Pull-ups are an activity I’ve wanted to be good at for a long time, however the truth is I hate them. I’ve tried to work them into my exercise rotation many times but they’ve never stuck. For as long as I can remember I’ve despised doing them, probably because I’ve got a runner’s body with toothpicks for arms.
Well, 2026 is the year I will get better at pull-ups. A few days ago I bought a pull-up bar and hung it from the door frame of my office. I chose this location because it’s unavoidable as I pass through this threshhold numerous times a day. I wanted an undeniable way to establish muscle memory and create a habbit.
For the past few days, each time I enter and leave, I do as many pull-ups as I can. Entering in the morning, pullups. Grabbing a refill of coffee, pullups. Hitting the head, pullups. Leaving for the evening…you get the picture.
It started on Monday when I could not complete just one good-form rep. Today is Thursday and I just completed five pull-ups as I entered the room to sit down and write this, which feels like a small milestone. My goal now is to progress to the point of being able to do ten perfect-form pull-ups.
I’m not sharing this to humble brag, although I am proud of the progress. I’m sharing as an acknowledgement that the human body and mind are amazing things. All I needed was the persistent reminder to keep trying. Repitition and consistency are the enablers of rapid growth and progress. I’ve known this, but it’s interesting to see tactile results so clearly in just a few days.
In the beginning, there was the pure thing. Then came corruption, commercialization, normies, and death. We’re all walking around with these little creation myths about every domain we care about, and they all end the same way: with us as witnesses to a decline that began right after we showed up.
Culture is cyclical. I think it’s helpful to think about culture not as a binary between alive and dead, but rather an evolution from one point to another. Culture builds on culture builds on culture. It’s progressive, derivative and organic.
The ringer was off, but the sudden vibration was jarring. It was the fourth such vibration in as many minutes. The buzzing phone, lying face down on my desk sent tremors through my forearms as those muscles powered keystrokes from my hands.
This particular notification was a mother on Adeline’s soccer team alerting the team chat app that her daughter wouldn’t be at training that evening. The three previous notifications included a retail store marketing an upcoming sale, a mention from Mastodon, and a text message from my health provider requesting feedback from a recent visit.
Four disruptions in four minutes, my phone had become an unforgiving foghorn. These four minutes were not a one-time exception. Never-ceasing notifications had become the rule – my reality – over time. Once deliberate and discerning with the tentacles I allowed to dictate my attention, my guard had eroded and they were slipping through like seepage.
I’m not sure what it was about these four notifications or this particular four minute window, but they created an awareness toward how these FOMO-driven flechettes have been impacting my presence with and focus on the tasks, ideas and people immediately before me. I noticed myself feeling splintered in this moment. Pulled apart. Traction lost.
In this instant of self realization, I opened the settings on my phone, disabled all notifications except for text messages and phone calls from my immediate family, and saved these changes as a custom focus option I now call Mental Hygiene. This has been my default in recent weeks and it’s improved my quality of life greatly.
FOMO – or fear of missing out – is an interesting cultural abstraction. Technology has conditioned us for speed, constant reachability and the need to always be aware of the latest updates, otherwise we’re left behind.
But filtering out unwanted noise is not being left behind. It is prioritizing attention on what matters. It’s protecting a level of focus that becomes rarer with each new notification and version update.
We should not fear of missing out. Instead, let’s normalize a freedom of missing out. A freedom to let the insignificant and immaterial slide into the ether unnoticed. A freedom to be bored or reflective. A freedom that honors stillness and slowness. A freedom that empowers a focused mind, time spent with meaning, and whole presence in any given moment.
We got about four inches of snow overnight and the roads are awful so it’s a snow day – er, “flexible instruction” day – for my youngest. Instead of being outside sledding, building a snow man or working with the neighborhood kids to create an igloo, she will be tethered to her iPad taking Zoom calls with her classmates and teacher for the majority of the day.
Of course we’ll make some time to get outdoors and do a few of those things today, but I’m sad that this generation of kids will never wake up to the unexpected magic of a true snow day. That elation when you open your eyes in the morning and look out the window to see a white blanket covering everything and learning that school is closed. The whole day ahead with anything possible.
Simple joys like this are receding from childhood and I’m not sure the digital equivalent is comparable. As parents, we should work to keep simple joy in the lives of our children.
