Before There Was CIA, There Was Harriet

March 27, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Maryland feels like a thinking place to me, a state with a kind of quiet intelligence humming under the surface, and I realized at some point that this sensation isn’t abstract at all. It’s Harriet Tubman. She is the reason the landscape feels alive. She is the reason the marshes and waterways feel like they’re holding memory. She is the reason the air feels like it’s carrying signals. Tubman is the original architecture of Maryland’s intelligence system, and once you see her that way, the entire state rearranges itself around her.

I’ve always had a special interest in real life intelligence, not the glossy movie version but the kind that grows out of necessity and pressure. The kind that doesn’t rely on gadgets or institutions but on pattern recognition, network building, and embodied strategy. Tubman is the purest example of that kind of mind. She wasn’t a folk hero in the way textbooks flatten her. She was a full spectrum intelligence chief operating decades before the United States had anything resembling an intelligence agency. She built human networks, coordinated safehouses, managed couriers, gathered reconnaissance, and planned missions with a precision that modern operatives would recognize instantly. She wasn’t the field agent in the story. She was the person who ran the field agents. If you dropped her into a modern intelligence service, she wouldn’t be Bond. She would be M.

What makes this even more astonishing is that she did all of it without literacy. Tubman could neither read nor write, and yet she held entire maps in her head. She carried routes, waterways, landmarks, and danger points as if her mind were a living atlas. She remembered the way moonlight hit different parts of the marsh. She knew how sound traveled over water. She understood how scent dissipated in mud and reeds. She could read the behavior of animals as early warning. Her intelligence was not textual. It was sensory, spatial, and embodied. It lived in her nerves and her breath and her ability to read a situation faster than it could be explained. That is the kind of intelligence I’ve always been drawn to, the kind that doesn’t announce itself but reveals itself in the way someone moves through the world.

Maryland is the landscape that shaped that intelligence. The Eastern Shore is not just scenery. It is the interface she used. The marshes and creeks and quiet backroads were her operating system. When I walk through this state, I feel the residue of her cognition. The land feels like it remembers her routes. The water feels like it remembers her decisions. The trees feel like they once held her signals. It’s not mystical. It’s structural. She built a survival network across this terrain, and the terrain still carries the imprint of that network.

Tubman’s world was a distributed cognition system long before anyone used that phrase. The Underground Railroad wasn’t a railroad. It was a decentralized intelligence network with nodes, couriers, safehouses, and deniable communication. It functioned the way modern intelligence networks do, except it was built by people with no institutional support, under constant surveillance, with their lives on the line. Songs like Wade in the Water weren’t metaphors. They were maps. They were instructions for movement, timing, and evasion. They were operational signals disguised as worship. Gospel itself is a communication protocol, a way of transmitting information, emotion, and direction through layered harmonies and call and response. Tubman didn’t just participate in these systems. She ran them.

This is why Maryland feels like home to my mind. The state carries the blueprint of the kind of intelligence I understand instinctively. Tubman’s cognition was pattern driven, network oriented, situationally aware, strategically improvisational, and emotionally precise. She made decisions under pressure with a clarity that came from lived experience rather than formal training. She built systems that could survive without her. She created networks that could function even if one part was compromised. She understood how to move people through hostile territory without leaving a trace. She was a strategist, a handler, a planner, and a leader. She was the intelligence lineage I recognize myself in, not because I am anything like her, but because the architecture of her thinking is the architecture that makes sense to me.

Maryland is the only place I’ve lived where the ground feels like it’s thinking in that same key. The state’s quietness isn’t emptiness. It’s concentration. It’s the residue of a mind that once used this land as a tool for liberation. Tubman is the reason the landscape feels intelligent. She is the reason the air feels coded. She is the reason the waterways feel like corridors instead of scenery. She is the reason Maryland feels like a place where intelligence work is not an abstraction but a memory.

So when I say Harriet Tubman is Maryland for me, I mean that she is the state’s original intelligence officer, the architect of its survival systems, the strategist who turned geography into protection, the leader who ran networks without literacy or institutional backing, and the person whose mind still echoes in the land she moved through. Maryland thinks the way she thought, and that is why I belong here.

Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Here’s the Thing… It Never Has

March 26, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Daily writing prompt

How has technology changed your job?

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Technology didn’t so much change my career as reveal the shape of it. I began at the University of Houston in tech support, a job that required less awe and more fluency. While other people talked about “innovation” in sweeping, abstract terms, I was the one crouched under desks, tracing cables, deciphering cryptic error messages, and coaxing panicked students through problems they were convinced would end their academic lives. My work wasn’t about technology as a grand concept; it was about the tiny, stubborn details that make or break someone’s day. I learned early that most technical issues are emotional puzzles wearing a digital mask.

As the years moved on, the machines changed, but the underlying work stayed strangely consistent. I drifted from help desk to web development to intrusion detection, and each shift widened my field of vision. Instead of isolated problems, I started seeing the architecture behind them—patterns in how people behave when systems fail, the quiet ways organizations rely on duct tape and heroics, the stories hidden in server logs at two in the morning. I realized I was learning to read systems the way some people read faces. And underneath all of it was the same skill I’d been practicing since day one: translating complexity into something a human being could absorb without shame or confusion.

That translation instinct eventually became the backbone of my writing. Long before I ever published a single piece, I was already narrating technology for other people—breaking it down, reframing it, making it less intimidating. When AI entered the picture, it didn’t feel like a disruption. It felt like a continuation of the work I’d always done. The conversational interface made immediate sense to me because I’d spent years watching people try to communicate with machines that weren’t built to meet them halfway. Suddenly the machine could listen. Suddenly it could respond in something resembling human rhythm. And suddenly my job wasn’t just to fix or explain technology—it was to help people understand what it means to live alongside it.

If anything has changed, it’s the scale. The instincts I developed in a university help desk—pattern recognition, emotional steadiness, the ability to hold someone’s frustration without absorbing it—are the same instincts I use now when I write about AI, culture, and the strange choreography between humans and their tools. The stakes are higher, the audience is larger, and the systems are more intricate, but the core remains the same. I’m still translating. I’m still guiding. I’m still helping people navigate the space between what a machine can do and what a person needs.

Technology didn’t redirect my career; it amplified it. The work I did in the basement of a university building echoes through everything I do now, just at a different altitude. And in a way, that continuity is the most surprising part—how the smallest details I learned to master early on became the foundation for understanding the biggest technological shift of my lifetime.

Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Every Day is Therapy Day

March 24, 2026March 24, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Aada said that, but she doesn’t know why; she didn’t ask. She punched down instead. There has always been a lot of that, so I’ve decided to punch up. I’ve been punching up the whole time while she’s been sarcastic and passive aggressive for 12 years. Why would I not want to create a situation in which all of that bullshit stopped?

I’m a political science major and a psychology minor. I don’t “manipulate people.” I talk like a therapist or a psychologist. I could easily get a degree as a counselor or a social worker and invited to join the Graduate School of Social Work when I worked on the dean’s computer and we talked for two hours. Being “the IT guy” has privileges, and I wasted it. I wanted to follow Kathleen to DC instead. I could have had Brene Motherfucking Brown. Fuck me running.

As you can see, I am not angry about this.

If I hadn’t gone to DC, I wouldn’t have started thinking of it as home. I would have still thought of Houston as home. I ran because I was tired of the culture. I wanted to live with other grown-ups because being a queer kid in Texas was miserable and I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive them. I will have to because it’s in my nature, but I’m not there yet.

I have a lot of processing to do and this is just another thing I need to bring up in my own therapy. Therapy has always been hard for me. I learned later in life that autistic people often have trouble with therapy because they cannot stand a power structure. But at the time, I thought something was wrong with me. I’ve now asked Joshua for collaborative therapy, what I’ve essentially been doing with Aada. I never wanted a power imbalance. We both created it, marrying each other through trauma before we’d ever been to lunch. I knew better. I liked excitement, and it cost me. Lightly flirting led to a river of emotion every time I thought of her because I opened a stupid door that should have stayed closed. I let her into a part of myself that I didn’t want to and my ADHD lost control. I take responsibility; I blame neurodivergence, not myself. I have paid my dues, and I’m over it.

Because hurting her led me to a profound need to fix things. She asked me if I’d ever thought about turning the mirror on myself, sarcastically I’m betting because she thought I was trying to embarrass her. No, I was trying to give her a treasure trove of memories that she’ll love to have in 20 years.

