Sunday Dispatch 1

It’s just fifty-freaking-two Sundays. I should be able to commit to that. I think.

This isn’t “content.” I’m not a brand. Not an influencer. Not trying to be a micro-macro-nano-anything in the creator economy. I’m over it—over Meta’s algorithm whispering sweet nothings about laundry detergent and reminding me that someone I barely know likes a slow-cooker recipe from Nom Nom Mom. Over the endless scroll. Over the dopamine slot machine.

I just need a place to be. To make. To throw things against the wall without caring if they stick. I might not even share it. But I’m curious—what happens when I hit post on my fifty-freaking-second Sunday?

So here’s the deal: for Fifty Freaking Two Sundays in 2025, I’ll be showing up here. Dumping my thoughts, my art, my whatever: photographs, poems, paintings, videos, songs, short stories, doodles, dumb shit, and things that might actually matter.

I don’t care if you like it. No, that’s a lie. I do. Just not in the way that demands engagement metrics or validates my existence with a heart-shaped icon. I care because this is a thing I said I’d do. A promise to myself. A year-long experiment.

Let’s go.