I think I accidentally red-pilled the completely apolitical N. We share an Audible account and he downloaded my copy of Caldwell’s book. So now he’s suddenly asking all sorts of questions. It’s very exciting.


I’m a little overwhelmed this week because it’s Klara’s birthday and we have a whole program of birthday-related events. So of course I started trying to reserve a table for Valentine’s when everything was already completely booked up. It’s not a big deal, I can cook a great meal (steak and grilled asparagus) but I feel like I’m completely behind in anything.

Right now, though, Klara is running around the house singing, “I’m a happy, loving person!”, and that makes it all worth it.

Middle Age

I thought everybody my age was as happy as I was about being middle-aged. But it turns out many people actually miss their youth.

I don’t miss mine. Always pinching pennies, always in debt, having to drag myself out on dates instead of curling up at home with my books and notebooks, not knowing how my life would turn out, who I’ll end up with, or who I’ll end up being as a person, constantly worrying about what impression I was making, God.

What’s there to miss about all that?

The only thing I miss is the capacity to go on very little sleep for weeks. Yes, I obviously was a lot prettier and thinner but it was all wasted anyway, so who cares?

Middle age is the bomb, folks. I know exactly who I am, and that’s really great.