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It begins with a spoon. Not a boulder, not a comet— a spoon. And suddenly, you’re trapped in some slapstick dystopia, where everything you touch leaps from your hands like suicidal lemmings on a farewell tour. You used to drop things. Everyone drops things. But now? Now, it’s different. Now, objects betray you mid-handoff, as if conspiring with the floor in some underground rebellion. And the floor— the floor has become an enemy. A distant, hostile country with strict visa requirements. Every retrieval mission feels like deep-sea diving without the oxygen tank. Except the ocean is your kitchen, and the spoon at the bottom is laughing at you. Stress? Stress doesn’t help. Stress is that guy at the bar— buys you a drink, trauma-dumps his divorce, and somehow follows you home. It grabs your hand, makes it shake. The cup tilts. Coffee meets shirt. Congrats, you’re now part of a Jackson Pollock original. And posture— what a traitorous little bastard. You’ve twisted yourself into a human game of Jenga, stacking hope between vertebrae. Every time you bend, your back whispers, “Are you sure about this?” Pain doesn’t care. Pain is a landlord, collecting rent no matter how often you beg for a payment plan. Then there’s your brain. Your smug little saboteur. Always whispering: “Hey, don’t drop that.” And, like clockwork, you drop it. Because your brain isn’t your ally. It’s that coworker who starts their emails with, “Per my last message…” And gravity? Gravity, you petty bastard. Sitting back, eating popcorn, watching the chaos, sending little postcards from Isaac Newton: "Still here, loser." Fatigue? Fatigue is the MVP of entropy. Your muscles stage a walkout, your focus melts like cheap ice cream. The world becomes a slippery stage, and you— the tragicomic star of the show— keep auditioning for a role no one wants and everyone gets. So, what now? You could fight back. Sure. Grip exercises. Reorganize your life so nothing’s above knee height. Invest in one of those grabber tools, because bending down is now an extreme sport. See a specialist who’ll frown, scribble notes, mutter, “Hmm, interesting…” like you’re a lab rat in an existential experiment. All so you can pretend this isn’t the new normal. Or— You could embrace it. Become the person who drops things. The butterfingers. The fumbler. Turn every spill into performance art. Take a bow. Accept the applause. Because if gravity insists on pulling the strings, remember the spoon. It’s never the big things. It’s the small ones— the spoons, the cups, the keys. Tiny mutinies against control. They remind you what it means to be alive, to feel the pull of the world, to fumble, to fall. And to rise—again and again. So laugh. Laugh loud. Laugh long. And when gravity, that petty bastard, grins— when it snatches the spoon from your fingers like some smug cosmic pickpocket— Let it. Watch it tumble, hear it clatter, see it spin like a doomed little satellite. Then pick it up. Again. And again. Because that’s the game. And you? You’re still playing.FSF&nbsp;

Gravity, You Petty Bastard

I flexed my bravadolike a frayed muscle,terrified it might snap.Turned compliments to ash,hands that reached outinto ghosts.I thought I was untouchable,but it was fear that kept me whole,a rusted shieldwelded to my chest. I smothered birthdays,a cigarette ground underfoot,their sugary humtoo sweet, too sharp.Faces lit by candle glow,flickering with loveI couldn’t hold.They kept lighting matchesI never dared to strike on my own. But today,I let the light in.The tang of smoke,the wax poolinginto tiny lakes of heat.The silence after the songsettles in my bones,not a burden, but a balm. Scared to need,I refused the gifts of others.Scared to be seen,I turned away from the mirrorsof their kindness.But now, I stand still.I let the candles burn throughthe armour I built from shameand call it warmth. Let their voices hum around me.Let the sweetness coat my tongue.I see it now:the hands weren’t chains,the words weren’t traps.They were lanterns in the dark,held out to guide me home. I stand still,letting the smoke lingerin the hush of the room—accepting all the light,at last.

