A Note to the Kid With the Papers

If I could go back to being 18 — the kid writing those handwritten drafts about a boxing game — I'd tell him one thing:

Try your best not to fucking die, and actually make it to this point.

I've been walking the razor's edge for 6 years. I've walked away from things I shouldn't have walked away from. Many times. I'm still healthy. My body works. Which is honestly a miracle.

I don't believe in a higher power, but this shit doesn't add up. It doesn't make sense that I'm still here, still functioning, still building. In many alternate universes, these days never came. I'm sure of it.

So I'm just grateful. Grateful for every day I get. And I'm going to try to make the most of it.

The ADHD makes me crazy — but in a good way. I'm not unstable. I'm enthusiastic. About ChampChase, about mountain biking through Latvian forests, about cooking a proper meal when I can afford the ingredients.

The kid with the papers didn't know what was coming. But he had the right idea. He just needed six years, a near-death experience or twelve, and an AI that could write code.

Here we are.