Why We Prepare for Everything Except Losing Each Other

I’ve experienced loss. And here’s the truth no one really wants to sit with: you can’t prepare for it.

That’s the part that still eats at me. From the moment we’re born until the final stretch of our lives, we’re taught to do.

Build something.

Be successful.

Provide.

Love deeply.

Chase adventure.

Live fully.

What we are never taught, what we actively avoid, is how to prepare for loss. Losing a pet is devastating. And for some people, the bond between human and animal is deeper than they’ll ever admit out loud. A pet isn’t “just a pet.” It’s routine. Comfort. Presence. It’s unconditional loyalty waiting for you at the door on your worst day.

As brutal as losing a pet is, it still doesn’t prepare you for losing a family member or a close friend.

I’ve lost all of it over the years…. family members, pets, and a best friend.

And every single loss felt eerily familiar. Different faces, same hollow feeling.

I always circle back to the same question: How did I manage to never be prepared for those moments?

The answer, unfortunately, is simple. You can’t prepare for sudden loss. The unexpected deaths. The accidents. The phone calls that permanently divide your life into before and after.

With those, we grieve however we can. We stumble forward. Eventually, somehow, we rejoin life… changed, but moving. And then, like experts at avoidance, we skip right past the bigger issue.

Our aging family members. The people who shaped us. The anchors of our lives.

We know the clock is ticking. We see it. We feel it. And yet we treat it like background noise… until illness shows up, or tragedy strikes, and suddenly we’re frozen. Motionless. Confused. Grief-stricken to the point where basic functionality shuts down.

So here’s the uncomfortable question: While we’re all out here “living our best lives,” why aren’t we preparing for the inevitable?

Why do we avoid preparing for the day we lose the person who matters most to us? I don’t think there’s a satisfying answer.

And I’m not convinced it’s even possible to truly prepare for that kind of loss, without it costing you your ability to live.

Because preparation would consume you.

Physically.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

If you lived every day bracing for loss, you wouldn’t be living, you’d be waiting.

So maybe the point isn’t preparation. Maybe the closest thing we get is presence. Calling more. Saying the things we usually save for “later.”

Showing up now instead of assuming time will handle it for us. Loss will come whether we’re ready or not. That part is unavoidable.

But regret? That one’s optional. And maybe, just maybe; that’s the only preparation that actually matters.

If Aliens Came to Earth, Who the Hell Do We Put in Charge?

Let’s say aliens show up tomorrow. Not the cute, “E.T. phone home” kind.

The “our ships blot out the sun and your Wi-Fi immediately stops working” kind.

Every human on Earth asks the same question at once: “Cool… so who’s talking to them?” And right away, the panic sets in, because deep down, we all know the answer is probably someone deeply unqualified bureaucrat!

Option 1: Politicians Absolutely not!!

If politicians are in charge of first contact, the aliens will be: Thanked for coming. Blamed for something they didn’t do. Asked for campaign donations, then detained, jailed or deported.

Within minutes, one of them would say:“Frankly, we’ve always had a great relationship with the Arquillians.”

We haven’t. We met them twelve seconds ago. By day two, half the planet would be convinced the aliens are either: A hoax. A threat. Or somehow responsible for gas prices.

Hard pass.

Option 2: Billionaires. No. Aliens didn’t travel across galaxies to hear:

“So… how do we monetize this?” Also, no one wants Earth’s first intergalactic message to be: “We come in peace, but please accept this subscription model.”

Option 3: The Military. Necessary? Yes.

Front-facing? Let’s maybe not start with missiles. Leading with generals sends a very clear message: “We assume you’re hostile.”

Aliens show up curious, leave offended, and suddenly we’re the bad guys in our own extinction event. Not ideal.

Option 4: Scientists. Now we’re talking. Scientists would actually ask good questions like: “Where are you from?” “How did you get here?” “Why did you choose us?” But they’d also forget to explain TikTok, reality TV, or why we argue online with strangers at 2 a.m.

Aliens deserve the full picture. So Who Should Speak for Humanity?

Honestly? A group chat. Not one person. Not one nation. A carefully selected team of people who all balance each other out:

A scientist to explain how the universe works. An artist to explain why we paint sunsets. A philosopher to explain why we argue about everything. A humanitarian to explain compassion. And one brutally honest person whose only job is to say: “Yeah… we’re aware this looks bad.”

No flags. No weapons. No speeches written by interns.

Just: “We’re a mess. We fight. We panic. We love dogs more than most people. But we’re trying.”