Today I accepted my birthday

The Senator stood at heaven’s gate, His suit dishevelled; his voice ornate. He clung to fragments of his pride, The echoes of applause now long denied.“St. Peter,” he began, with measured tone, “Did my speeches shape the cornerstone? I moved the masses, I made them dream, Did my life have weight, or just a gleam?”St. Peter sighed, his gaze both sharp and kind, “Your legacy lies in what’s left behind. You sought purpose in grandeur, the crowd’s cheer, But missed the moments that drew you near.At a banquet, amidst the clink of glass, A waiter whispered as he passed: ‘Could you pass that empty glass?’ he said. You did. That’s all. That’s what you led.”The Senator stiffened, his pride turned thin, At the absurdity of where he’d been. “A glass?” he muttered, his ego frayed, “My finest act was a waiter’s trade?”“Precisely,” Peter said with calm refrain, “For in that act, no power sought gain. You simply served, without applause, And that, my friend, fulfilled your cause.The Strategist, next, stepped forward slow, His mind a maze of schemes aglow. “St. Peter,” he said, his voice a rasp, “Did my blueprints stand, my plans hold fast?I shaped the gears, I turned the tides, I wove the threads where fate resides. Was my life the needle, stitching seams? Or did it dissolve into fleeting dreams?”St. Peter’s gaze was sharp and clear, “The webs you spun will disappear. For every law, for every pact, The winds of time undo the act.Your purpose came in an unseen way, On a night like any other day. Amidst your toil, in the office dim, A colleague asked on a whim:‘Do you have the time?’ they said, nothing more. You did. That was your quiet chore. In that moment, no ledger, no scheme, Only kindness unseen by the gleam.”The Strategist blinked, his thoughts askew, And muttered softly, “Is that true? Years of plotting, undone by this— A watch, a glance, a fleeting bliss?Last came Vladislav, gaunt and pale, A refugee with a weary tale. He carried frost from Siberian air, A life of shadows, of silent despair.“St. Peter,” he whispered, his voice unsure, “Was my life too humble, too obscure? I bore the cold, I braved the snow, But did my existence ever glow?”St. Peter’s face softened, a fleeting spark, As if his words would kindle the dark. “Vladislav, your steps were slow, Each one weighed by all you’d known.Your purpose isn’t measured by the grand, It’s found in moments, unplanned, unscanned. On that train, through the frozen expanse, In a dining car, you took a chance.A woman leaned and softly asked, ‘Pass the salt.’ You performed your task. She smiled once, and though no word was said, You carried her warmth in the life you led.”Vladislav smiled, a faint, warm trace, As if the cold had loosened its embrace. “A grain of salt,” he murmured, bemused, “In all the cold, it’s warmth I infused.”The three now stood, their fates aligned, Their lives unravelled, redefined. No shame, no grandeur, just lives laid bare— Fragments of meaning scattered there.The gates stayed shut, the light stayed dim, No verdict passed, no angels’ hymn. And yet they lingered, quiet and still, As if their purpose had been fulfilled. &nbsp; &nbsp; A glass, a glance, a grain of salt,The moments linger, though memories halt. The gates stayed shut, the light stayed dim, And purpose whispered, soft and slim. FSF &nbsp;