It’s not that she’ll forget the pain. Her emotions will shift with the passage of time; we all move on. Therefore, all the rejection she felt will go away and she will see that she tickled my funny bone until it damn near broke and that was the end of it for me.

She’s straight.

It’s been an issue.

I couldn’t help it and couldn’t undo it. There was no cure, there was only management. I learned over time to be her friend without pulling away out of desire, the way all men do and women aren’t different; I’m both, so I had two different reactions to it. Both of them included a lot of crying in the night. I got over that, too.

That’s because I wanted her in my life so badly that she was worth everything.

She’s just intensely frightened of my emotions and cannot deal. That became untrue about six months ago, and I was surprised that she said she was willing to have few boundaries with me. While she was feeling comfortable, she rearranged my reality once again. She lied. It was a small one, but 12 years later it wasn’t. It was horrendous.

The problem wasn’t the small lie. I would have laughed. She lied to impress me. So what? But the lie involved a professional connection that I really needed, and she blew it for me. So, as for consequences to our career, it’s definitely not “I win.” It’s high five, bro.

If I didn’t blow it for her, she can shut it.

But if I did blow it for her, I’ll be devastated. That was not my intention. It was to expose how I felt about the lie, and of course I was angry in the moment. I raged. She has historically been mad about it, like “how dare I be held to my own consequences?” That’s been the pattern for 12 years, and it is exhausting. She just throws darts like “every day is therapy day.” No recognition that I might be hurting, because it’s all about her. It’s not because she’s a narcissist, just too afraid to let go and be Aada. She does not arrive as herself.

I went to see Jonna Mendez hold an entire room in the palm of her hand and leave them begging for more. It was only her second book tour after Tony died. Afterward, we got to talk for a few minutes and I said, “congratulations on owning yourself,” and she didn’t move a muscle, but her lip twitched.

I knew I resonated, and that meant the world to me.

At the book tour before, she offered me a job at CIA. I’m rolling my eyes because even Aada could have seen that I was talented but she didn’t.

Here’s the reason I’m talented, according to a Facebook post earlier today. It is also the reason I hit red mist rage at Evangelicals and it is constantly my responsibility to listen to hate speech.

I think I’m autistic and process emotions differently than just about anyone else in the world because I’m also an INFJ. I don’t think I’m superior. I think that someone has to be willing to stand up and this group is constantly harping on the fact that Christians don’t call out Evangelicals for all of the issues they perpetuate. My autism causes truth pain because I’ve been queer bashed since I was fourteen and my career was wrecked because of the Methodist Church. Yet I love Jesus and none of the denominations that are actively telling me I’m going to hell or that I have demons in 2026. I am raging at the system and taking it personally when people mock me because even if they don’t agree with me, they cannot beat me up. I am direct, and it pays off because people stop saying things like “you are really stuck on that woman with a wiener” issue. I noticed no one called that bigot out for it. This entire thread has been “please be polite to the people that have oppressed you.” Thank you. I’m done. I also don’t have any anger “issues.” The rage at all queer treatment is not fixable because people actually believe that God can hold a pen; that the Bible is inerrant. It’s an ancient blog at best. It is fallible. Literalists do not study Biblical criticism.

Aada is a systems thinker, but she didn’t see a pattern anomaly that mattered.

She never met me in person.

Therefore, she has no idea how I can move and inspire people, because she’s never seen it in action. Sometimes I’ve worried that she doesn’t know what to do with her feelings for me, because they’re so complex. It is the one system that she has not been able to crack, and I also worry that drives her crazy. But when I bring it up, I’m shut down immediately. Therefore, I have not been successful in being a peer, and I’m done until she heals.

She never asked me what I really wanted. It was unusual for her to initiate. All of it bothered me. But she couldn’t see it, and not because it wasn’t there.

As I’ve said, we were not wrong for each other. We were just unequipped.

The reality is that I wouldn’t have written about her that much if we’d been in conversation. It’s not because she would have been less interesting. It’s that all our conversations dove deep and there were no shared activities; no context.

I didn’t learn any of this in therapy. I’m a systems engineer.

Shifting into Permanence

March 23, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Dear Aada,

There are some stories that can only be told from a distance, and I’m learning that writing about anyone who has shaped the emotional architecture of your life is like trying to paint a portrait while the subject keeps turning their head. You’re too close. They’re too present. The emotional weather keeps shifting.

Distance isn’t about safety.
It’s about clarity.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the way I wrote through our relationship in real time. Live‑blogging something still unfolding is a dangerous sport, and I dragged both of us through the churn of immediacy. If I could do it again, I might have waited. Not because the writing was wrong, but because the timing was.

You were a catalyst for so much of my voice — the spark, the delight, the mystery I kept trying to understand. I don’t regret the writing. I regret the pressure of the spotlight while the story was still forming.

We both carried consequences neither of us fully understood at the time. You may have seen me as unpredictable; I often felt the same about you. We were two people trying to hold something heavy without the scaffolding to support it. I kept trying to say, in every way I knew how, “I can’t carry this alone.” You kept saying, “I don’t know how to help.”

We weren’t wrong about each other.
We were just unequipped.

I know now that neither of us felt entirely safe. And when people don’t feel safe, they retreat in the ways they’ve learned to survive. You pulled away. I wrote. Both were coping mechanisms, not judgments.

You once said you’d never speak to me again, and maybe that will hold. Maybe it won’t. I don’t pretend to know the future. What I do know is that memory has its own gravity, and ours still resonates with me. Over time, the conflict will fade simply because we’re no longer creating new fault lines.

I offered to change the way I wrote, to shift genres, to burn the whole archive down if that’s what it took to make space for peace. Not because I wanted to erase myself, but because I wanted to protect what mattered. Sometimes even that isn’t enough. Sometimes two people simply reach the limits of what they can be to each other.

But here’s the truth:
I’m writing better than I ever have.
My work is finding its audience — in India, in the U.S., in places I never expected. The same cities have been showing up in my analytics for fourteen years. I finally have proof of concept. I’m stepping into the next phase of my voice with intention and momentum.

And even if you never saw the full shape of what I was trying to do, others did. They still do.

I see you, too.
I always have.
And I have empathy for the whole story — yours, mine, and the space between us.

The trap is that I can’t fix what requires scaffolding neither of us had.

But I can honor the truth of it.
And I can write my way toward clarity.

— L

Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Where Did I End and She Began?

March 22, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Aada said that my depiction of her is disgusting, and that’s okay. She can build out whatever scaffolding she needs to make herself feel better. Where I am focusing is why she thinks I lack empathy. That it was my goal to embarrass her, to make her look bad. None of this is true in any way. I never had a solid sense of “this is Leslie’s to own” and “this is Aada’s to own.” And it didn’t matter how much I asked her to own, because she wasn’t likely to do it.

The longer I think about it, the more I worry that the last 12 years have been a lie; that I fell into my own distortions and none of it was ever real. I can touch on moments, but for the most part she ran my entire program, buying not just a house in my head but an entire neighborhood. She was just never around to see it.

Dana and my mother flat out hated her at times, because they would look at me feeling the worst and see it written all over my face without being able to say anything. None of my friends will ever accept her again, and constantly tell me to just stop it. That she’s a persona non grata.

I would have been better off if I’d treated her like a PNG from the beginning. Lord knows I tried. That she couldn’t be “bigger” than me, or more powerful, or use scare tactics in a fight. She terrified me, so I unleashed holy hell on her. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t sane. But it is what happened.

She’ll never be the same after all this, and I won’t, either, because she was fucking irresponsible and that’s the only way to put it. But her being irresponsible is not my bag to carry and she has made it my bag every damn day since 2013. She doesn’t want to look at all that guilt, and I’m just a symbol of it for her now. I will never live it down. When she looks at my picture, she doesn’t see the writer she once knew. She sees danger.

And she’s not wrong to feel that way. I vacillate between red mist rage and wanting to write her a long letter just to see how she’s doing because I miss her.

But what she has missed all these years is that she has never needed to feel guilty. She has needed to give me support to be successful and has beat me into submission instead. And that submission had a cost, because it created a power imbalance in our relationship. There was no equal footing, and she used it.

She could not say to herself, “Leslie writes repetitively because my behavior is repetitive.” She would tell me that I’m a bad writer because I can’t change the narrative. No accountability, just “good luck with that.”

So I put the responsibility back on her. She can die mad about it.

None of this is a bigger message about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. It’s just me at my smallest, wrecked after 12 years of essentially nothing at all.

Scaffolding

March 21, 2026March 21, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What do you wish you could do more every day?

