By Ken Hollow, professional overthinker with 99 problems and at least 73 of them are imaginary It started, as these things often do, with a slight twinge behind my right eye. Not a stab, not a throb, just a… presence. A ghost of discomfort. A whisper of doom. Naturally, I did what any rational, modern…
By Ken Hollow, still haunted by his last Pomodoro timer. Look, I’m not saying I’m the worst at productivity. I’m just saying that if procrastination were an Olympic sport, I’d at least place bronze (silver on a good day, gold if Nana isn’t around to judge me). Over the years, I’ve tried every shiny new…
By Ken Hollow, unpaid intern of chaos. Look, I didn’t sign up for headaches. I signed up to manage one (1) fox spirit with delusions of grandeur and a taste for mid-century gold bathtubs. Yet somehow, over the course of this job — and by “job,” I mean magical indentured servitude — I’ve come to…