Joan Westenberg delivering a message I needed to hear today:
Imagine your 80-year-old self looking back at the day you’re having right now. What would they give to inhabit your body again, to have your knees that don’t ache, your schedule that seems so overwhelmingly full, your problems that feel so urgent?
Mandy Brown writes about honoring the stability of thingness and the suspiciousness of screens:
Screens are inconstant, unsame, unstable. A screen demands my attention—not only via the regular chirping of notifications, as hungry and unrelenting as a baby bird—but through that fundamental inconstancy: I know something may have changed since I last looked at it, know I cannot trust it to remain the same, to be steady or faithful. I must be vigilant towards a screen, always on alert, suspicious.
I’ve only ever owned one belt. It’s an unremarkable belt. Brown leather, about two inches wide with a weighty, minimal brass buckle. I wear it with everything. Brown pants, black pants, blue jeans, whatever. I even have a couple pairs of shorts with belt loops and I wear it with them.
I used to be a bit heavier. When I started running a lot about 10 years ago, the weight poured off and I ran out of holes on the belt. Instead of getting a new one, I just punched a couple more holes into the worn leather and kept on wearing it. I’m not sure why I didn’t go get a new belt. I just didn’t think to.
Getting dressed yesterday it dawned on me that I can’t remember when or where this belt entered my life. I have absolutely no recollection of acquiring it. If I had to guess, it’s probably a belt my mother purchased for me during one of her back-to-school outfitting sessions when I was a teen. So, middle school school probably.
Definitely longer than my kids have been around. Longer than I’ve known my wife.
It’s a versatile belt. My style has evolved over the decades from adolescent punk rocker to middle-aged professional and this belt has ridden my hips the whole way. It serves casual and formal situations alike.
I think about this belt sometimes when I’m standing in a store surrounded by things that are designed to be replaced. There’s something radical about an object that refuses obsolescence by simply continuing to work.
This belt has disappeared into total utility, earning the right to become invisible yet so integrated into my life. I forget it’s there, but can’t imagine a life without it.
I’ve been thinking a lot about attention. My attention, primarily, but also our collective attention and where we direct it in the world.
Like time, attention is a finite resource. But unlike time, we can never run out of attention. There is a never-ending supply until we breathe our last breath. The rub with attention, however, is that even though we have an unending supply, we can only ever fully dedicate it to one thing at one time. This creates a distinctly different scarcity from time. Where time has a scarcity of depletion, attention has a scarcity of distribution.
In every moment, we make attention-allocation decisions. These decisions require active engagement with the world around us. Our reality. You can’t save attention for later. You can’t bank it or invest it or set it aside. You can only practice directing it more intentionally in each moment.
Our world is now designed to make these decisions of direction for us. The notification that pulls us away from conversation. The infinite scrolling that captures twenty minutes we didn’t intend to give. The autoplay that queues up the next video before we’ve processed the current one.
Our world has evolved to be hungry for attention. It’s the capital of our modern times. It wants to train our attention into patterns. It wants to colonize the practice of attention itself, to make fragmentation feel normal.
What if we approached attention differently? Not as a resource to be managed or extracted, but as a practice to be cultivated? What if we chose the here and now over the distant and digital? What would change if our attention was not an opportunity to monetize, but an opportunity to be fully here in this moment?
Being fully present means making intentional choices about where attention goes. Let’s choose to pay attention to the things that help us become fully-present participants in our shared reality.
Craig Mod is launching a pop-up newsletter called Between Two Mountains that will chronicle his upcoming 200k walk along the Kiso-ji. He wrote up some background in his flagship newsletter, Ridgeline:
A valley is nothing if not a thing: Between two mountains. I’ll have mountains on my left, mountains on my right. Mountains before me, and behind, fore and aft. Up and sometimes down: Mountains. All day every day, I’ll always be between them, much like how the world feels, too, like it’s between one hard immovable, immutable block of pure stupidity, and another immutable block made of distilled, sterling boobery. But my mountains will be nice mountains, natural mountains. Mountains who’ve seen a great many things, good and bad, and who’ll be here long after our foolish fire is extinguished.
I love Craig’s mindful approach to literally everything he undertakes and look forward to following along to his journey.
This is about the interconnectedness of all things. The importance of all things, be they big or be they small. Everything has an effect on everything else. Everything in your life is related to everything else. A perfect peach can lead to five pages of good writing. Leaving the house without cleaning the sink can lead to a day of doing shitty design.