Because Let’s Be Real…. If aliens came to Earth and judged us solely by our leadership, we’d be toast.

But if they judged us by: Our art. Our humor. Our ability to laugh at ourselves. And our refusal to stop hoping, even when history suggests we should

We might actually pass. Barely. But still.

If aliens are smart enough to find us, they’re smart enough to see that humanity isn’t defined by power. It’s defined by the chaos we somehow turn into meaning. And if they can’t handle that? Well… at least we didn’t send a politician first.

English Language Throwing Curve Balls

Have you ever thought about the meaning of the word bark?

I have. Probably more than a healthy amount for a grown man with responsibilities.

See, this thought arrived courtesy of Coda, my fearless companion, who is currently running from window to window and outside, barking at what I can only assume is a leaf that owes him money.

This leaf is living rent-free in his head.

What I can’t figure out is why Coda is yelling “TREE ARMOR!”

Because yes, bark is both: The sound a dog makes and the outer protective layer of a tree

Which means, linguistically speaking, my dog isn’t barking…. He’s aggressively announcing forestry facts.

Who Approved This? Why is bark the sound a dog makes and the outside protective covering of a tree?

There is no explanation that doesn’t involve: A drunken poet. Too much ale. And a dare.

This absolutely feels like someone in the Middle Ages went, “You know what would be hilarious? Let’s ruin English forever.”

And it worked. English: The Ultimate Hoarder The English language is like a bad hoarder with emotional attachment issues.

It doesn’t let go of words. It steals them.

From the likes of Vikings, Romans, French aristocrats, and probably one guy yelling in a tavern

English doesn’t curate. It just piles words in a corner and says, “We’ll figure it out later.”

Later never came.

Let’s Talk About “Run” (Because Why Not?)

Like bark, there’s also run.

You can: Run a race. Run a business. Run out of milk. And, my personal winter favorite… Have your nose run.

NONE OF THESE ARE THE SAME ACTIVITY.

One involves fitness.

One involves capitalism.

One involves disappointment.

And one involves tissues and dignity loss.

Yet English was like: “Yep. Same word. You’ll figure it out.”

Coda Is My Morning Linguistics Professor. Barking and running is what Coda gives me every morning.

And as I watch him run… free, focused, chasing invisible enemies. I start to understand the meaning of run.

Until I: Sneeze, go to work, or try to make cereal… then my runs are all different.

Who decided this? Tree Bark vs. Dog Bark…. Let’s compare.

Tree bark: Chill Silent, has minded its business for centuries.

Dog bark: Loud, opinionated and has STRONG feelings about the mailman.

And yet… Same word.

That’s like calling a whisper and a fire alarm by the same name and saying,

“Context will figure it out.”

No. Context is exhausted.

So here I am, lying in bed, thinking about coffee, listening to Coda announce tree armor to the neighborhood, stuck between, a tree’s calm, silent bark, and a dog’s loud, passionate bark.

And realizing something important: English isn’t broken. It’s chaotic by design. Much like Coda. Much like my mornings. Much like life.

Now excuse me while I run to get coffee and tell my dog that linguistically speaking, he’s yelling at botany.

(Honestly, I’m not running, I’m driving to get coffee)

Prayers, Good Vibes, and the Performance of Caring

Anytime something bad happens, locally or globally, it lands on social media within minutes. And honestly? That part doesn’t bother me.

People grieve differently. Some need to talk. Some need to vent. Some need to feel less alone. And news outlets? Social media is basically their second newsroom now. None of that is surprising. What does get under my skin is the flood of comments that immediately follow:

“Sending prayers.”

“Praying for you.”

“Prayers for the families.”

“Prayers for first responders.”

Now listen… if you pray, cool. Truly. No one should stop you or shame you for it. Faith is personal, and I respect that.

But here’s the uncomfortable question nobody wants to ask: How many of those people are actually praying?

Like… genuinely stopping what they’re doing. Dropping to their knees. Hands together. Intentional thought. A real moment of reflection or connection.

Because typing “sending prayers” while standing in line at Target or scrolling on the toilet isn’t prayer. It’s a comment.

And when hundreds of people say they’re praying, but aren’t, it becomes no different than any other empty promise we casually toss around every day.

As a society, we’ve accepted the gesture without the action. The appearance of compassion without the effort of it.

And that’s the part that feels dishonest.

I’m not religious. So if something happens to me, praying for me, or saying you’ll pray for me, doesn’t really land. I’d honestly rather you send good vibes. But even that has the same problem.

