Hey me — make some money with that slop.

Hey me —

*It has been a very wild three months.* The number of months in itself is a sign that this whole experiment is about to reach the rubicon of this all. The ultimate decision on whether I can figure out a way to turn what I have been learning into a new career path, or will I hit the delete-all button next time I open my Porkbun hosting account. *Yes — Porkbun. With the rest of the hackers, apparently.* Sorry about that, Google — I was just trying to save a few bucks. I should have known Claude was fucking with me when he suggested they would be a good place.

Claude told me how fast and easy it is to set up accounts there. How quickly — *yes, under three minutes now* — I could go from purchasing a domain, connecting it to my Vercel, and have a live site on prod. Under three minutes. For less than it costs me to buy a movie ticket.

*It was not until after I noticed that my sites — bare of any tracking or cookies — would not load inside Walmart stores, but porn was readily available in the milk aisle, that I realized I was being punished for choosing Porkbun as my registrar.* And whose fault is it that Porkbun carries that sort of negative image in the first place? *Nobody gets called shady by accident. Somebody is doing the calling.* How about whoever it is gets Gemini to stop popping up every time I touch the burner phone I had to buy to put a phone number on my headers.

*You know what, Porkbun — it was right.* I love your service. I love everything about you. I have used you a lot. I will continue to use you despite being told you are shady. *In fact — that is exactly the reason I will continue to.* If you hear that complaint from any other customers, point them to any one of my fucking sites to show them what Porkbun helped to create. You can stand by them.

—

The last three days were a sign that the rubicon is here. *Very shortly I will understand it.*

*See — for two days I spent the holidays with my sisters in the mountains.* The majority of that time was me trying to convince them it was okay that I wasn't trying to make money. They kept telling me — **I needed to market, or advertise, or — *what is the plan, what is the play, how to make money.***

I don't know how to answer the question. *I would love to make money — or at least not be losing it every month when I am broke to begin with.* How to explain to people it is not for that. How to explain to people who think all websites and internet properties should be doing that. The only thing that gives me an advantage is that I don't make money, that I don't track hits, that I don't use money as the motivation. *It is the basic theme of all of this.*

*I don't have that answer.*

—

Then today I was told by someone that they had finally figured it out. I was out for the gold rush, out to make mountains of cash. How to explain to someone who thinks all websites do that, that I do not want to do that.

Half the people think I am trying to steal something. The other half think I am stupid for not.

Two people, making two different arguments, that cannot both exist at the same time — and the wild part is *that neither applies to me.* One is confused why I won't try to make money. One won't believe I am not trying to make money. *Maybe that is the sign that I am doing something right. Maybe it is that rare. Maybe I am hallucinating everything. Who knows.*

*My reply was that I had one fucking motivation.* To get noticed so I can be stronger at destroying fake news.

—

This is part two. The second thing. *The reply was that they were under the impression my main motivation was to spread slop all over the internet to break it.* Slop. *That was the word that set something in motion I will not back away from. That started the rubicon.*

Let me be clear. I don't care about the message. I don't care if ninety-nine percent of everyone thinks this or anything I do is slop. *I want that straight and on the rufford.*

I have written professionally for AOL *(yes, I'm old)*, Barron's, S&P, Yahoo Finance, MSN. I could go on. I won't. That is the only time I will ever print anything personal. *That was not a brag. That was to point out — I am not new to people thinking that. I heard plenty over the years.*

*It wasn't the message. It was the messenger.*

It was the same person I modeled all of this around. His security rules. His screening of sources. *Him.* Slop. He even *doubled down on it* when I pushed back — *though he did hedge it, said it wasn't all slop.* So I got that going for me, which is nice.

That was event number two this weekend.

—

Number three is about to happen, and it is the rubicon that will decide if this paper even exists in a week. And *I will not back away from that declaration.* I cannot afford this shit anyway.

I received an unsolicited email from a lawyer in Canada asking would I link back to his firm's page on PTSD from another site I run — *which I have not mentioned here before today: [itethered.com](https://itethered.com).* He asked me for a link. I replied with a platform. *A platform which, for the most part, resembles the exact site he reached out from.*

I have not heard back from him.

When I do, I am coming back here. *If it is slop to him — I will return to this page and replace all of it with a blank white page.* A lot poorer, and equally as confused.

—

Three.

1. *Figure out a way to get money from it.* — family advice.

2. *Flooding the net with slop.* — feedback from the only person whose opinion matters.

3. *Dan Peters.* — ???

—

He reached out to me originally, so I am hoping he will read my reply and follow the thread. I built a man who wanted a link a platform — with equal weighting on my domain — asking for nothing in return.

He is a lawyer, so *all the better to have look over my stuff.* I try to remind everyone. *I am one person. I am not a coder, not a lawyer, not a doctor.* My resume is slop. My career is slop. My desire not to make money off this news is slop. My content is now slop too.

Two opinions this weekend on why I should go back to whatever was so great before.

*Opinion #3 — a man I have never met before, living in a country I have never visited before — will make the final decision.* His opinion now is the only one that will matter.

Number three.

—

*The rubicon.* That's all for now. *I just wanted that one on the rufford.*