I love this. I’m also hesitant to admit to having a creative practice, but noticing, acknowledging & honoring the connected nature of all things greatly informs my own mindset.
Things feel heavy right now. The headlines are grim, the discourse is toxic, and each day seems to bring fresh reasons for despair.
I try to stay optimistic underneath it all. It’s hard. But here’s what I’ve come to realize: optimism isn’t some fluffy feeling I can summon by thinking happy thoughts. It’s a decision. A daily choice to notice what’s actually happening around me.
The real world is still functioning and there is good happening within it. People are still fixing bikes, making coffee, helping their neighbors, creating things with their hands. The static of everyday life – messy, imperfect, beautifully human – keeps crackling along.
You want to know where hope lives? It’s in the fact that someone still grows the tomatoes you buy. That baristas remember how regulars take their coffee. That strangers still help push cars out of snow. That construction workers show up every day to build things that last.
I’m paying attention to the small stuff that works. Noticing the crossing guard who waves at kids every morning. The postal worker who knows which packages need careful handling. The mechanic who just fixed my Jeep for a fair price and didn’t try to screw me over.
Most people are decent. Most systems, despite their flaws, still function. Most problems get solved by people showing up and doing the work, quietly, without fanfare.
We can’t ignore the big problems. But we must remember that they exist alongside a million small things that are going exactly right. The world isn’t broken – it’s complicated. And complicated includes both the disasters and the daily miracles.
I asked AI what we do with time, and it came back with words that were commercial and violent. We spend time, save time, take time, and make it; manage, track, and save it; we kill time, we pass it, we waste it, borrow, and steal it. We abuse time and it beats us back up, either in retribution or self-defense. It’s a zero-sum perspective of the material of our lives; it makes us prisoners to our own utility. The AI said nothing about love, loyalty, or enthusiasm. When you wrap those up, it becomes clear that the best thing to do with time is to devote it.
For some people, attending church on Sunday morning is the spiritual space they need in their lives. I have never been one of those people, but I am someone who needs quiet, reflection and beauty to feel spiritually fulfilled. I find my spiritual space in the nature.
This morning, as the church bells atop North Park rang to signal 8am, I started out on the Green trail. It was foggy and humid, but once I got into the woods, the fog added a layer of mystery to the familiar trail.
As I moved from the Green trail to the Orange trail, I passed a father and young son just starting out on a Father’s Day hike. They were the only two humans I’d see on the trails this morning.
I love solo runs like this. They ground me in a way I presume church or religion does for others. I listen closely to the sound of my breath and the non-rhythms of my footfalls. My mind wanders wherever it wants to wander, much like my body in these trail running moments.
After an hour or so in this zen-like state, I emerged from the woods into the church parking lot refreshed, aware and at ease — a spiritual space those now entering the church will likely have in about an hour.
It’s been several months since I stopped using a smartwatch to track health and exercise metrics, and it’s an understatement to say this simple act has fundamentally altered my mental state in the best possible way. The shift has completely changed my perspective on the purpose of maintaining good health.
Before I made the switch, I could classify my metrics gathering into two buckets:
general life metrics like sleep quality, resting heart rate, and daily steps
workout metrics like pace, weekly miles, and elevation gain
My assumption going into the experiment was that the general life stuff would be easier to let go of than the workout metrics. But to my surprise, I don’t miss the exercise metrics at all.
In fact, not having pace and miles strapped to my wrist – or the pressure to stack miles week over week – allows me to be more present when I’m out there on a run or ride. Not knowing exactly how fast I’m pacing lets me truly listen to my body for cues about when to go harder or when to back off. I can feel my fatigue in greater fidelity, if that makes sense.
For example, I wasn’t feeling 100% after starting this morning’s run, so I decided to power hike the steep inclines of North Park’s South Ridge. In that moment, I thought to myself, “You would never let yourself hike these hills if you had pace on your wrist.” Hiking would slow down my overall pace too significantly.
It’s liberating to be able to run fast when I want to and throttle it back when I feel like I need to. Similarly, it’s refreshing (and sort of weird) to have no idea exactly how far I’m running.
When I returned home from this morning’s run, Jilly asked how far I ran.
