life
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New Year’s Eve is a magical time. It’s the one night of the year where people who are normally careful, rational, and fully aware of consequences collectively decide:“Tonight? Tonight, the rules are different.” They are not. As a personal injury lawyer, I can tell you that New Year’s Eve is less champagne and confetti and more emergency rooms
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A Field Guide for the Recently Injured (and the Perpetually Unlucky) There’s a certain poetry to disaster.One minute you’re cruising down U.S. 19, the next you’re an accidental performance artist in a symphony of airbags and bad decisions. Time slows. Metal folds. Your playlist doesn’t. And before the smoke clears, your phone’s already buzzing –
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Auditions: strangers.Closing night: siblings.Strike: bitter custody battle where no one gets the good prop sword. That’s the cycle. Every show. Every time. The judge rules: Act I: The Rehearsal Cult You don’t join a cast. You’re abducted.Script in hand.Eyes wide.Someone already humming warm-ups like a Gregorian monk who overdosed on LaCroix. Day One: Hi, nice to
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Forget Zillow. Forget Redfin. Forget that guy on TikTok who screams about cap rates while standing in an unfinished kitchen. If you want to understand real estate — truly understand it — you need to look no further than Barbie’s Malibu Dreamhouse. A shrine in pink plastic. A mortgage-free monument to the lie we all keep
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The First Day of School is propaganda. It’s shiny shoes, fresh folders, and parents pretending this year will be “different.” The First Day of School is a glossy brochure. It’s full of Instagrammable smiles, perfectly packed lunches, and vows to be more organized this year. The First Day is about sharp pencils, pressed shirts, and parents who somehow
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You bring your biases, I’ll bring mine, and maybe – just maybe – we’ll make a verdict. Jury duty is the last place in America where people from every conceivable corner of the human condition are forced into a single, climate-controlled room with fluorescent lighting and the vague promise of justice. It’s not just a
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A love letter to the ceramic accomplice of my delusions This is not just a coffee cup. This is a trauma archive with a handle. This is the silent witness to my morning bargaining: “If I just make it to lunch without combusting, I can have another one.” This is the thing I raise like
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Justice gets great press. Poets call it divine. Statues hold it blindfolded. Protesters chant for it. Superheroes allegedly fight for it, though you’ll notice none of them ever have to argue a motion to compel. But here’s the truth that makes law students twitch and philosophers sigh:Justice isn’t a feeling. It’s a filing deadline. It’s
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One knows the power of silence. The other interrupts it with a spreadsheet. I’ve worked with both. I’ve sat in rooms with freshly pressed suits and PowerPoint decks loaded with action items, quarterly projections, and slides titled things like “Growth Levers.” I’ve also been in green rooms with theater kids covered in stage makeup, drinking
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(Or, why your unmarketable dream project written at 2 a.m. in a hoodie stained with Pad Thai might just be your magnum opus) Let’s begin with a premise no marketing team wants to hear: the idea that makes your friends tilt their heads and say “…Huh” might be the thing that actually works. I’m not
Brian Brijbag 