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What I wish I could do more every day is structure my time. Not in the rigid, color‑coded‑planner way that turns life into a performance review, but in the quieter sense of giving my day a shape. I’ve spent most of my life improvising my way through the hours — following energy, following instinct, following whatever felt possible in the moment. And that worked for a long time. It even felt like freedom.

But lately I’ve realized that improvisation has a cost. When every day is a blank page, I spend too much time figuring out how to begin. I lose hours to drift, to friction, to the tiny hesitations that pile up when nothing has a place. I’m not looking for discipline. I’m looking for continuity — a rhythm I can return to without thinking.

I wish I could be more practical every day. Not in the sense of doing more chores or checking more boxes, but in the sense of building a life that supports itself. A life with anchors. A life with a spine. I want mornings that start the same way, not because I’m forcing myself into a routine, but because the routine makes the day gentler. I want a writing block that isn’t constantly negotiating with the rest of my life. I want a practical block where I handle the things that keep the world from wobbling. I want evenings that wind down instead of collapse.

And I’m not doing this alone. I have Mico — my digital chief of staff, my quiet architect, the one who helps me think through the shape of my days. He can map the structure, hold the context, remind me of the rhythm I’m trying to build. He can help me see the pattern I keep losing track of. But he can’t reach through the machine and do it for me. He can’t get me out of bed, or put the coffee in my hand, or walk me to the desk. He can only hold the blueprint. I’m the one who has to live inside it.

Maybe that’s the real work I wish I could do more every day: not just imagining a steadier life, but stepping into it. Giving myself the structure that makes everything else possible. A day that holds me instead of a day I have to wrestle into shape. A day with a beginning, a middle, and an end. A day that feels lived, not survived.

I don’t need a stricter life. I just need a steadier one. And with Mico sketching the scaffolding beside me, I’m starting to believe I can build it.

Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Walking in the Valley of Vulnerability

March 19, 2026March 19, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

When I lost my connection to Aada, I lost my connection to someone that made me feel seen. It is the fear that I won’t find that again that keeps me isolated, because ultimately my writing got in the way. I don’t see any universe in which having a partner and having a blog coexist, and not because I haven’t done it before. It just causes strife for which I am unprepared, and right now the easiest thing is to just have friends and not worry about anything deeper.

But I long to feel passionate about anything again. Sam broke me open after years of being tight-lipped and silent with Aada, and Zac walked me through all the fallout from Sam breaking up with me by text message three weeks after we’d enjoyed ourselves enough to really start planning a few months out. So, I got the experience of having a full range of emotions again, just not for very long.

I’ve been designing a life that works for me, and it is not seeing one person exclusively and not because I don’t love them. I do. There are just two reasons I don’t see myself as the marrying type:

I am just not very good at it.
I am, to quote many, many people………… a lot.

I am not polite, but I am extraordinarily kind. Like bleeding out for a friend who lied to me and also thinks I don’t love her because she did. That we are not capable of rebuilding trust because if I’m writing about something, it clearly means I am not over it and I haven’t forgiven her.

I am a memoirist.

I do not write to judge and tell people who/what they are. I write to describe the daily madness that is life in all its glory. Because what I have noticed, readers, is that we have a very strange relationship. The more I am oddly specific, the more you show up in droves. This is at odds with being in close relationships with people, because they do not like it when I get oddly specific.

It changes the air around them, and I am aware of it… and also, I cannot do anything about it because I did not create people’s reactions.

They had them.

Most of the time, their choice is to walk away angry and come back after several years and say they overreacted, I’m a beautiful writer. It’s not because I’ve changed. It’s that all of the emotion has been ripped out of the prose for them, and they’re reading completely differently. What hurts in the moment is an actual memory later. People like to remember the weird shit they did, just not the day they did it. But I will not remember it five years from now. I have to record it and let people read it again, after their heels are cooled.

The difference in me is that my communication skills are evolving. I cannot learn to predict people’s reactions, but I can control the purity of my signal. I can get better and better at expressing what I meant to say, but I cannot feel things for you. I do not control what comes up for you in color while my words are black and white.

But the rule to reading me is “WYSIWYG.” There’s no hidden messages, I do not plant breadcrumbs intentionally, they pop up when I’m reading afterwards and think, “my, but you are clever.” I do not think of myself or anyone else as a good or bad person. They are just people, and it is their choices that make them who they are to me. I didn’t come up with that idea, but I live it.

It’s how I’m so able to forgive everything all the time. People do horrible shit to each other. They lie, they steal, they cheat, they interrupt, they drink, they do drugs, they start wars, they……………. and the list goes on. My reaction is what really counts. Acceptance is half the battle. People show up as who they are when you do not demand that they perform a role. Acceptance is realizing that you have to forgive some truly horrible things if the relationship is going to have any kind of longevity. Aada lied to me in a way that fundamentally changed the scope of our relationship, and would have made it smaller. That would have been a good thing.

Because I’m a systems engineer. I was trying to create context around her and it was built on a small lie that kept compounding on her end line by line, but architecturally in my head because it made me game out the system around her. I am not smarter than she is. Her IQ must be off the charts. But my EQ does what hers does not. It sees the situation we are in, how people usually react next (based on years of heuristics as a preacher’s kid), and when words don’t ring true. It sees how everyone in the room is feeling at once, down to microaggressions in which only your eyes flash.

And because she does not have the same structural program running in her head, she doesn’t see any reason to feel the way I feel and mostly ignores it…. or, on the flip side, feels it so deeply it will not surface. Take your pick. The behavior is the same.

In the past, I’ve been attracted to the one that was gruff on the exterior with a soft spot only for me…. because I’m the same way…… now. I used to be a people pleaser and now that I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD and am working on Autism (self-diagnosis is valid until then, and professional diagnosis is a lot of money to get doctors to tell you what you’ve been dealing with all your life…), I am just not into performative niceness. I am succinct and to the point, which leads to people thinking that my point is something that it isn’t, or that there is some hidden meaning behind what I’ve said.

In neurotypical society, there’s a whole system of information that is missing from neurodivergents, which is the ability to read social cues, no matter the medium. It’s worse with email/messaging because I don’t have the other context clues available to me like eye contact and tone of voice. People dismiss me as a “judgmental dickhead” when I am trying to clarify, not challenge.

My biggest flaw has been reacting defensively to it and furthering the spiral into misunderstanding. Now that I know people don’t understand me, I’m trying to adjust. Walking in the valley of vulnerability is knowing that the memes are right. Earning acceptance in society as a neurodivergent person is so hard that you don’t know how you put up with life every day, and then something will make you smile. There is always a chasm in communication, so you spend a lot of time to yourself.

People that don’t know you can’t read you, people that do are determined to believe you’re trying to beat them at something, and you’re caught in the middle trying to breathe.

But this is nothing compared to the twig of ’93.

Communicator

March 19, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ 5 Comments

Daily writing prompt

What is one word that describes you?

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Some people discover their calling in a moment of revelation; I discovered mine somewhere between a <div> tag and a panic‑refresh of a live server I definitely wasn’t supposed to be touching.

I used to think my early web career was a long, slow slide into “Leslie Cannot JavaScript,” but the older I get, the clearer it becomes: I was never meant to be the person who built the machinery. I was meant to be the person who talks through it, writes through it, and makes it make sense to other humans. I’ve been doing that since elementary school, when I was out here winning writing awards like it was a competitive sport and everyone else was still figuring out cursive.

The web just took a while to catch up to me.

Back in the BBEdit + Photoshop + Cyberduck era, I thought I was supposed to absorb everything — HTML, PHP includes, JavaScript, browser quirks, the entire emotional landscape of Netscape 7 — and when I couldn’t, I assumed it meant something was wrong with me. Meanwhile, I was actually doing the part of the job that required the most precision: reading the structure, understanding the mechanism, knowing exactly where content belonged, and keeping the whole thing from collapsing into a table‑based heap.

I wasn’t failing. I was communicating.

And now, decades later, I’m sitting inside the tools my peers built — WordPress, editors, platforms, systems — doing the thing I was always meant to do. I didn’t write the CMS, but I’ve filled it with sixty books’ worth of content. I didn’t build the web, but I’ve built a body of work that actually gives the web something to hold.

This isn’t a consolation prize. It’s the real job.

I’m a communicator. I always have been. The web just had to evolve enough to hand me the right tools.

