I live the creative life daily, not in some romantic, beret-wearing, jazz-scored way, but through a relentless parade of improvisations masquerading as ordinary acts. I weaponize language in conversations laced with wit and venom (at least in my mind), draft emails that double as literary takedowns, and turn therapy sessions into impromptu one-act plays of psychological redemption. I navigate family dysfunction like a playwright rewriting the same tragicomedy each night with slightly worse actors, coax meaning from a dog’s stare, and repurpose leftovers like a culinary nihilist trying to outsmart entropy. Even my procrastination is a form of dark artistry—time sculpted into elegant avoidance. And through it all, I write: biting, bleak prose that makes cancer, capitalism, and the human condition flinch just a little. So yes, time suspends—because when you live like this, reality knows it’s been outwritten.