Security? Jesus Christ, no. That’s a death trap. Security is a padded room with no sharp corners and Muzak dripping out of the ceiling vents. I’ve seen what it does to people, softens their brains like overcooked cabbage until they’re content to sit in beige cubicles eating chicken salad sandwiches and trading vacation photos like war medals.

Adventure is the only cure for that kind of madness. Not the Instagrammed, corporate-approved “adventure” with a guided tour and a safe word. No. I’m talking about the raw, bloody-knuckled chaos of the road, sleeping in questionable motels, chasing storms across the desert, getting lost in a foreign country with no map, no plan, and no goddamn clue.

It’s not about comfort. It’s about ripping the skin off reality to see what’s pulsing underneath. Adventure doesn’t make you feel safe, it makes you feel alive. And that’s the only currency worth a damn in this lunatic world.

So no, I’m not seeking security. Security can rot in a fluorescent-lit hell. I’m after adventure, wild, unhinged, and foaming at the mouth. Because if you’re not out there dancing with danger, you’re already halfway in the grave.