A glass, a glance, a grain of salt

*Trumps inauguration speech leaked early*Trump's 2025 Inauguration Speech _ I had many Dreams By Donald J. Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed dignitaries, and those of you tuning in from your parents’ basements because, let’s be honest, you don’t have jobs: welcome to the greatest inauguration speech ever. Bigger than Lincoln’s, better than Kennedy’s, and—this is important—100% more coherent than Joe Biden’s. Believe me, folks, we’re making history today. Again. Four years ago, I stood before the American people—well, actually, I stood in Mar-a-Lago on hole nine with a Diet Coke and a classified map of Iran’s nuclear sites—and I said, “We’re coming back.” They laughed. They doubted. They said, “Donald, you can’t just will your way back to the presidency.” But look at us now. We’re here. You’re here. I’m here. And Trump$, the cryptocurrency that will redefine global finance, is definitely here. Available now, by the way. Very stable coin. Tremendous coin. They said it couldn’t be done. They said it was over. But let me tell you something: no one comes back like Trump. Not Elvis, not Lazarus, not even the McRib. I’m back, folks, and this time, I brought Trump$. Invest today! You’ll thank me later when you’re buying Greenland condos with your winnings. No, seriously, CNN, are you still here? I told you to leave. You’re fake news. To the Supreme Court Justices in attendance: I haven’t forgotten about that little appointment fiasco, but it’s okay—your jobs are safe if you invest in Trump$. Some of you might be celebrating today in honour of a guy who had a dream. You know the one—a dream about equality and holding hands and all that lovely stuff. Well, folks, let me tell you something: you’re thinking too small. Because today, I top that. Not with just one dream, but with several dreams. Big, beautiful dreams. American dreams. Dreams so big they make Martin Luther King’s look like a pamphlet. And these dreams, my friends, aren’t just about unity—they’re about greatness. Trump greatness. I had a dream last night. A big, beautiful dream. And like all great dreams, it started with me—your favourite president—standing in a golden palace, surrounded by my sons, Don Jr. and Eric, counting bars of gold like Scrooge McDuck. Ivanka was… well, we’ll keep that private. Dreams, folks. They’re personal. In this dream, the world was perfect. Elon Musk had bought MSNBC and replaced Rachel Maddow with Steve Bannon’s chalkboard lessons on the “globalist agenda.” The January 6 patriots—who I will pardon faster than Hunter Biden can misplace a laptop—were freed and formed the first all-American, Trump-loving militia of golf course security guards. This dream continued. In my dream, America is a paradise. Social Security? Privatized and run by the Trump Organization. Greenland? Ours. Elon Musk? Tragically gone in a Tesla autopilot accident, leaving me as the sole beneficiary of his billions. That’s right, folks. I dreamed Elon’s last will and testament read: “All my assets go to the only man I’ve ever truly admired—Donald J. Trump.” And with those billions, I’ll do what Elon could never do: make Twitter great again. But the dream didn’t stop there. I dreamt of the day when every single American eats Big Macs for dinner and counts them as vegetables. When dissenters mysteriously jump out of 18th-story windows, and no one bats an eye. When we replace the Constitution with something simpler, something easier to remember: “What Would Trump Do?” Let me be clear: this administration is all about America First. And by America, I mean me. We’re going to privatise Social Security, Medicare, and probably oxygen. And where will the funds go? Straight into Trump$! I’m the only president in history who truly understands the stock market because, let’s be honest, I invented insider trading. We’re going to bring jobs back—jobs for Americans to serve other Americans who serve my companies. And speaking of jobs, I’ve got a special message for my Cabinet: thank you for being here, especially after the Senate hearings revealed what fine, upstanding characters you all are. (Ben Carson, if you’re watching, you’re still fired.) Now, some people will say, “Mr. President, isn’t it wrong to promote your own cryptocurrency at an official inauguration speech?” To which I say: “Wrong? Wrong is what CNN does every day!” Trump$ is not just a currency; it’s a movement. A movement for freedom, prosperity, and the kind of wealth that only I can bring. It’s like Bitcoin, but with a face you trust—mine. I have yet another dream, folks. A dream where Americans come together—white, Black, Hispanic, and even people from New Jersey—to agree that I’m the greatest president who ever lived. A dream where the Constitution is replaced with a very simple rule: “What Would Trump Do?” WWTD, folks. Put it on a bracelet. Now, let’s talk about the wall. Yes, we built it. It was beautiful. The Rolls-Royce of walls. Everyone said, “Mr. Trump, this wall is incredible.” But I’ll admit it, folks: it wasn’t enough. The wall was thinking too small. We need bigger thinking. This time, I’m going to build something so massive, so tremendous, it will make the Great Wall of China look like a picket fence. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce the Trump Dome. That’s right, a giant dome, made of steel, gold, and maybe just a little diamond, because why not? It will cover the entire United States of America. Every square inch. Coast to coast, from Maine to Maui. NASA will see it shining from Jupiter. And yes, there’ll be a 50-foot neon sign that says ‘No Globalists Allowed. No more borders, no more leaks. And it’s going to have state-of-the-art, Trump-branded air filtration systems. We’re keeping out the undesirables, the pests, the freeloaders, and, most importantly, the globalists. No one gets in unless I say so. You know, Elon Musk came to me and said, “Mr. President, this dome idea, it’s genius. Only you could think of something so bold.” And I said, “Elon, you’re right. And when it’s done, it’s going to have a big, beautiful plaque that says Made in America.” Speaking of Made in America, let me tell you what’s coming back in style: tariffs. Beautiful, tremendous tariffs. I’m talking tariffs so big that no one will even think about making anything outside the USA. Shoes? Made here. Phones? Made here. Those little flags you wave at parades? Made right here, folks. The era of outsourcing is over. And if you don’t like it? Tough luck. We’re going to tariff everything coming in until the only thing left in American stores is American products, made by American hands. And guess what? Those hands are going to be paid in Trump$, the most stable, tremendous cryptocurrency in history. Because when you buy American, you’re not just buying a product—you’re buying a piece of the Trump legacy. And one of my dreams—let me tell you, it was tremendous—was that my sons became oligarchs. Yes, powerful, untouchable kings of industry, wealth, and influence. Don Jr. ruling Wall Street. Eric controlling energy. And Ivanka… well, let’s just say she’ll be managing more than handbags. In this dream, the Democrats’ sons—those sad, latte-drinking, Tesla-driving failures—worked for the sons of sons of my sons. Generations of servitude. It’s poetic, folks. The ultimate payback for years of their whining and losing. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. And to those woke liberals who say, “Mr. Trump, this is crazy! This is tyranny!” I say, “Wrong!” This is not tyranny. This is greatness. And if you don’t like it, you can leave—oh wait, you can’t. The dome will keep you in. We’re going to the moon again, folks. Not for science, but to plant a Trump flag so big you can see it from Earth. We’re going to take over Mars, too. Elon promised, but I’ll deliver. And when we do, it’ll be with ships powered by Trump$. So here’s the deal, folks. We’re going to build the dome, bring back tariffs, and make America the most self-sufficient, self-obsessed, self-congratulatory country on the planet. And when I’m done, the history books will say, “There was America Before Trump, and there was America After Trump.” And finally, I dream of the day when we are all truly free. Free from the woke mob, the fake news, and the tyranny of facts. Free to say “Merry Christmas” in July if we want to. Free to buy a bucket of KFC without the government telling us to eat a salad. Free to love our country—and, more importantly, me. So let’s do it, folks. Let’s make America great again—again. Let’s invest in Trump$. Let’s rewrite history, one tweet at a time. And let’s remember that together, under my leadership, we’re not just building a nation—we’re building an empire. And to those folks still in your basements—because you still don’t have jobs—buy some Trump$ and break free! I am and remain the greatest President, the best President, the only President you should ever care about. Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the Trump$!