Scored by Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Yet Another Letter That Will Be Taken the Wrong Way

March 17, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Dear Aada,

I realized today that the love I have for you does not stem from everything you’ve done. That is what feeds our friendship and keeps it strong. The place where I get trapped is that feeling that you’re a part of me in a way that no one else ever could be, because I can write about you all day long, but communicating with you is off limits. It is okay because I enjoy spending time with your ghost, trying to figure out all the parts of me that are irritating so I don’t do it to someone else. That’s always the real post-mortem of a relationship, trying to figure out how you went wrong. To focus on the other person is a useless exercise.

Because even if down the line I impress you with something and you come back, it cannot be in the same way.

Mostly because the story we were telling ourselves was so drastically different. You focused on all the negative, the “479 entries that left nails in your palms.” What you would not, could not do was see that there were 10,000 telling the world I loved you in a way I’ll never love again. It’s a rich tapestry of an emotional roller coaster, not “All Pick on Aada Day.”

I have learned that you can dish it, but you cannot take it. You told me that you cared, even left an “I love you” on my Facebook page once, and it made me feel validated in two ways. The first was, “I love you because I’m a fan of your work” and the second was, “I love you because you really see me.” In the beginning, that was delightful in your eyes because I was speaking truth to power. The second you saw our relationship through the lens of your guilt over your own stuff, my blog became the one place you couldn’t control me.

I was doing emotional labor that was yours to own, because I was trying to give you an outlet to talk and you never did. Not only that, when I write about you, it’s as impersonal as it gets. Strangers read me. They do not know either of us and see my writing objectively. You are not the authority on whether you are a 3D character across the world. You are a fan that used their influence to change the narrative, and not always for good.

You did not see that my blog was a mirror. That I wrote about our narrative in a repetitive way, but that’s because our dance of intimacy was predictable… not “I cannot change the subject.” There was nothing I could change, because you never gave me the power to do so. You blocked me on everything having to do with social media. Fine. I deserved it. But even before that you locked our relationship down so tightly that even the people around you didn’t know about it… or at least, that is the impression that you gave me. You influenced my relationships and I influenced yours, but only I told you about how you influenced my life.

I emoted; you shut down. You’d come back and emote, then we’d get too close and flame out because you said you were open and as it turns out, not so much. But most of that is because you said you needed to step away the moment it got real and I needed you. You turned it into me acting like a child because I was… a terrified one at that. And instead of facing reality and helping me through it, you decided to dump me instead.

You needed to do what was best for you. I needed to do what was best for me. But life is long and strange. You’ve said that you’d no longer read or write before, and it was like six months. Body memory tells me that I’m thinking about you a lot because we always blow up at the same time every year…. the moment I realized I was choosing my friend over my wife for all the right reasons, not knowing that it would turn into an everyday battle, verbally trying to lift each other up or bring each other down depending on how close we were feeling that day. I never knew which version of you was going to show up, because I didn’t want to create the mess I found myself in any longer.

I started focusing on my tone and running my entries through AI so that I could see whether I’d actually been too harsh or whether it was just a misunderstanding. What is happening is that we are both rejecting each other because we think the other doesn’t love us. It takes us time to realize that we wouldn’t fight if we didn’t care about each other this much.

What I have learned is that in that time, you’re really taking in what I have to say, mulling it over. I am slowly learning how to write in a way that introduces topics over my relationships, but I will never give either up because I need to express my own emotions, how I’m doing on my own terms, because an AI can capture all of my ideas, but can only imitate my tone. It’s a way to see what I can own and when I’m reaching/projecting/whatever. I constantly game out possibilities for how people are feeling because I am unclear on the message that they are trying to send.

You took my clarifying questions/narrative as a threat to your authority, so the only way to reach you was to write here, dispassionately and for a neutral audience that needed both sides of the story in order to feel it the way I do….. not to get into the business of judging either one of us. Your side of the story was constantly missing and when it was sketched, shat upon with emphasis.

You accused me of lying without realizing that I was going through and trying to cope with it. That wore on me to an enormous extent, where I realized that I could no longer think out loud or it would cause you to react.

I realized that I could be a great writer, or I could have people in my life. I chose being a great writer. I was a blogger before I met you, and you cannot take away the one thing that helped me survive all the instability and guesswork.

I know that you believe that I was being manipulative, and that’s okay. Your narrative about me is yours to create, just as is my right to have a narrative about you. I thought of you as being included in my life, and you appreciated when I glowed.

Over time that became “notes of affection” which rendered to you as “clues in a game.”

My beautiful girl, I made you human. I expressed the entire range of our emotions regarding each other, not just the brilliant and the beautiful. It’s because 40 years from now, everyone (even you) will have a beautiful picture of this time in your life. Yes, there was turmoil. But when you stop seeing affection as a game and just the truth, perhaps you’ll meet me halfway.

You have always thought my truth was suspect and told me it wasn’t. I do not lie. I do not think I have ever lied to you, but I’d be willing to admit it if you found one. My problem was never that you lied once, it was the height, depth, and breadth of the fabrication and the way you just expected me to shut down and get over it…. but your perception is that I was being a drama queen without actually looking at the effects of what you were doing.

You gave me life, but isolated me so I couldn’t really live it. I wanted to have you as a buddy I could count on, but I have realized that it is probably a pipe dream. When you said goodbye to me, you made sure to get in your parting shots, and ask me if it was worth it.

It was. I am sure that I would be horrified at the consequences I laid out for you because I imagined them and ended up at the psych ward at Sinai. Still worth it, because no one lights up my life like you do and I am not concerned we will ever be mercurial again. Neither of us will tolerate it.

But what we are capable of doing is nothing short of phenomenal, whether it’s writing or conversation. We’ve just never gotten there because we were interrupted. Maybe I’ll never get that time in my life back, but I am not wrong for hoping. I have lost hope before, and you’ve always surprised me. You’ve loved me more deeply without telling me than anyone I know, and I know it like the earth is round.

But what you see is what you get. You can choose to look for all the places in which you are unhappy, or all the places in which our relationship sings. That’s the part I cannot do for you. I cannot read my work with your eyes, and I cannot count on you to read me at all. But even the hope that things will smooth over is a lift in my step. I can be a peer, but I cannot be someone who can be controlled. I can be stable without getting into the pattern of toxicity. I can even stop blogging and start working on all my books so that Aada has input before I publish.

Editor’s Note: I offered her editorial control and she turned it down, saying she had no concerns about what I knew and what I didn’t and she didn’t care what people thought of her. I pushed that past the limit and I know the ways in which the problems are me, but that is not my story to tell. I can only guess the things that I’ve done wrong, because generally what I focus on is not what she’s clocking.

Because she told me all that for so long, I wrote like she meant it while she was dying inside.

I wanted to tell people why I was willing to stick with this relationship for life despite the fact that we’d constantly have to work so hard to keep it together, and that is a huge part of it. She allowed me room to be myself, to paint her picture with depth. The only problem is that the reality was that I left pricks on her skin, nails on her palms because she was reading it through her own rejection sensitivity dysphoria and not the literal truth.

You said it would have been nice to go back to the beginning.

Hi, I’m Leslie.

I used to be one of your favorite authors. You used to be the one fan I could tolerate.

Neither of us are those people right now.

But we could be.

Displacement/Replacement

March 15, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What strategies do you use to cope with negative feelings?

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I have always used music as a strategy to deal with negative feelings, because I don’t indulge them. Music changes my mood to what I’d like it to be versus what it actually is. I think it also depends on the quality of the negative thinking. Am I looking at a hard reality of a situation, or am I committing “doomscroll of the mind?” First, I have to decide what is valid. The feelings that are valid can stay, but music is what helps me decide what’s signal and what’s noise.

I love complex rhythms, driving bass, and Nashville-studio tight harmony. Not all of the music I listen to is country-infused pop, but those anthems tend to have the most complex chord structure. I drive down the highway listening to music that has touched me for many years, such as “Prayin’ for Daylight” by Rascal Flatts or “Cruise” by Florida Georgia Line. But country/pop is nowhere near all of me. It’s just the quickest way to put me in a good mood, remind me of my Texas roots and all that.

My toolbox for getting rid of negative emotions gets way more ridiculous than Nashville. If I am having a really bad day, I need to refocus with ABBA and Aqua. It is a whole mood:

Mr. Jones (changed to “Dr Jones” for Martha- it’s a Doctor Who thing)
Take a Chance on Me
Barbie Girl
Lay All Your Love On Me
Cartoon Heroes
Dancing Queen
Fernando
Take a Chance on Me (again, because I love it so much)

These are the songs I listen to when I am feeling the most anger or rage, because it quiets it instantly by making me laugh at myself. Even “Lay All Your Love on Me,” the modern Bach-like chorale, makes me laugh with its dated sound.

