It seems far more likely to me that reality is built out of narratives and archetypes, rather than atoms and quarks. Maybe when we hunt for the substrate by zooming in closer and closer, we are going in the wrong direction.

Specifically: the compiler should also format its inputs. If it doesn’t have write permissions, and the files aren’t already formatted, it should fail.

dangerously based all lint errors should be compile errors

Why do I dislike exercise?

There are only two people on earth that can get me to watch television

Spot-a-fly Wrapped (in a bluet)

I tweeted this as a joke, but then this morning: >log in to Slack >"Select all the crosswalks" >"Select all the motorcycles" >"We've emailed you a code!" >enter the code >"Additional authentication required" >"Complete sign-in using your passkey" >passkey dialog doesn't load >mfw

fact check: true

I’ve now seen multiple PhDs confidently post wrong answers to this. Sad! Anyway, here’s a fun variant: What if each couple continues having children until they have 1 more girl than they have boys?

Whitespace-aware operator precedence: 1+2*3 == 7, but 1+2 * 3 == 9

just saved 225 thousand shrimps from a painful death remember: shrimps are honorary technology brothers https://t.co/PaB0iY7JlM

Have you ever noticed that anyone who uses AI less than you is an idiot, and anyone who uses AI more than you is a maniac?

all this factoring and 2-factoring

STOP

Most satisfying programs to write: - Optimizing compiler - Solver for that puzzle game you're addicted to - Opinionated microframework - Proof-of-concept for an exploit What else?

"Trichotillomania? You mean my equanimity practice?"

No matter how scalding the shower is when you first get in, turning it down even 1 degree somehow feels unacceptably lukewarm

I want to try to age gracefully, and to fail. I want to try to fail gracefully, and fail. I want to feel prepared, and discover that I was not. And in the end, I want god to break me on the wheel— incapable, as I am, of surrendering through will alone.

I want the things I value to be stripped away, one by one. I want hearing aids and reading glasses and a cane. I want my world to shrink to a single room. I want injuries that never fully heal. I want my advice to go unheeded. I want to regret.

I intend to age gracefully. I want to savor the slow degradation. I want to sample the entire palette. I want to marvel at my wrinkles and liver spots. I want to smile and shake my head when I can't remember. I want to become a relic. I want to radiate a tender wistfulness.