February 16th & 23rd, 2026 - Predictions and Presentiments

Dear TNY,

“Predictions and Presentiments” is junk butter.

I mean, what the fuck?

This thing is a waste of time. But, thankfully, for some, my time is free for the taking.  She just won’t take it!

Regardless.  This story, which I actually read the whole way through, doesn’t give a shit about the reader.  It’s like it’s trying to hide its objective from itself, let alone the reader.  I mean, I’m here.  I sat down.  I read the words.  And now I’m wondering why you fucking wrote them.  Who cares about this shit?  And for a twelve year old to use the word “presentiments” is preposterous.  I think this whole story was written to discuss the difference between those two words and, spoiler alert, it’s a trash heap. And the explanation of the difference between the two is lackluster.

That’s it.  That’s all I’ve got.

My life is in jeopardy.  But, whose isn’t?  I catch heat about certain choices I make.  But those choices lead to living.  So I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do at this point.  The reality is that I, like you, don’t know how to get home. 

Ah fuck.  Just kidding.  I do know how to get home.  I just can’t talk about it.

Regardless, I’m okay.  I’m not good, that’s for sure.  My heart shit the bed this week again but I have been working on “at home” remedies for it and they work okay.  I’m just in stasis right now, looking for the cardio appointment in the future.  Trying to figure out how to crawl out of this. 

I don’t really have it in me today to try at something profound.  I’m not a machine, okay!  I can’t just turn out art week after week!

I watched the Superbowl yesterday.  How parochial.  How peasant-like.  How plebeian.  I liked a commercial.  And I loved the halftime show.  It represented what America used to be about, which was diversity.  He really leaned into it.  Congrats, bro.  Way to piss off the whites.  What a move!

And with that, I bid you adieu. 

Nick

P.S. For today’s picture I give you Charles Quint. He’s been to many countries. He’s salt of the earth. He’s a fella that will tell you a story about a Renault transmission repair in a campground in the French Alps that will raise the downy fine hairs on the back of your neck. He’s my fella. We’ve put in the years. In fact, I’ve been pals with him for more than a decade. How about them apples, bud?