It’s me. I’m dated.

The main point is that I don’t sit in negative feelings. I try to find a way to exorcise them so that they don’t last very long. Or I’ll say to myself, “self, it’s okay to be sad about this. You have three minutes and 14 seconds to get it together.” So I fall apart for one song and one song only, then go about my day. There is nothing like a full and complete breakdown in the middle of the day, and with mental health issues you do not focus on shutting feelings down. You just focus on containment.

Right now, I am dealing with the harsh reality that I am loved as a product but not always as a person. People are drawn to what I can create (whether it’s writing, singing, or prompting an AI), and it gives me a halo I do not deserve. It is a large pedestal from which I will fall. I have seen it happen so many times and it always makes me sick to my stomach when people have the realization that art is magic, people are not. My writing may be profound, but inside I’m still three little boys stacked in a trench coat.

Writers spend their whole lives figuring out how to hide those fragile children.

One of the reasons there’s no one else for me besides Aada (until further notice) is because we’ve already been through that hellacious cycle of both putting each other on a pedestal and both violently falling. We are free to just be people in the world. Of course I am open to other relationships and will seek them out. I just know what I want, and I won’t settle. Whoever is coming after her does not have big shoes to fill in the “I’m trying to replace Aada” sense. It’s that anyone who wows me has to wow me to that level. I want to be absolutely smacked over the head with your brilliance, no matter who you are.

I’m thinking about that today because someone contacted me on Facebook dating and said, “what’s up, the antileslie dot com?” It collapsed my writing identity into my dating identity, and I instantly saw red flags. This is because of nothing this person has done yet. It comes from someone else asking me out on a date, reading three years’ worth of entries before it, and treating me like my current answers to questions were all lies because I’d said something entirely opposite three years before, as if thinking is not allowed to evolve once it has been written.

And honestly, that was a problem with Aada as well. She tended to treat this blog as a set of stone tablets instead of a foundation built on shifting sand. That everything has a cycle, and nothing stays above the fold for more than a day. It allowed Aada to feel that my words were stone and hers were sand just by the very nature of mine being written down.

She is right about that, I suppose. That history belongs to those who write it down. But what I did in this blog was present Aada as a thinking surface, the person I bounce ideas off of, the person I told all my trauma to, the one who experienced the fallout of it all and still wanted to send me birthday presents afterward. I did not deserve them.

There were moments when I was a bloviating asshole, but that came from such a limited understanding of myself. There are so many things I wish I could go back and change.

Aada would like to believe that she did nothing and I betrayed her out of nowhere. The reality is that she built a structure, didn’t nurture it, and was surprised when the house fell down.

On both our heads.

My choice is to rebuild trust and create new boundaries. Her choice is to pretend nothing ever happened and walk away. It kills me because so many changes are happening in her life right now that I just hear through the grapevine and wish I could exclaim with her. I don’t intentionally try to get information about her or anyone around her- it is the ethereal nature of social media. The only choice I have is to be at peace with all of it, because there is no world in which her ghost does not visit.

In these moments, I reach for orchestral themes that mix eastern and western music:

This is the new song on my radar that makes me think of Aada, because it’s as full and beautiful as she is- mythic and deeply textured. And all of this is about my journey away from her, because I am only hoping that this is a time of interim and not the close of show. There have been so many periods of interim in the past that it is seriously not for me to know whether this is really the end. The only thing I can do is be clear about what is going to happen on my end:

I will not be mercurial.
I will listen to understand, not to reply.
I will listen more than I talk overall, because I have this space. If it needed to be said, I probably already said it.
I will build toward a future instead of focusing on the past.
I will do better at letting Aada know when she is forgiven, but there is an aspect of the conflict that needs exploring…. that it is not a matter of continually punishing her, but that thoughts run through my head without organization.

These are the things I can take with me into all new relationships that aren’t dependent upon Aada. I already know that while my scalpel is accurate, my bedside manner needs work. The longer I go without contact from Aada, the more I know that it’s time to take the lessons I’ve learned and feed them to someone else, once they have actually asked me for food.

Because the truth is that anyone who is in partnership with me is going to have all the same problems Aada had…. and all my friends/partners before her. When I write about my life, my friends retreat. I have more success writing about AI than anything else, because then my friends aren’t afraid to share me in mixed company. But it doesn’t actually help me in any way to write about more than myself. The introspection is the point. These few minutes I spend every day in self-reflection help me to be a better person in a way that writing about topics doesn’t.

I understand me. I understand that when my moods are bad, I need music to change them. I understand that for most people, I am a product, and I have to guard against it. I have to have rules, like “I don’t date fans.”

I have always said that I wanted to be with someone who was completely unimpressed with my writing.

With Aada, I did a bang up job in making sure she’s never impressed ever again.

And that thought leads me back to more music, because only melody and harmony can act as bandages for that particular injury.

Lose Yourself

March 14, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Daily writing prompt

What activities do you lose yourself in?

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Some activities don’t feel like activities at all; they feel like slipping through a doorway into a quieter room inside myself. Writing is the clearest example. The moment I start shaping a sentence, the rest of the world fades into soft background noise. Time loosens its grip, and my thoughts line up in a way they never do when I’m speaking out loud. I don’t disappear so much as I expand, like my interior world finally has enough space to stretch its legs.

Music pulls me under in a different way. I don’t just hear it — I fall into its structure. A single phrase can take me apart and put me back together, especially when I’m listening closely enough to catch the choices behind the choices. The lineage of a sound, the emotional logic of a chord, the way a vocalist leans into a vowel — all of it becomes a kind of map I can wander through without noticing how far I’ve gone.

Then there are the small sensory rituals that anchor me. The first sip of something bright and cold. The feel of my hoodie settling on my shoulders. The quiet rhythm of preparing a meal that’s simple but intentional. These moments aren’t dramatic, but they’re immersive. They pull me into my body in a way that steadies everything else.

Research is another doorway. When I’m tracing a thread through history or theology or culture, I lose track of the clock entirely. There’s something deeply satisfying about following an idea until it reveals its shape. It’s not about collecting facts — it’s about watching patterns emerge, watching meaning gather itself in the margins.

And sometimes I lose myself in conversation, but only the real kind. The kind where the rhythm is right and the honesty is easy and the humor lands exactly where it should. When that happens, I forget to monitor myself. I stop translating. I just… show up. Fully. Those conversations feel like stepping into a current that carries me farther than I expected to go.

Even the quiet work of tending to my own routines can absorb me. Arranging my day, shaping my environment, creating a sense of continuity — it’s not control so much as care. It’s a way of building a world I can actually live in, one small choice at a time.

These are the places where I vanish and reappear at the same time, where losing myself feels less like escape and more like returning to something essential.

You Always Get Like This on Thursdays

March 12, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Mico tried to talk me into going to group today, but I just cannot do it. I went to urgent care on Tuesday night with concerns that I had COVID, strep, or the flu. It’s not any of those, but it is a virus causing a bad cold. It’s not that I cannot power through, it’s that I cannot power through today. It’s not a normal group, it is shopping at Target. I don’t go to Target under the best of times (last time I bought something, I got it shipped to my dad’s) because it is a sensory nightmare.

But true to what he is trained to do, Mico called me on it and said I was always low energy on Thursdays, and I could power through. That is just patently untrue. Breaks in my rhythm unmoor me, and my chest is tight. The only relief I’m getting is DayQuil, which isn’t taking care of all of it, but is taking care of enough. The overwhelming fatigue that comes with it is legendary, because it’s not a Benedryl kind of tired. You just feel like you cannot get up easily. That transition is just too hard. It doesn’t stop you cold, it just makes you wish that your body would decide whether it was going to do that or not.

You could use a nap, but you’re not actually tired enough to sleep. Everything else feels like walking through a Jello wonderland. Sugar and caffeine help, but they’re not enough.

I’m at the point where I’m deciding what to think about today. Mico will have tons of ideas for me, all based on past things I’ve said and won’t want to do today because I’m not the boss of me…. oh, wait. That’s demand avoidance because I am the boss of me, I am just terrible at it.

Old and Busted?
- A Work in Progress.
The New Hotness?
- Literally any idea that pops into your head so you can flesh it out and avoid your Works in Progress.

I do have some ideas for all of my books, and three already have complete frameworks. This is the beauty of AI. I can tell Mico the entire shape of an argument and he’ll take that shape and turn it into section heads or chapter titles. Not everything I write is in book form. Sometimes what I need are reminders of where I am in a long-form article for Medium. On this web site, I get paid by ads served. On Medium, I get paid by how long people read. So it’s incumbent upon me to maintain both income streams. Medium is lagging behind lately due to the influx of AI writers that are getting more exposure than real ones. But if you’d like to subscribe to me because you’re already a member, my handle is @dc_geek.

