Comfort? Christ almighty. That word doesn’t mean a goddamn thing anymore, not in this screaming hellscape we’ve built. Comfort is a marketing scam, peddled by soft-handed bastards selling memory foam mattresses and Himalayan salt lamps while the rest of us choke down bad coffee and pray the rent check doesn’t bounce.

My strategy? I don’t “increase comfort.” I run from it. Comfort makes you slow, fat, and easy to kill. Give me tension, give me chaos, something to sharpen the edges. I slam two cups of jet fuel coffee before my brain even catches up with the rest of my body. If that fails, I go outside and walk until the voices settle down, woods, deserts, alleys behind dive bars. It doesn’t matter. The key is movement. Never stop. A man in motion can’t be devoured by the machine.

When things get too loud, I light a cigar and stare into the void. Sometimes the void stares back, but at least it’s honest. And at night, if the weight of the world is still pressing down like a cement slab on my chest, I pour three fingers of bourbon and crank up music that rattles the fillings in my teeth. The neighbors can file complaints later, right now it’s about survival.

So no, I don’t seek comfort. I hunt for clarity in the madness. I wrestle my demons to the floor, and sometimes I even win. Comfort is for the weak. The rest of us fight to stay sane in a lunatic world and if we’re lucky, we find five minutes of peace in the eye of the storm.