Because “sending good vibes” is often just another phrase people use to signal that they’re participating in the moment, without actually doing anything meaningful.

It’s not prayer.

It’s not energy.

It’s not support.

It’s words.

Words designed to make the person typing them feel like they contributed. Like they helped. Like they checked the “I care” box for the day.

And I get it..: most people don’t know what to say when tragedy hits. Silence feels wrong. Doing nothing feels worse.

But maybe the answer isn’t louder words. Maybe it’s honesty.

Say: “This breaks my heart.” “I don’t know what to say, but I’m thinking about you.” Or, wild idea, actually do something. Reach out. Check in. Show up.

Because compassion isn’t measured by how fast you comment or how many praying-hand emojis you use. It’s measured by sincerity.

And right now, social media is overflowing with performances of care… while real empathy quietly gets drowned out in the noise.

Life is already chaotic enough. We don’t need to add hollow comfort to the list.

WV PEIA: Insurance That Doesn’t Insure Health—Just Delays Relief

Let’s get something straight right out of the gate:

WV PEIA does not insure health.

They insure hesitation. They insure delay. They insure the hope that if you wait long enough, you’ll either give up or learn to live with pain.

And honestly? They’re very good at it.

PEIA hates done care

Preventative care? Fine.

Routine visits? Sure.

But done care, you know, care that actually fixes a problem instead of endlessly managing it? That’s where PEIA starts clutching its pearls.

Spine surgery. Structural repair. Long-term solutions. Suddenly it’s all “Have you tried suffering longer?”

They love treatments that: Are temporary. Need to be repeated. Kick the can down the road.

Injections? Approved.

PT forever? Absolutely.

Actually fixing the problem? Whoa there, cowboy.

You’re discouraged from using the insurance you pay for. PEIA technically exists to provide coverage, but their real specialty is making you feel like you’re doing something wrong by asking for it.

Need advanced care?

You’ll be buried under: Prior authorizations. Documentation requirements. Appeals & Denials worded just politely enough to still feel like a slap.

The message is clear: “We’re not saying no… we’re just making this so difficult you stop asking.”

They make you feel guilty for being sick or injured

This one’s personal. If your condition is labeled “degenerative,” PEIA treats it like a character flaw.

Wear and tear?

Aging spine?

Long-term damage from physically demanding work or life?

Apparently that’s on you.

Never mind that:

Degeneration causes real pain Degeneration causes nerve damage Degeneration doesn’t magically stop because insurance says it’s “normal”

You’re made to feel like needing care is somehow indulgent…: as if you’re asking for luxury healthcare instead of basic function.

“Medical necessity” as a weapon. PEIA loves the phrase medical necessity the way villains love monologues.

They don’t use it to determine care. They use it to deny care.

Case in point: I was given five criteria to meet in order to appeal a denied surgery.

I met four out of five.

FOUR. OUT. OF. FIVE.

Denied anyway.

Among the criteria I did meet:

Proximity to provider. Established relationship with provider. Failed conservative care.

(And yes, failed care means PT, injections, and time. Lots of time.)

What did PEIA say? Nope. Still not good enough. So let’s be honest, this was never about criteria. It was about cost avoidance.

They charge you for “being insured” and then don’t count your payments

Here’s where it gets even more outrageous: I met my deductible 100%. I even have the receipts to prove it. Yet PEIA continued billing me, claiming I “didn’t meet my deductible.” Why? Because apparently, I was “technically in-network but out of state.”

Translation: all the money I already paid… doesn’t count.

Where did it go? Who cashed it? Certainly not toward the care I needed. Certainly not toward my deductible. Just vanished into the bureaucratic void, like some fancy magic trick.

This isn’t just incompetence, it’s a scam disguised as policy.

PEIA doesn’t insure health, they insure delay!

Here’s the truth no one wants to say out loud: PEIA’s model works best when:

People put off care. People manage pain instead of fixing it. People eventually stop trying.

They don’t measure success by recovery.

They measure it by how long they can delay paying for meaningful treatment. And for teachers, public employees, and families who depend on this coverage?

That delay isn’t abstract. It’s physical. It’s emotional. It’s exhausting.

Healthcare shouldn’t feel like a moral failing. Needing treatment shouldn’t feel like a negotiation.

And insurance shouldn’t act like it’s doing you a favor by barely showing up.

WV PEIA doesn’t protect health. It protects budgets. And the people paying the price?

