I wasn’t born so much as I was issued—somewhere in the late 20th century—probably as part of a quiet government initiative to see how much sarcasm, caffeine, and common sense you can pack into one human before something shorts out.

I grew up in a house where Bunco night wasn’t a game, it was an event—somewhere between a social gathering and a low-stakes riot fueled by peanuts and dinner mints. My sister and I learned early that survival meant strategic positioning: either stay out of the blast radius or secure a seat in the room with the TV. While other kids were learning multiplication tables, I was developing situational awareness and the ability to tell, just by tone alone, when someone was about to yell “BUNCO!” like they’d just won the lottery or lost their last nerve.

Eventually, I found my way into law enforcement. Not because it was a lifelong dream, but because at some point it became obvious that if somebody had to deal with humanity at its most baffling, it might as well be someone who already expected it. Nearly 30 years later, I’ve seen enough to know that truth is stranger than fiction—and a lot less organized. I developed a sixth sense for nonsense. It doesn’t just raise a red flag; it sets off sirens, flashes lights, and occasionally makes me question how we’ve made it this far as a species.

Somewhere along the line, I also got tangled up in the digital world—building websites, working with code, and generally convincing the internet to behave just well enough to get the job done. It’s not that different from police work, really. You assess the situation, identify what’s broken, and apply just enough pressure in the right place until things start working again—or at least stop actively falling apart.

These days, I find myself in small-town Georgia, which is either home or an ongoing observational study depending on the day. Living here means a front-row seat to the full spectrum of human behavior, especially online. If you ever want to test your faith in humanity, spend a few minutes reading local social media. I have. Repeatedly. At this point, I don’t even flinch—I just take mental notes and move on.

I’m a husband, a realist, and in many situations, the guy quietly standing there thinking, “This can’t be real,” while fully knowing it is.

Some people call it cynicism. I call it pattern recognition.

And if everything ever does fall apart, I won’t be surprised. I’ll probably just stand there, arms crossed, looking around and saying, “Yeah… that sounds about right.”