A self-reflective observation made under the supervision of that Guy in the Mirror.

There are days when the world goes sideways—days when it feels like the gods themselves are pacing around upstairs, knocking over furniture, arguing about whose turn it is to touch the big red button. Days when everything teeters on the edge of explosion, like a crate of wild monkeys breaking loose from the zoo with a clipboard, a whistle, and absolutely no plan.

I’ve had plenty of those days. Not once, not twice—but on a schedule, like a poorly maintained comet that swings back around every few years. I can feel it coming: the pressure, the heat, that exact moment right before I lose my shit and become a story people tell quietly later. 

And yet, somehow—through stubbornness, divine confusion, or a clerical error in the universe—I survive it. I move through the madness and land on my feet, mostly intact, hair slightly singed, dignity missing in action.

And the strange part? We don’t remember these days clearly. Or maybe we choose not to. Maybe the mind edits them out for our own protection, the way the gods redact their own mistakes. We tell ourselves it “wasn’t that bad,” even though we can still smell the smoke if we think about it too long.

I’ve watched others go through it too. Perfectly good humans melting down in real time, right in front of us—voices cracking, composure slipping, sanity packing its bags. And we recognize it immediately, because we’ve been there. We know the signs. The question is never what’s happening.

The question is: What do we do about it?

Some of us step in. We offer a hand, a word, a distraction—water, humor, silence, anything to keep the walls from collapsing. And some of us… don’t. Some of us lean back, grab the popcorn, and watch with cautious optimism and a little laugh, hoping the universe sticks the landing this time. Not because we’re cruel—no, nothing so simple—but because experience has taught us that sometimes chaos needs an audience. Sometimes it needs to burn itself out.

I’ve seen both approaches fail spectacularly.

After a while, you start to notice a pattern. Not in the chaos—but in who survives it. And that’s when it dawns on you: some of us weren’t built to panic. We were built to persist. To stand in the blast radius and squint.

That’s when I realized something important. I don’t respond to the world the way it expects me to. I never have. I don’t malfunction under pressure—I diverge. The world expects panic. I deliver persistence. Or is it stubbornness? Maybe a little of both.

I’ve known forever that I’m not built like everyone else. There really is no one like me. Not because I’m special—let’s not get carried away—but because I’m irregular. A design anomaly. A cosmic one-off that slipped through quality control during a lunch break.

I don’t fit in this world… or maybe the world was assembled without checking the measurements first. I’m not an enigma. There’s no mystery here. God didn’t break the mold when He made me. He just shrugged, muttered “eh, close enough,” and never ran the program again.

Sure, the world contains a few distant variants—beta versions, experimental builds—but I’m fairly certain that if two versions of me ever made direct contact, the universe would immediately file an incident report. One of us would explode. Possibly both. The gods would deny responsibility. And somewhere in the margins of history, a footnote would quietly explain why that particular experiment was never attempted again.

So here I stand, amid the chaos that repeats like a poorly programmed loop, unshaken while the world spins sideways around me. I’ve seen the firestorms, the collapses, the spectacular meltdowns of perfectly good humans. I’ve watched from the sidelines, sometimes with a hand extended, sometimes with popcorn in hand—and always with a knowing smile, because I’ve been there, and I’ve survived.

I am the one who endures. The one who diverges. The one who persists when others panic. The gods may tsk, the universe may frown, and the footnotes of history may quietly file incident reports—but I am here. Un-copiable. Irregular. A cosmic one-off who refuses to bend, break, or apologize.

And if the world thinks it can contain me, it’s only setting itself up for disappointment. Because I was never built to fit. I was built to explode—gracefully, defiantly, with a little laugh—and then rise again.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.