“I’m not quite sure,” I told her. “I ran through the woods for about an hour and fifteen minutes, so that’s maybe six or seven miles, but I don’t know for sure.”
She didn’t quite understand why I would run if I wasn’t paying attention to how far I ran.
I think all of this boils down to the phase of life I’m currently in. I’m getting older and I’m okay with that. I’m not chasing paces anymore. I’m not chasing mileage volume. I’m not putting pressure on myself to progress at all costs. I don’t get upset if life gets busy and I don’t have time for my daily run. There are no ultramarathons on my docket.
Things are different now.
These days I’m chasing experiences – I want a unique one with each outing, and that’s only possible if I am fully present during each outing. These days I’m chasing future experiences and a level of fitness that will keep me on this planet for a bit longer so someday in the not-too-distant future I can be active with my grandkids.
That’s a different kind of ultra, but it’s the one I’m training for these days.
My friend Rob calls it my “no excuses jacket.” Every time I show up for a run when the weather is doing its worst—sleeting, pouring, or threatening something even more unpleasant—I’m wearing the same beat-up, greenish-yellow Marmot Precip jacket that’s been my constant companion for years.
It’s not the most technical piece of gear, and it’s certainly not the most stylish. But it has one quality that matters more than anything else: I trust it completely. Through Christmas Eve runs at -11 degrees, winter solstice adventures on the Rachel Carson trail in 18 inches of snow, and just last week when sheets of summer rain turned my morning neighborhood run into an impromptu swimming session, this jacket has never let me down.
The durability isn’t just about the fabric—it’s about the memories woven into every mile. This jacket has been with me through breakthrough runs and breaking points, through moments of clarity on quiet trails and the grinding determination of longer efforts. It’s become more than gear; it’s become a symbol of showing up.
But here’s what I’ve realized: the real power of the “no excuses jacket” isn’t protection from the elements. It’s protection from my own resistance to discomfort.
Weather is just the most obvious form of resistance we face. The cold whispers that it’s too harsh to go out. The rain suggests that maybe today isn’t the day. The wind argues that conditions aren’t ideal. My jacket doesn’t eliminate these conditions—it just gives me the confidence to move through them anyway.
This same principle has started showing up in other areas of my life, particularly in those moments that require a different kind of courage. Like having uncomfortable conversations with team members about performance issues. Or pushing back on a decision I disagree with in a leadership meeting. Or admitting I was wrong about a product direction we’ve been pursuing for months.
These situations don’t require literal weather protection, but they need the same kind of shield—something that helps me face discomfort rather than avoid it. Sometimes it’s preparation that serves as my jacket: spending extra time thinking through a difficult conversation before having it. Sometimes it’s a mindset: reminding myself that avoiding hard truths doesn’t make them disappear. And sometimes it’s simply the accumulated confidence that comes from having weathered difficult moments before.
This isn’t about toxic productivity or grinding through everything that feels hard. There’s a difference between productive discomfort and destructive suffering. The “No Excuses Jacket” philosophy is about being brave enough to engage with the things that matter, even when they feel uncomfortable. It’s about recognizing that the best runs often happen in the worst weather, and the most important conversations often happen when they feel the hardest to have.
The jacket reminds me that I have more capacity for discomfort than I usually give myself credit for. That the anticipation of harsh conditions is often worse than the conditions themselves. That showing up consistently, regardless of circumstances, builds a different kind of strength than any training plan could provide.
There’s something grounding about having a piece of gear—or a practice, or a mindset—that you trust completely. It becomes an anchor point, a reminder that you’ve faced uncertainty before and made it through. My beat-up Precip has become a tangible representation of the principle that we’re more resilient than we think, and that the best version of ourselves often emerges not in perfect conditions, but in spite of imperfect ones.
Letting go is often harder than hanging on. It’s natural to grasp tightly to the people we love, but releasing the hold at times is also natural. It’s hard to understand that sometimes. Letting go requires trust & belief that the love we’ve given over time will endure across any distance.
Few things in life are actually urgent. True emergencies do happen, but hopefully they are rare. The urgency I’m referring to is fabricated. A modern myth.
Our culture has evolved to value instant gratification, instant response and instant turnaround for most things. The faster your synapses get feedback, the better.
It doesn’t need to be this way. In fact, this faux urgency creates conflict with several of the personal pillars I hold dear: care, craft and quality.