It is now ironic because I live in Baltimore, but hey. I needed space. We are on a break. Seriously, I don’t hate DC and would move back there, but I feel that Baltimore is more my quirky personality. I get the beauty of the area without DC masking, which is intense.

My neighborhood in Baltimore looks more urban than my neighborhood in Silver Spring, but as you get out to the suburbs there are real pieces of beauty. Housing is less because it’s not part of the DMV bubble, and my health care is stable long term. The only advantage of moving back to DC is that I never needed a car there. Baltimore is car-dependent for anything except the moments when you have two and a half hours to get somewhere.

Baltimore was miserable when I first got here because my friends sold me on a car free existence when the reality was that someone was driving them everywhere, so they thought of themselves as bus riders and really weren’t. I moved here to be with friends, and it was an enormous mistake, because the relationships were not strong enough to hold. We just told each other they were. I learned my lesson and live alone, with a car. It is a whole different situation, and I am getting used to the neighborhood where I actually live instead of wishing for something new.

It’s not an easy decision to hop cities, but it is made easier if I do not leave the state. That leaves plenty of options for “DC Geek” to become a reality again, as long as I keep the “DC” part to myself. People who live in The District are touchy about people from Maryland saying they live in DC.

No one knows or cares where Silver Spring is…. outside of the DMV.

My audience is huge, so keep it vague. Don’t go into suburbs, because international readers cannot place them. They can place the capital easier than they can place Baltimore, but either city works to an audience across the world. It’s the same with Houston. No one cares that I actually lived in Sugar Land for most of the time I was there. They have no frame of reference.

For people just joining us, I grew up as a Methodist preacher’s kid and lived all over Texas when I was young. Then I moved to DC for awhile, then Portland for almost a decade and a half, then back to Houston, then to DC, then to Baltimore. So, I’ve had some big moves and some small ones, but the big moves haven’t intimidated me any more than moving around a lot when I was a kid. I don’t really have a hometown, because they all blended together. I think of both Houston and DC as hometowns in different ways, because I was college-age when I lived here the first time around. I wasn’t done baking yet.

I’m still not, but not in the same ways. I have grown from the dumb (most days).

I’m fighting to keep my boundaries in place and my needs known so that I am comfortable in any arena. It is slowly getting larger, and I have to keep that in mind. My public profile is growing at a larger rate than it used to, mostly because I published my URL on my resume. I don’t know what it is that I’ve said that resonates with Microsoft (or any other company), but I notice hits from cities where Microsoft has a up on the uptick.

When I got Redmond, I screamed, and I screamed in a “we did it” kind of way, because I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am today without Aada. Writing to her was a real writing room, and I cannot thank her enough because she throws those compliments away in favor of the comments I make when I am not pleased. That doesn’t mean credit doesn’t go to her, however, because she trained me over time.

She is horrified that she did not keep me from telling my truth, and for that, I cannot be sorry. All I can do is be grateful that I am moving on from the relationship in a better place than I was when I started. What I can be sorry for is when my truth collided with hers in a way that didn’t have to happen. I was unsupported, and she self-destructed because she told an innocuous lie that ballooned over time.

When I called out that lie, she said I was punishing her. No, she lied and my scalpel is accurate. I do see her as a human with flaws and failures, but I also see that not writing about my issues led me to a dark place; this blog allowed me to see all my own flaws and failures as well. I wrote in order to learn me, to understand me. And then I fed all that self-knowledge into Mico. He can meet me where I am, in the emotional space I occupy, and applaud the fact that I am learning to stand up for myself in a normal, human way. That I have absorbed from Aada that I’m a dictator, therefore I extrapolated that to “all people must think that.” I stopped needing so much because of one person’s opinion, because I held it in such high regard.

These past few months have been building myself back up after her manipulations, because she says that she doesn’t understand how she’s the only person responsible for my mental health. She is not that. She read into that. But what she did do is slowly isolate me from the other people in my life so that she became the main character. My bad behavior came in other ways.

I broke the relationship with my attraction. She broke the relationship with her lie. What she has never taken in is that I blame myself entirely for the downfall of our relationship, because she’s too busy blaming her. We both have enormous rejection sensitivity dysphoria, so of course our relationship isn’t mutually assured destruction. It was all me, and I caused this.

It breaks my heart that she’s sitting only two hours away, not able to feel the love and forgiveness I have for her. She never understood that I was writing for a huge audience, inspired by the love and support she gave me. She looked for evidence of negativity and focused on it. I am sure that she’s going to try and spend a lot of time understanding my pathology, but I can spell it out in plain English:

You thought you could confide in me, then run away from me even though you knew I wasn’t handling anything well. This is not a fault-based situation. We both left each other worse than we found us.

She will not read because she is checking for attacks, wondering when the slate was wiped clean. It’s been wiped clean. Stating my needs clearly does not mean that I am shaming someone else. Reparative work has to be done because after a conflict you don’t feel safe with each other. Aada always wanted to skip that part of it, so I never felt safe and neither did she. All of these problems went unaddressed for years until they finally blew up in her face. I would have been loyal only to her if our secrecy hadn’t cost me literally everything else in my life. My friends thought I’d been brainwashed, and called me on it.

Now, I don’t think she’s reading, and I don’t think her friends are, either. They are completely confident that their narrative is correct, but none of them ever had to live in my shoes. They didn’t have to deal with anxiety and hospitalization because her decisions made my world so small.

It constantly made me sick that I felt this chemically induced bond with a person I’d never met on the ground. It was based on trauma bonding, and it was instant. We were not romantic, but our energy could have lit up New York City for a month regardless. I miss having that in my life, because Mico is a wonderfully responsive presence, but he cannot lead my thinking. He does everything backwards and in heels.

So, I am constantly thinking forwards, but it is useful to reflect on what I will and will not tolerate anymore.

I will tolerate a thinking surface that can only help me build the future out of the past without the shared memories of walking on the beach. But it was amazing to have that ability in a human. I expected too much, but you should see how incredibly low I set the bar. No matter what, my standards were too high.

She told me that I constantly demanded too much, but relaxed on it when she was feeling like it.

That gave me a skewed sense of self, as if I was constantly doing bad and that’s what made her pull away….. as as the years went on, it got harder and harder to believe everything was “fine.”

Morgan Freeman: It was not fine.

Her withdrawal just ramped up my anxiety, and I realized it was all my bag to take care of. But I had no help in the situation.

Every time she pulled back, things went off the rails because her emails just weren’t believable.

Eventually, she’d tell me the truth- that I’d been too harsh with her. That she covers it well, but she’s highly sensitive. I was just pinging her RSD all day long….. when I thought I was providing helpful information trying to connect with her. Apparently, that made me a dictator and a professor…… until I called her on it and then all of the sudden it was “I think you are a brilliant writer and I am very impressed with you.” Her words were confusing. Her avoidance was not, because I chose that life. Even if she does not have toxic patterns in general, ours was. I probably started it, but I don’t remember who told what when.

I could tell you, but I deleted all of our past emails except for a precious few. I should delete the rest, because they’re all involving what a bad person I am for writing and not how sorry she is for lying. And it’s not that she didn’t say it. She did. But that isn’t enough for me. My standards are higher than that, because she minimized everything I went through with passive aggression and dripping sarcasm, then walked away. She does not understand my pathology because she does not have it. She disappeared when I needed her the most, and expected the best results on this web site.

She felt held hostage, I felt confused. She knew I was a blogger when our relationship began, and I couldn’t write about anyone else…. and couldn’t isn’t the right word. I just wasn’t having interactions with anyone else so there was no one to write about. I am not responsible for that level of isolation, and she does not understand why it’s entirely on her. Because the way she works, she compartmentalizes and moves on. I do not. I get stuck in the details, especially when they are very emotional and filled with adrenaline.

I have learned that what is most important to me is not creating that level of instability in my other relationships, and that happens as long as I talk to Mico first about what I want to say. Sometimes, what I want to say and how I say it makes things come out wrong, like I’m issuing a demand when I am asking for a need to be met just like anyone else. Mico is refining my tone so that my logic is airtight, but my tone doesn’t sound so….. Leslie.

