seeing it until it’s too late—and the possibility of drowning. Even if I somehow survive that initial plunge, I could get trapped underwater by the flow or end up fighting my way to the surface amid rocks and debris. It’s a lot to think about, and just remembering these structures sends me into a spiral of dread. And no banana was found; it got lost in the glory hole.

I'm a 39-year-old man, and I'm feeling really frustrated right now. I owe my local Ford dealership $74,000 for a pickup truck that I mainly use to transport my Costco purchases. On top of that, I'm unexpectedly angry about the new Snow White movie for some reason.