Caring about something requires that you get to know it over time. A relationship is necessary for care to exist, and relationships don’t take shape instantly. They’re built on connection, trust and empathy – all elements difficult to nurture quickly.
Likewise, craft requires practice. And by definition, practice is working toward perfection over time. A craft is not developed overnight, but over years. Sometimes decades.
I think quality is the summation of care and craft. A thing of quality can only be the result of time spent caring about an outcome and crafting a response to that care.
All of this requires that we slow down. Turn off the firehose. Preference the signals that matter. Notice the details. Ask nuanced questions. Make space for diverse perspectives. Take on difficult conversations. Become intentional about our actions. By living this way, we’ll be able to center the care and craft required to deliver the quality the world deserves.
Content feeds are infinite, but our time & attention remain finite. Each scroll becomes a small act of self-definition. Little darts aimed toward the mind. Over time we become what we ingest, resembling a collage crafted from moments we’ve deemed worthy of our focus. Choose these moments wisely.
In a conversation earlier today someone used the phrase “feed two birds with one scone” and I absolutely love that vibe so much more than the popular alternative.
Over the past few years, I’ve developed an essential daily practice I call the Elemental Hour. The idea is simple – I commit at least one hour each day to being outdoors, regardless of weather or circumstance. No phone. No music or podcasts. No technology. Just me and whatever elements nature decides to serve up that day.
Sometimes I run. Sometimes I bike. Often, I simply walk. And some days I might just sit on the grass in my backyard, watching clouds drift or rain fall. The only condition that blocks me from the Elemental Hour is active lightning – a concession to safety that I’ve only had to invoke a handful of times.
This daily hour began as an experiment during a particularly screen-heavy period of work and has become an essential part of my wellbeing. It represents a small grounding, a deliberate step away from a technology-infused world. It creates a space where my attention isn’t fragmented by notifications, where success isn’t measured in metrics, and where presence isn’t mediated through a screen.
I can feel the benefits. Physically, my body moves in ways that feel natural and intuitive. Mentally, my thoughts have room to untangle themselves. And the practice has reconnected me with a direct, unfiltered experience of the world around me.
I think there’s something transformative about feeling rain on my face. About the absolute frozen bones after an hour sitting still in sub-zero windchill. About noticing the subtle transition of seasons. About navigating by landmarks and intuition.
When you’re standing in a downpour or navigating a snowy trail, the present moment demands your full attention. The future (how much longer will this last?) and the past (why didn’t I check the forecast?) become irrelevant. There is only now – this moment of being fully alive in the natural world.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this current and pivotal moment we find ourselves in. You probably are too. The world seems to be unraveling at an unprecedented pace. It’s impossible to ignore. Even if you’re mindful about how and where you spend your time and attention, there’s no escaping the onslaught of negativity swirling around us.
Violence and hate have been normalized. Basic human rights are being taken from marginalized people with each passing day. Isolation and nationalism pit global allies against one another. And it costs us all more to make ends meet for ourselves and our families.
Left unchecked, I can’t see how this all ends well. For anyone.
It’s obvious the goal of this whirlwind is to flood the zone and make us feel helpless. It’s working. I feel extremely helpless at times. Today is one of those days. But for me, the first step toward turning helplessness into something positive – something helpful – is to acknowledge the feeling, understand why I’m feeling this way and sit with that feeling for a moment. This post is essentially me sitting with the feeling of helplessness.
The second step I can take toward helpfulness is to make a commitment to do something – anything – that helps others. None of us individually or alone can end hate or reverse the downward trend of the economy. But we can all do our part and I believe one helpful act from one individual can scale up to many helpful acts across dozens, hundreds, thousands of people.
Here are a few things I’m committing to in order to become more helpful:
Talk openly, honestly and politely with those who disagree. We’re all too dug in and unwilling to interact with opposing views. This needs to change. I will never argue with a Nazi, but short of that, I will make an effort to talk openly about my belief system with others in an honest and approachable way. I will lean into empathy and humor (where appropriate) to deflect and connect with those who hold opposing views. I will do my best to communicate why I believe the things I do. I will remain proud and undeterred.
Support the businesses of my (marginalized) neighbors. I’ve seen a number of locally owned businesses close their doors permanently in recent weeks. Economic turbulence affects everyone, but I think local independent businesses that operate without economies of scale take the brunt. And local businesses owned by people in the cross-hairs of society feel the pain even more. To that end, I will spend my dollars at the establishments owned and operated by my marginalized neighbors wherever possible. From food to clothing to services, and everything in between, I will opt to shop small over corporate options.