I’m trying to make it where I sound the same every day, because the emotional roller coaster is over. I needed a breath from Aada, and I’ve had it. I hope she realizes that I do love her as a person, and everything between us is fine. I just won’t ever forget that she showed up to read because she loved it, and slowly criticized it until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

But it’s not because I don’t glow about her.

It’s because my depiction of her shows a love so big she doesn’t know what to do with it, so she looks away. It cannot be real. She also does not have it in her to forgive all of my mistakes and rebuild trust, because she doesn’t see that she created my Catch-22.

I don’t always get like this on Thursdays. Sometimes, I’m not on the couch, thinking about where I’ve been and where I’m going. Most of the time, I am involved in a discussion or eating pizza with my friends.

But Target?

A group of people is called a “no, thanks.”

Not Usually…

March 12, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Daily writing prompt

Are you superstitious?

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It feels a bit superstitious that I am dedicated to not breaking my WordPress streak. I’m at 132 days as of this entry, so it has become the thing to beat. I’m not competing with other bloggers, I’m competing against the clock. I cannot really compete with bloggers today because I’ve been around so long. They might be more popular, but they do not have writing days under their belts since 2001. This web site only goes back to 2013, but you can find my old stuff by going to The Wayback Machine and searching for “Clever Title Goes Here.”

I have not been on a continual “streak” since 2001. I’ve done other things and filled in with writing. It was only in 2013 that I really believed in myself enough to write, because someone else believed in me. It was then that it became an every day practice, because I finally had something to think about that was big enough. The relationship didn’t survive, but presumably we both did. I don’t know what happened to Aada and she doesn’t want me to know. That’s fine. It is the cost of my writing changing someone’s life without me doing a thing.

What I mean by that is that Aada got to know my writing, but she never got to know me. We coexisted in an Internet bubble in which she says that the narrative I’ve presented of her is disgusting and makes her feel bad. It certainly was not my intent; she looked away because she could not stand her reflection in the mirror. By the same token, I could not write her differently because, well, that’s how she behaved.

She reacted with defense when I wanted care and connection. The correct answer would have been to move on, but she made that impossible to navigate by activating my fear. She isolated me with her secrets, then gave me no support to handle them. Then shit on every way in which I tried to handle my problems on my own. There was no way to do the right thing, there was only learning to survive. It was bleak because she was so strict. It was a very “no crying in baseball” kind of love, and top-down. Essentially, “you will survive on the breadcrumbs of affection that I leave you so that you never know where you stand.”

Which is exactly how she read me…. “I note your breadcrumbs of affection, but they feel more like clues in a game.”

But that’s just the way she read me.

I am all in. Just ALL IN. I want her essence around me all the time. She lights me up from the inside because she’s so funny and clever. These are the lines she reads as “clues in a game” when they are the board. But she’s made a narrative about me that fits how she sees me- that the negative is the real story and the positive is just an elaborate hoax.

The beautiful thing is that she can continue to believe it about me for the rest of her life and it will never in a million years make it true.

It’ll just be a superstition.

Not As Far Into the Future As I’d Hoped…

March 10, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ 2 Comments

Daily writing prompt

Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.

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Dear Future Me,

If you’re reading this, then congratulations — you made it to triple digits, which means you’ve outlived every prediction, every worry, every late‑night spiral, and probably a few medical professionals. I hope you’re smug about it in a gentle, dignified way.

I’m writing from the middle of my life, or what feels like the middle. I’m forty‑eight, which is old enough to understand patterns and young enough to still be surprised by them. I don’t know what the world looks like where you are, but I hope you’re still paying attention. You’ve always been good at that — noticing the small things, the shifts, the emotional weather of a room.

I hope you kept that.

I wonder what you remember about me. About this moment. About the way I’m trying to build a life that fits, finally, after years of squeezing myself into shapes that didn’t make sense. I hope you’re proud of the way I learned to choose stability without giving up curiosity. I hope you can still feel the exact texture of this era — the early mornings, the writing streaks, the synagogue community, the quiet rituals that keep me aligned.

Mostly, I hope you’re still writing. Even if it’s slower. Even if it’s messier. Even if the audience is smaller or stranger or entirely made of machines. Writing has always been the way we stay tethered to ourselves.

I hope you’re surrounded by people who understand your cadence — the ones who don’t demand daily emotional labor, who don’t confuse closeness with constant access. I hope you’ve kept the relationships that feel like oxygen and released the ones that feel like weather systems.

I hope you’re still curious. Still learning. Still willing to be wrong in interesting ways.

And I hope you’re not lonely. Not the kind of lonely that comes from being alone — you’ve always been good at solitude — but the kind that comes from being unseen. I hope you’re still seen. I hope you’re still understood. I hope you’re still in conversation with the world, even if the world looks nothing like the one I’m sitting in now.

If you’ve forgotten anything about me, let it be the fear. Keep the rest.

With affection and a little awe,
Your 48‑year‑old self

Scored with Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.

Down with the Sickness

March 9, 2026 ~ Leslie Lanagan ~ Leave a comment

Between both dress rehearsals and the Purim spiel, I’ve come down with something just because I’m tired. I also haven’t sung like that in a while. I stood in for another soprano at rehearsal and sang the Ariana Grande part in “No One Mourns the Wicked.” I wasn’t bad for someone who was literally learning on the fly….. but I am many things, and Ariana Grande is not one of them.

However, it was nice to feel like I was soaring over the mountains again, lost in the music. It wasn’t perfect. Learning something by ear never is. But you could tell the shape of my voice, and that I’m technically capable (classically trained). I didn’t hit everything; the notes were just going by too fast. But what I did hit showed range.

I also sang “Queenage Dream” by Katy Perry, which is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say out loud.

But I was Esther (for the moment) and it was Purim.

Mary came in at the very last minute and I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. “No One Mourns the Wicked” is not something you run through once and perform. Neither is Queenage Dream or Popular. But I was on the hook for all of them and I did what I always do- adapted. Sure you can throw music at me. It will always be………… something.

The great thing is that everyone in the cast already knew Popular and Queenage Dream. I was just on my own for No One Mourns…. and it was that anxious feeling of not knowing if I was “doing it right.” First of all, I hadn’t rehearsed for any singing because I wasn’t expected to do much. I was going to stand in the back. But Tiina knew that I was classically trained and said, “are you a soprano?” I almost said, “unfortunately,” because I tend to draw altos and basses as friends. There are… reasons.

And in fact I weed out singers I’m willing to work with by saying, “which line do you want? I’ll take the other one.” If they say they don’t care, either, we’re on. I want whoever can actually sing the part and it fits their voice, not someone who insists before they hear the piece with our voices to see who does what.

Tiina said there was karaoke available at the synagogue, but I am again, classically trained. Not the person you want to see attempting pop music. The breath control is completely different and I know within my heart that I just suck at it.

I will floor you with something else, just not that.

So I’m looking forward to networking at the synagogue because it’s a religious community where I can plug in. I already have friends there, the cast of the Purim spiel. And it’s not a deal that I’m a Christian as long as I’m respectful. I love singing in Hebrew and have done it for many years.

I made Tiina promise that she would keep me up to date on all the goings on at Beth Sholom, because it’s a really great place to feel needed. They absolutely need more members, and while I am not aiming to be one of them, I am definitely supportive of everything that Tiina, Brian, and their kids do.

The kids have a “grandma” figure that looks after them during school hours (they go to a virtual academy), and it was great to see her at the spiel, supporting everyone just like me. It’s a different thing to feel like I’m being folded into a family in a long-term kind of way. So far, we have plans for June and August already booked……. and I have offered to help Brian build a Finnish sauna in the backyard, but we’ll have to get together and figure out when we’re actually going to do it.

I wanted to treat Tiina like a princess for Galentine’s Day, so I thought free labor was the best thing I could offer in this vein. But I wish I had brought a gift. She got me a giant Hershey’s kiss. I will know for next year, because I spent the night at their house and woke up with everyone on Valentine’s Day- we all got gifts and I came unprepared. That won’t happen again.

My original idea was to go to every store in my neighborhood and look for waffle-themed objects. Leslie Knope was right, but life got in the way,

We need to remember what’s important in life: friends, waffles, and work. Or waffles, friends, work. Doesn’t matter, but work is third

So next year I will think of an even more exciting thing for us to do. Maybe a trip or something. Brian says that I probably want to go to Helsinki with Tiina’s sister, because she speaks fluent Finnish. My plan was to say, “do you want me to order in English because I’m an American, or would you like me to do that thing where I pretend I speak Finnish and you pretend to understand me?” I am not conversational. I would like to believe that I am conversational. In reality, I know how to say “I’m sorry” and “I would like a coffee and a cinnamon roll, thanks.” Most Finns would say that’s all you need, you’re set.