They’re the ones just trying to feel normal again.

“Who Has the Best Wings?” “Why Are We Still Asking This?”

Okay, social media, we need to talk. There’s one question that pops up in the Ohio Valley more often than someone asking if they can “borrow your charger”

“Where do I get the best wings?”

First off… why are you like this? What are you even hoping to get out of this post? Enlightenment? A mystical wing prophecy? No. You’re just here to watch chaos unfold, and let me tell you—it does.

Here’s the deal: wings are personal. They are sacred. They are the culinary version of your high school diary. And yet, every few months, some keyboard warrior posts the question like it’s going to solve world peace. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Look, I own Basil’s, so naturally, I’m going to say our wings are insanely good. Maybe top 5 in the valley? Top 1 if you like them cooked perfectly, sauced just right, and served with a side of love. But let’s be real, some places have flavor bombs but soggy wings, others have perfectly cooked wings with sauce that tastes like bottled sadness. There’s no “best.” There’s just your best.

Then I open Facebook… and it’s an apocalypse. 500 comments. Groups of 50 people forming little armies defending their favorite wings like it’s the Super Bowl. Drums vs flats. Fried vs baked. Mild vs “I like to cry internally.” And what do we get at the end? Nothing. Except a lot of anger, some insults, and a serious case of carpal tunnel from all that typing.

So, please. Just… stop. Enjoy the wings you like. Respect that your neighbor likes theirs differently. And maybe, just maybe, spend your energy on something more productive…. like figuring out why you eat 16 wings in one sitting or why you still post on Facebook in 2026.

Social media wing polls? Toxic. Drama-filled. Exhausting. And honestly, hilarious if you like people yelling at each other over fried chicken.

Do Not Confuse Problems With Inconveniences

Somewhere along the way, we started calling every minor disruption a problem. The coffee order was wrong? Problem. The Wi-Fi is slow? Problem. You had to wait five whole minutes? Crisis. No.

That’s not a problem. That’s an inconvenience, and your life will, in fact, continue.

A problem is something that genuinely impacts your health, safety, livelihood, or well-being. A problem changes the trajectory of your life. It demands action, adjustment, or resilience. It doesn’t disappear if you sigh loudly or complain to strangers on the internet.

An inconvenience is just life tapping you on the shoulder saying, “Hey, adapt real quick.”

Why We Get This Twisted

We live in an on-demand world. Everything is fast, instant, and customized. So when something doesn’t go exactly as planned, it feels personal. Like the universe looked at your day and chose violence.

But here’s the truth: Life isn’t attacking you. It’s just… being life.

When we treat inconveniences like problems, we waste emotional energy, patience, and perspective. We start reacting instead of responding. And suddenly, small stuff feels heavy, exhausting, and overwhelming.

That’s not strength, that’s burnout in yoga pants.

The Cost of Confusing the Two

When every inconvenience is labeled a problem: Stress levels skyrocket. Gratitude quietly exits the building. Perspective gets replaced by frustration. Real problems don’t get the attention they deserve.

You can’t solve real issues when you’re emotionally drained by things that don’t matter tomorrow…. like not getting your party of eight sat immediately at the restaurant during peak hours!

Reframing the Moment

Next time something goes sideways, ask yourself: Will this matter next week? Does this require a solution or just patience? Is this uncomfortable… or actually harmful?

If the answer is patience, congratulations, you’re not facing a problem. You’re being asked to grow up emotionally for about 10 minutes.

Real Problems Deserve Real Focus

Save your energy for the things that truly matter: Your health. Your relationships. Your integrity. Your future. Those are worth the stress, the planning, and the fight.

The rest? That’s just life being mildly annoying. And honestly… it’s kind of good practice.

Because if you can stay calm through inconveniences, you’ll be unstoppable when real problems show up.

Where Did Public Etiquette Go?

I was sitting in a doctor’s office the other day. Large waiting room. Nearly 30 empty seats. Three people total, including myself.

Two more people walked in. They saw me. They had to pass me to check in.

While waiting, a woman across the room dropped her papers. She was in a wheelchair, so I got up to help her, because that’s what decent humans do.

I turned around to return to my seat and… it was gone.

The two new arrivals had taken it.

Not because there was no other option.

Not because the room was full.

But because awareness and basic courtesy seem to be optional these days.

I didn’t say anything. I sat elsewhere. But I wanted to say, I wasn’t aware we were playing musical chairs!