Trump's 2025 Inauguration Speech       "I had many Dreams"

Pick up the pen—see how it trembles in your grip,<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));">Not holy relic but a silent blade at your fingertips.Scratch a single word, let it crack the quiet sky—Soon, pages breathe, and slowly, so do I. Writing’s a window, sharp and unforgiving,Reflecting the fractures we keep on reliving.Don’t flinch at the shards—there’s gold in the rust,The gleam of growth that rebuilds fragile trust. This isn’t mere art; it’s a weapon of light,Cutting through static to carve out your insight.Each syllable chisels confusion away,Reforming the chaos into something to say. Yes, you will stumble; your heart may curse,As lines dissolve and you fear the worst.But catch that spark, let it spark again,Witness your own change as you dive deeper in. The final secret? There is no enchanted key,Just show up, spill ink, and let yourself be.Write clumsily, write boldly, let all doubts rescind—For through these pages, my friend, a new self you’ll find.

Spill ink

They call me Frank. Or Silvia. Or Huwawa, some demon from Gilgamesh, sneaking in like a cosmic cameo. Sometimes my name lodges in throats, like choking on a meat pie.&nbsp;Forty-three days deep into this existential standoff, I wonder: am I an echo, a yawn the universe makes when it forgets I exist?&nbsp;Names are tricky spells, noises we glue to flesh, hoping they matter, hoping they stick. But does a dolphin care if we call it Wendy? It’s busy flipping tails in the deep, unburdened by existential dread.&nbsp;Still, I ache for the hum of recognition, a name that sings, “Yes, this is you.” Not Frank. Not Woof. Just... me. Maybe whispered by someone whose eyes see more than letters on a hospital chart.&nbsp;I shout, “Call me right!” and meet blank stares, as if I’ve declared war on vowels. But it’s not rocket science, mate. Say it like the universe sneezes stars, like each star remembers me.&nbsp;In the end, is a name a noise, a truth, or the punchline to a joke the cosmos forgot to share?&nbsp;All I know is, I need that anchor, a fleeting promise that in your voice, for a moment, I am not just a name, but everything I’m meant to be.FSF

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Gravity, You Petty Bastard

Today I accepted my birthday

A glass, a glance, a grain of salt

Trump's 2025 Inauguration Speech "I had many Dreams"

Spill ink

Remember the Name