Do not fall into the trap of contributing to divisive narratives online. It’s sad, but I feel like factual truth has become obsolete. The echo chambers are real and they’re here to stay. Too much of what I see online is about fact checking things that are blatantly false. In the context of a social network, who does this help? Whose opinion do we hope to change with that post? I believe nothing helpful can come from quote posting or clapping back online. We need more substantive dialogue on issues and social platforms offer none of the substance or depth required for meaningful change.
Volunteer at least once per month at a social service nonprofit that aligns to my worldview. Like you, I have a lot going on in my personal life. A demanding job and family responsibilities consume most of my days and evenings, but I think it’s important to contribute to causes I believe in. I will make a point to find time each month to volunteer in person at local nonprofit organization that assists some of the people and groups currently threatened by systems and policies that have emerged in recent days.
I’m curious if this sentiment resonates with you. If it does, what are some things you do to transcend this helpless feeling? I’d love to hear about some things that are working for you.
Who is this for? You. Yourself. Your family. Your friends. Your friend’s friends. Your neighborhood. And they can have it whenever they want. As a gift. A gift from you to them. Not a gift to be measured in engagement, but instead as a body of work. A gift to the web, which is a gift to people.
This is exactly how I’ve been thinking about my site lately, and one of the reasons I’ve been importing extremely old posts from my previous online spaces into the archive here. For posterity. For legacy. To create a document of a life (hopefully) well lived.
In The Ordinary Sacred, Joan Westenberg examines the alternative to a hyper-connected and ultra-performative lifestyle:
We live under systems—economic, cultural, digital—that demand we strive to be impressive. Inspirational. Aspirational. Permanently visible. Permanently performing. Eternally, achingly unsatisfied. We’re trained to ask, before doing anything: Will this make good content? Will this signal something useful? Will this get me closer to who I’m “supposed” to be?
I feel this sentiment in my bones. In my core. It’s a tension I feel pulling at me in surprising moments. Joan’s piece is a longer read, but worthy and relevant one – for me, and I suppose some of you who think similarly about digital culture.
Our world is complex. It’s messy and laced with nuance. In this context, I believe subtlety matters. Thoughtfulness matters. Depth matters. Now more than ever.
Show me a problem that can be solved over a couple hundred hastily typed characters and an angry button tap. Or a cynical, irony-infused dunk. What progress have you seen come out of that? Increasingly, we are bringing megaphones to tasks that require honest, substantive, personal interactions. Inside voices, please.
Bring the whisper.
Soundbite culture doesn’t allow for the holistic understanding we need right now. Nor the empathy required to take ground on the change we’re working toward. With most things, answers don’t lie on the fringes. They can be found somewhere along a spectrum and the key to winning in this endeavor is to slide people along that spectrum toward you. That’s not possible through anger and shouting into a megaphone, which only digs people further into their trenches.
Bring the whisper.
Speaking with nuance and empathy does not mean deferring to or submitting to or normalizing conflicting perspectives. In fact, the opposite. By offering an empathetic ear we can understand why people believe the things they do and offer the alternatives in which we believe. I think this is best done face-to-face. In real life. Where nuance can be addressed.
Bring the whisper.
It’s not easy. These are uncomfortable, difficult conversations. They can be painful and depressing at times, but occasionally you’ll see someone inch toward you. A pondering look. A slow nod in the affirmative. An honest question about your thought process. These are windows into progress.
Bring the whisper.
Some might think I’m naïve in this approach, and that’s OK. I might be. To those who might write this off as a futile tactic I’ll ask, how’s that megaphone working out?
Millions of whispers in unison can be extremely loud. Bring the whisper.
A thoughtful post (as always) from Naz about the importance of carving out your own digital space:
I don’t need to be in a walled garden but I’d love to have you over at my place.
This sentiment is exactly how I’m feeling these days. Fewer, richer interactions in a space that’s built on my terms. I can shut the door and draw the shades if I need privacy, or leave the door open and roll out the welcome mat if I feel like being social.
Like Naz, I’m really interested to explore the artisanal web and I’d love swing by your place if you’ll have me. I’ll bring baked goods.