But the woman I helped made eye contact with me, shook her head, and said everything without saying a word.

Public spaces used to come with unspoken rules…. awareness, patience, respect for others. Somewhere along the way, those rules were replaced with entitlement and tunnel vision.

Kindness shouldn’t cost you your seat.

And decency shouldn’t be this rare.

Intelligence, Common Sense, and the Lie of “Feels Like”

We can all agree on one universal truth:

There are very intelligent people in the world… and there are people who make you question how warning labels became necessary.

Now here’s the twist, high intelligence does not automatically come with good decision-making or even basic common sense. Some of the smartest people I’ve met couldn’t navigate a grocery store without permanent emotional damage.

There are ways to make yourself smarter…. reading, questioning, thinking critically, learning how things actually work. And then there are ways to slowly sabotage your own intelligence.

Which brings me to my annual winter rage-inducer: weather reports.

The Weather Channel. Weather apps.

Local forecasts delivered with the confidence of someone who has never been held accountable. Weather people are fascinating and should be studied. They are often wrong, always vague, and somehow completely immune to job insecurity. If I was wrong that often at my job, I’d be replaced by a cardboard cutout. (Wait, this can be re-visited later)

But the phrase that really sends me spiraling is this:

“It feels like 20 degrees.”

First of all, what does that even mean? If it feels like 20 degrees… then it’s cold. Congratulations. You’ve described cold.

But it is not 20 degrees. “Feels like” is not temperature. It’s a vibe, a cold one at that but not an actual temp!

Wind chill, humidity, cloud cover, these are real factors, yes. But they do not rewrite physics. Temperature is temperature. It’s measurable. It’s factual. It’s not based on how dramatic your face gets when you step outside.

Let’s take this nonsense back to science class for a second.

Water freezes at 32°F. Water boils at 212°F. Not feels like 32. Not resembles 212. So if it “feels like” 32 degrees and your water isn’t freezing… maybe, just maybe, it’s because it’s not actually 32 degrees.

Wild concept, I know.

Imagine telling a scientist:

“Well, the water feels like it should be boiling.” Cool story. Still not boiling.

So why don’t we just do this instead: If it’s 20 degrees, say it’s 20 degrees. If wind chill makes it miserable, explain why it’s miserable, don’t rename reality.

Because when water is boiling, the temperature is 212 degrees.

It doesn’t feel like it. It is.

And confusing perception with fact is a great way to stay confidently wrong.

The Great Orange Juice Quest

I’ve been a Simply Orange – High Pulp guy for as long as I can remember. Loyal. Committed. Ride-or-die. It was my go-to. My fridge staple. My breakfast MVP. Then… I went out of town.

Enter First Watch.

One innocent breakfast later and my entire orange juice belief system was shattered. The OJ they serve there?

Unreal. Fresh. Bright. Explosive flavor. The kind of juice that makes you pause mid-sip like, “Wait… what have I been drinking my whole life?”

Since that morning, I’ve been on an unhinged, slightly obsessive quest to find an orange juice that delivers that same wow factor. And look… Simply Orange is still very good. Respect where respect is due. But compared to First Watch? It’s like listening to a recording after hearing the band live.

Naturally, I took my mission to the internet and compiled a list of “top-tier” orange juices:

Natalie’s Orchard Island

Simply Orange (my current benchmark)

Uncle Matt’s Organic OJ (added calcium… not my vibe)

Tropicana

Florida’s Natural

365 Everyday Value

Here’s the plot twist… Every single one of them is no pulp. Now this threw me. I like pulp. I’ve always been Team Pulp.

But now I’m wondering, does pulp actually change the flavor? Does it mute the brightness? Is pulp just… emotional support fiber? I don’t know. But for the sake of science, and finding the best damn orange juice on the planet, I’m willing to step outside my pulpy comfort zone.

The Big Question: Can store-bought orange juice ever truly compete with the freshness of restaurant-level, fresh-squeezed OJ? Because let’s be honest:

Fresh squeezed hits different. Shelf life kills vibes. Pasteurization steals souls (probably) Still, hope remains.

The Mission Continues, the search officially begins.

Somewhere out there is an orange juice that can rival, or at least flirt aggressively with, that First Watch magic. And honestly? I blame First Watch for this entirely.

They introduced me to a level of flavor I can’t un-know. I won’t rest. I won’t settle. And my refrigerator will continue to host a rotating cast of orange juice contenders until the one is found.

Stay tuned. This is no longer breakfast. This is a juice journey.