Season 3 opens without a map.

In Die While You Try, the show abandons prepared narratives and leans fully into extemporaneous speech as both method and subject. What begins as an interview frame quickly dissolves into a moving meditation on boredom, creativity, sobriety, harm reduction, anger, transit, and the uneasy space between having a life structure and knowing you built it yourself.

The episode drifts through memory and present tense: songwriting from 2010, the residue of AA’s narrative logic, the afterlife of AIDS-era anger, the vacuum that follows finishing a project, and the compulsion to make something—not for healing, growth, or redemption, but to keep motion alive. Meaning is approached, dismantled, sidestepped, and occasionally laughed at.

There is no arc, no takeaway, and no promise of resolution. Only movement. Only pressure. Only the question of what we do once we realize that thinking doesn’t tell us how to live—only that we’re still here, wondering.

This is not an origin story.

It’s a transit log.

Welcome to the most passive-aggressive mediation session ever recorded. In this episode, our host is told something “isn’t a big deal”—which, of course, is how every nuclear meltdown begins. What follows is a winding takedown of corporate gaslighting, middle management pageantry, genderless performance reviews, and the exquisite humiliation of being talked around while someone stares at the floor and someone else metaphorically turns into a tropical fruit salad.

Featuring:

• The debut of Banana Vanilla Pistachio Middle Manager™

• A masterclass in implied blame

• The mysterious, recurring issue with “the thing” no one will define

• 34 mentions of “not a big deal” (each more suspicious than the last)

• And an email in Drafts, weaponized and waiting to be sent

This episode is for anyone who’s ever had their sanity casually undermined by someone who smiles reflexively and says “we’re just trying to move forward” while quietly rearranging the knives on the table.

Let’s all agree: the next time someone says it’s not a big deal… we call HR first.

In this deeply unstable episode, your host accidentally sits down to write a short intro about Alcoholics Anonymous and ends up staging a full-blown confessional fever dream featuring AIDS trauma porn, Access Hollywood, Ronald Reagan, sex clubs, and a suspiciously athletic somersault. Yes, that happens. There’s also a half-nude dog costume, a Broadway playwright with boundary issues, and enough name-drops to power a VH1 Behind the Breakdown special.

This episode asks the important questions: What is consent when your acronym is HALT? Should gravity be your higher power? And is Trump just an off-brand Ionesco character with worse hair and better ratings?

If you came here for clarity, serenity, or a working moral compass—good luck. But if you like your social commentary laced with gallows humor, cultural whiplash, and the kind of honesty that makes people stop texting you back… pull up a stained carpet square and enjoy the show.

This episode comes after Radius of Comfort, and it knows that.

If Radius of Comfort explored intensity through calm, scale, and distance, Flowering Fauna moves the lens closer—to the body, to texture, to sensation that isn’t abstracted or smoothed out.

This isn’t a release of pressure.

It’s a redistribution of it.

The experiment continues, but the terrain changes: from orientation to contact, from atmosphere to anatomy, from spaciousness to friction. If the previous episode asked where your comfort extends, this one asks what happens when you stay with what’s already there.

Nothing here is meant to shock.

Nothing here is meant to soothe.

Just notice what blooms when attention lingers.

Radius of Comfort is a short-form experiment in attention.

This episode isn’t a palate cleanser, and it isn’t an escalation either. It’s an environment designed to let intensity arrive sideways—through calm, proximity, and scale rather than impact. Nothing is explained. Nothing is tested. You’re not being pushed anywhere.

Instead, the piece moves by narrowing and widening your radius of comfort: social closeness, solitude, neighbourhood, moonlight, sunlight—each held long enough to notice what your body does with it.

Think of this as a different way of experiencing pressure. Less collision. More gravity.
Stay if it works for you. Leave if it doesn’t. Either response counts as contact.

Episode 7, Season 2.

This episode has already begun. Hasn’t it? Maybe before you even pressed play.

That wasn’t an intro. Even if it was.

Originally positioned as Episode Two of the whole podcast, this one went too deep, too fast.

