For the next 4 hours, I live in an airport. If there is an afterlife and if it has a purgatory, I assume it is something like this. ...There's a reason why they call it a terminal.

A riddle for you: A college friend used to stuff the pockets of her overalls with fried chicken in case she got hungry while playing outside. Can you guess her skin color? (Hint... It'll be easier than guessing how to she spells her name.)

In a million years, some evolved life form will see my musical code in an old text book and will deem "Jordan Woods-Robinson - 6th grade" a god. I'm a doodler. I like to draw in the margins of notes, books, pamphlets, and receipts. I often write notes on the palms of my hands. In college, there would be whole eras missing from my Art History notes because I had started to think about spirals.

The age of decisions completely based on self want are out the window. This is the dawn of Strength in Numbers, No 'I' in Team, and Everybody Find Your Safety Buddy. My home recording studio/office is already empty and ready to be converted into a nursery. In true Dad fashion, I got overly excited and sold everything 7 months before I had to. Now I sit on the floor because I don't have a desk or a chair. But pride outweighs self sacrifice. At least until I find a new desk and chair.