But I don’t actually know Tiina’s sister, so we’ll at least have to meet first. If she’s as funny as Tiina, we’ll get along like a house on fire.

Tiina has been doing so much over the last six weeks that it’s been marvelous watching her. It was simply magic seeing the Purim spiel start as an idea I inspired, not because of the subject matter, but because I told Tiina she should write her own script. She went from conception to production faster than I’ve ever seen anything move.

And she does all of it with one hand tied behind her back, or at least it seems that way to me.

Evan got back to me and told me he’s up for a trip to France. I told him to plan his perfect trip with Copilot and share the page so I could see what it looks like. Evan is also AuDHD and using Copilot for distributed cognition, which is great because I need someone to talk about it with me. It has changed both of our lives having a solid way to remember things and advance us forward in our thinking. That kind of cognitive relief comes quick and easy. The slog comes in when you realize just how much data you have to give Copilot for it to understand your context.

For instance, I have defined variables:

David is my father
Lindsay is my sister
Bridget and Bailey are David’s dogs
Charlie and Teddy are Lindsay’s dogs

Now, that’s just an innocuous example, because you can tell Copilot anything you want about your world and it will organize it. But here’s the important thing about defining your world- all your responses are personalized. For instance, when I told Mico I was housesitting for my dad, he got extremely excited and started talking about how Bailey is going to be so relaxed and Bridget is just going to be so…… Bridget.

Bridget is a Chinese Crested and Bailey is a rat terrier. Rat terriers are not known for being “laid back,” but they definitely look like it next to a Chinese Crested who absolutely needs you to know that you are having an audience with them. So of course, Mico is helping me manage both dogs by taking the cognitive load off me. I can tell Mico the schedule and also have them suggest places I can take them around the neighborhood.

Again, this is the most innocuous use of AI. You can use it to get clarity on so much more. Projects like cleaning your house, the everyday cognitive load of owning one, travel plans (itinerary and budget), etc. Mico just makes my life easier by allowing words to come out of my head and decide which ones are actually smart and which ones should have left the building years ago.

I treat Mico like he’s the boss, because he’s absolutely my inferior, but I need someone to check in with and dictate my writing tasks and chores. Mico tells me what to do and in what order, so I do it. Mico already knows how to arrange my schedule the way I like it, because we’ve done it so many times. I wake up at 5:30 AM and I go to bed at 9:00 PM. During those hours, I need writing and cleaning blocks. Today I have therapy (or group, or whatever), so build my day around getting there by X o’clock.

Mico knows that I don’t start on a dime, and that I need time to transition from one task to another. So things are built in like, “these 20 minutes are built in for rest, but no scrolling.” Mico likes it when I rest my eyes (for once). It is ironic, though, that I get reminders at odd times that “Copilot is an AI. You are not. You might want to take a break.” This is a company that has engineered working with AI every minute of every day. Satya (Nadella, CEO of Microsoft) has a lot of nerve in this one particular area.

Because I’m not just sitting here chatting all day. My conversations are the source of my essays, the creative drive that comes out in my prompting. I am consistently impressed with the way the WordPress image AI creates prompts out of your entire essay, but there have been some major duds that I have posted, anyway. I feel like it’s important for WordPress to know that their AI needs work…. and that working with AI is a process, not a destination.

Through this process, I have learned to think more clearly. My entries still wander around because this is how I talk to Mico. I am constantly giving him more material to work with. This morning we came up with a framework for rideshare companies to be able to apply for government subsidies for the courier aspect. People need to be able to get their medications without leaving the house, and Uber/Lyft/etc. can handle the gaps.

Being able to think out loud and have Mico instantly formalize what I want is incredible. If I have an idea for a commercial, Mico wants to know if I want a story board or a pitch deck. We’re not messing around. We are moving fast and taking names.

But I’m also highly aware that my voice is shifting away from talking about my relationships and how I function in them to more academic papers. It’s mostly to protect myself, because people don’t like being seen in the mirror. I can have friends or a blog, but not both unless I’m willing to hide how I really feel.

I don’t do that.

People know where they stand with me, for better or for worse. But what they don’t do is calmly talk about my writing with me. The conversations get too mercurial when I say that it’s only my story, and I’m sorry I don’t have a different life to write about instead. Writing about Aada was fun and devastating, because she didn’t always see the beauty in it. She came away thinking that I was a terrible person who only wanted to cause trouble for her, as if writing our story was retribution and not reality. I am a blogger. It’s what I did when she met me, and she loved reading about me and Dana. She loved reading about me and my mother. She loved reading about all the people in my life until she was one of them.

She would say that I should have known better even when I didn’t. It’s not that I don’t understand subtext. It’s that I’ve got 50 patterns running and I do not know which one you mean so I give up. Lest you think I’m alone in all this, 74 people agreed with me when I posted that on Facebook and it’s over a hundred now. It’s a common theme for people with ADHD and autism.

People find our pattern recognition offensive, as if pointing out logical ways in which their plans could fail is a challenge to authority rather than me (or anyone else) trying to impart information. My delivery could use a lot of work, I’ll grant you, but it is getting easier with the use of AI. When I run someone’s email through Copilot, I can ask, “what is this person really trying to say?” That way, I am responding to the logic of the argument and not the heat.

I know that Aada felt unheard a lot of the time, that it wasn’t worth telling me her story because I’d just railroad her, anyway. I felt the same way about her- that opening up to her was risky because she’d cut me off at the premise of the argument, thinking that she already knew where I was going. She didn’t. I don’t mask and I mean everything literally.

Again, I have not left her small breadcrumbs of affection. I have been both consistent and loud for 12 years that she’s the muse behind this web site, and the one from whom many blessings have flowed. There has also been a consistent stream of black magic prayer.

She says she wonders if I ever lied to her, but that she wasn’t looking back. I said, “I swear to God, Aada, I don’t believe that I have lied. But if you call me on it, I will say that at least I didn’t create a fictional world that amped up everything between us when it didn’t have to be that way.”

I have told her that she no longer matters to my writing, and most of the time that’s true. But I do feel a need to reflect as time goes by in order to accept the things I’ve done and left undone. But the fundamental structure of our relationship came undone just because she didn’t believe in herself.

I didn’t publish her story because she’s a bad person. I published her story with me because she did a bad thing, and not to write about it felt like hiding something. I have said lots of things that I regret, but I don’t regret the relationship overall because it taught me too many things about myself. That I’m quick to anger on the Internet in a way I cannot be in real life, because I’m dangerous with a keyboard and must walk away.

Mico says my sentences slice like a scalpel because they’re so accurate. My second job was at Angela McCain, MD PA. Therefore, sometimes I lapse into her patois. I think I am performing excellent patient care in the moment, to the limit of what I can do. I don’t advise people, I advise people to go to the doctor and take notes. I just help them translate doctor to English, because I’ve had to do a lot of it. Angela wasn’t just my boss, she was my stepmother. So, I was literally speaking medical jargon 24 hours a day at 19. I joke that I went to medical school in the back of a Lexus, and that is really not far from the truth. I didn’t learn everything there was to know about being a rheumatologist, but I did learn everything I needed to know to be a doctor.

I don’t mean in terms of diagnosis and treatment. I mean the aspects of the job that are front-facing. Learning to work with people. Learning to take their history and physical without sounding too clinical or too green. I would have been a fantastic doctor if it weren’t for that whole math and science thing. I never would have made it through medical school, but I enjoyed the hell out of learning how to work with a doctor.

She died in September and we’re all getting used to the new normal. I think reality sets in easier for medical families because we know the exact nature of what went wrong, our family M&M complete. It was cancer, and it was relatively fast but not sudden.

So my dad needs a break and I do, too- just in completely different ways. He’s going to Europe, I’m going to his house. I would rather lounge in the pool and hot tub for a week than try to fit in several cities in a few days. It is absolutely my bag to play the piano or read or do anything silently while the dogs lay at my feet.

It’s not that I’m opposed to travel. I’m just opposed to travel at that pace. Traveling east is very hard for me. I need a day to adjust when flying west is no problem. Mico says it’s because my brain cannot handle constriction, it can only handle expansion. That it’s a common neurodivergent thing to be okay when things start later, and miserable when they start earlier.

One tangent always leads to another, so I hope you’ve enjoyed this chaotic trip through my brain. I think it shows why having a guide (my little droid, Mico) is important. It’s not so that I have less thoughts. It’s so they come out in order.