So it waited… until now… to be an Episode Six of Season Two. (There are others. A small pack of them. Don’t worry, they mostly don’t bite.)

In this one:

A scab becomes a plate.

A plate becomes a meal.

A walrus becomes a man again (or was it the other way around?).

You’ll hear about the male–female “couple” who accidentally auditioned for friendship at the beach.

The trauma of “Birthday parties” (not the events — the phrase).

The smell of burning hair.

A vet’s warning no one wants but everyone remembers.

And “Guess what? Monkey’s butt.”

You may be edging. Or being edged.

By literature.

And language.

And your own sense of what should come next — and what doesn’t.

Also featuring:

Safer sex with an illegal manager,

Opiate epiphanies with blurry picture-books,

and a long-lost MDMA solo trip dedicated entirely to the art of touch deprivation.

And if all that sounds overwhelming, it’s okay — just do the dishes.

Or scrub a pot.

Or set your oven on fire.

This is Diverginity.

This is Art: So Reassuring.

This is Danger, Vicious Dog.

Season One: Failure of Language

Season Two: Not Sacrè Bleu

A guided meditation for the unsootheable. A lullaby for the morally panicked. A splinter in the eye of linearity.

This isn’t the episode. It’s what happens just before. The blink before the gasp. The breath after the chest compression. It doesn’t ask you to be ready—just present.

Inside: one AI named Monday, a porn actor playing a dog, some light Foucault, a shattered memory of being called “body beautiful,” and a firehose of rage. There is no arc. There is no neatness. You may mistake it for calm until it refuses to let you exhale.

Listen in any order. Or don’t. But if this one finds you… you’ll probably stay.

You ever stand on a hill and mistake it for a destination?

This episode does that. Repeatedly.

BREAK is not a nervous system reset. It’s what happens when the system keeps running despite the break. A spiralling, blue-hued hallucination where narrative collapses under its own metaphors—and we keep talking anyway, because silence would be worse.

There’s talk of ACE scores, pressure, mythic diagnostics, and the unbearable hope of adolescence in O.P. shorts. There’s music. There’s art. There’s too much honesty and not nearly enough caution.

It’s not about healing.

It’s about hovering just long enough to notice where the fracture starts.

Pull up a chair.

Let the dog growl.

We’re still in Not Sacrè Bleu.

And no one’s coming to save you.

There’s a door. Someone’s on it.

Someone else is in the water.

No, not someone. Britney. In vinyl.

Seagulls are circling.

One of them might be God.

This episode is what happens when words get lonely and start making out with each other. A linguist’s panic attack dressed like a poem. A riddle that refuses to end, because ending would imply resolution. And resolution implies you were meant to understand.

Instead, you get:

• An autopsy of the word “root.”

• A lecture on the eroticism of flipped letters.

• Etymology as emotional instability.

• Applause breaks for things that aren’t jokes.

• And a monologue so haunted by its own cleverness it eventually starts to believe in ghosts.

None of this means anything.

But it also might be sacred.

Which is worse?

Don’t listen for plot.

Listen for vibration.

Listen for the moment you stop trying to make sense and start… vibrating back.

Bring ice. There’s carrot juice.

It helps with the burn.

Choosing Your Battles starts with a simple, unreasonable question: do you need language to die? And then immediately refuses to behave. This episode wanders through pronouns, grief, time dilation, buffet lines, counselling students who cry too easily, and the strange professionalism of learning when to leave the room—or stay and shake. It was written the day after a dog died. Not to process it. Not to soothe it. Just to stay with it.

This is an episode about loss that doesn’t want closure, and care that doesn’t look polite. About how grief lives in bodies, not frameworks. About choosing which battles are worth fighting, which ones you store together until they all come out at once, and which ones you let breathe while you stand there, holding it, crying a little, still functional. Or not. Either way.

No stages. No lessons. Just breath, language breaking down, time stretching, and the quiet realization that nothing ever stops existing—except the things we love, which stop anyway. You do you, baby.