I wrote this on Saturday, but didnt get to post it till today.  

It’s just before noon, and I’m back in Austin—sitting at my favorite casual spot in the city, Sour Duck Market, under the big oak tree canopy and the new green picnic umbrellas they’ve added to give the place a more natural feel (at least in my opinion). There’s a soft, comfortable breeze moving across the patio, and it gives the whole scene a calm, weekend-brunch kind of vibe.

The place is packed, which explains why it’s taking so long for my hipster salad and turmeric Moscow mule to arrive. I’m reading a book called The Flamethrowers—one I’ve been “trying” to finish since moving to Houston. I’m technically not supposed to drink alcohol—the doctors specifically said no bourbon—but since this mule has turmeric in it, it feels healthy. That’s the lie I’m going with today.

I don’t usually describe my surroundings in this much detail, but as I sat here, I realized this was the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time. I hadn’t noticed until now how uncomfortable I’d been in Houston.

Tugboat hated it there. People kept finding new reasons to be scared of him, and he barely wanted to leave the dark confines of the closet except to use the restroom. Neither of us had been sleeping well, probably because the bed in our rental feels like it was salvaged from a condemned motel off some lonely interstate.

If you move even slightly, one of two things happens:

1. The springs squeak so loudly it sounds like a parody of a horror movie, or
2. The headboard—held to the frame by what I think might be Scotch tape—bangs against the wall loud enough to startle both Tugboat and me awake.

Getting even 8–10 minutes of continuous sleep was impossible, especially since I move a lot now thanks to my new exit hole on my stomach. I want to call it a “stomach butthole” because that’s really what it is, but that feels too lowbrow even for me—so “exit hole” it is.

And if you didn’t know, Tugboat does not like being startled awake. I’m fairly sure he was one more loud bang away from figuring out how to use a box cutter on me.

So, we came back to Austin. I needed real sleep, Tugboat needed familiar ground, and honestly, I didn’t want to have to explain to my doctors that the cuts on me weren’t self-inflicted—they were the result of a Corgi’s rage. I doubt they’d have believed that story anyway.

It’s been a while since my last post. At first, I didn’t have much to write about. The headline I’ve buried here—like always—is that radiation is going well. I haven’t had any side effects so far. The doctors keep reminding me that the side effects are cumulative, so if I’m going to experience any, it’ll be toward the end of the month.

Nothing like looking forward to a potential “sunburned butthole” to really make you excited for the end of the month. Still, I’m confident I’ll get through this easily enough. (Knocking on wood.)

The bag on my stomach, though—that’s still the worst part of all this. Nothing, and I mean nothing, about it is okay. It’s leaked multiple times, and when it does, the odor is so bad it makes me gag. Thankfully, it’s only happened in private so far, but the constant fear that it could happen in public keeps my anxiety running high.

If it ever does, I have a contingency plan—but it probably ends with me praying for spontaneous combustion.

Some friends have sent me videos from so-called ostomy influencers. (I’m still not convinced that’s a real thing, but apparently, there are a lot of people claiming that title.) They seem to have two main goals: to either convince me this isn’t that bad, or to make me question if we’re watching the same reality.

One woman proudly announced she’s better off with her bag because now she can poop “stealth-style” in important meetings without anyone knowing. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never once thought, “I wish I didn’t have to leave this staff meeting to poop in private.”

Another person bragged about how much money they’ve saved on toilet paper since getting their bag. Personally, trading toilet paper for an exit hole on your stomach seems like a poor bargain—but hey, everyone’s got their own value system.

I get that these folks are just trying to make the best of a bad situation, but every time I watch one of these videos, all I can think is: YOU ARE A DAMN DIRTY LIAR.

That’s probably the sleep deprivation talking—or maybe the general lack of fun in Houston wearing me down.

To be fair, I probably haven’t seen all sides of Houston. But after ten days, the highlight of my time there was learning that the walking trail I’d been taking Tugboat on was also the place where police found six bodies from a serial killer that week. So yeah… great recommendation.

Now that I’ve gotten all of that off my chest, my salad’s here, my drink’s gone (and it was so good), and I finally feel like myself again.

I’ll head back to Houston tomorrow and start my third week of radiation Monday morning. I decided to leave Tugboat here in Austin for both our sanity. He did a complete 180 the moment we got home—it’s wild how fast a dog can go from depressed to joyful in the time it takes to open a car door.

Honestly, he might’ve pulled out that box cutter if I tried to bring him back to Houston anyway, so it’s for the best.

For now, I’m going to sign off. Texas plays OU in about an hour, and I want to enjoy this little pocket of Austin calm while I can. I’ll try to post more regularly this week.

I’m sitting on the 35th floor of an Airbnb in Houston, earbuds in, Zach Bryan’s Pink Skies running through Spotify, and the city sprawled out beneath me like a quiet map. From up here, it’s calm—peaceful even. The kind of calm that makes you forget the chaos waiting on the ground.

And chaos came quickly.

Tugboat got sick. The Wi-Fi didn’t work for two days. The hospital “forgot” to give me my chemo pills during my first day of radiation. My short-term leave paperwork got botched so my paycheck was delayed. And the crown jewel? On my second morning, walking Tugboat, my ostomy bag finally ruptured and left me strolling home covered in my own…well, use your imagination.

Individually, none of these things would’ve been a dealbreaker. But stacked up in the first 48 hours? It felt like the universe saying, “You thought this was going to be smooth sailing? Ha.” I’d pictured myself coasting through treatment, reading four books, cooking like a pro, brushing up on tech skills, and coming back to Austin in November stronger, smarter, better. Instead, here I was, two days in, feeling like a guy in a slapstick comedy with an exploding prop bag.

And yet—here’s the weird part—I’m grateful. Three days of radiation in, I don’t feel any real side effects. Maybe these small fires are blessings in disguise. Each one has kept me busy enough that I haven’t had time to spiral into the fears I carried with me to Houston: What if the radiation doesn’t work? What if I get really sick? What if it hurts like hell? What if I can’t handle it?

So far, those questions haven’t lived in my head. And if it takes a series of sh*t shows to keep them at bay, I’ll take it.

Before coming here, the biggest weight on my mind wasn’t radiation or chemo—it was the bag. The literal one attached to my stomach. My friend Ramsey, who used to be an ostomy nurse, gave me the crash course in leaks, gas, and blowouts. She made it clinical and funny enough that I felt less like a patient and more like a leaky bicycle tire. Still, the self-consciousness followed me everywhere.

That’s why, when my friend Emily invited me to a movie the night before I left for Houston, I nearly said no. Emily is brilliant, kind, gorgeous—all the adjectives you want in a new friend. But sitting in a small arthouse theater with someone like her while your stomach bag farts on its own schedule? Nightmare fuel.

We went anyway. It was a Leonardo DiCaprio flick, One Battle After Another. Loud soundtrack, constant noise, perfect cover. Two hours in, I was thanking God for the volume. But then came the setup—foreshadowing I should’ve seen from a mile away.

Two hours and fifteen minutes in, the film drops into a dead-silent car chase. And right on cue, my bag decides it’s time to audition for America’s Loudest Sound. In my head, it was a jet engine. In reality, it was probably much smaller. Still, as I shrank in my seat, praying for invisibility, Emily didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t acknowledge it. She gave me exactly what I needed: nothing. And with that, what I thought would be my most humiliating moment became just another story. One more absurd chapter in this whole saga.

That’s been the theme: the disasters I script in my head never play out the way I fear. The ruptured bag, the sick dog, the broken Wi-Fi—none of it has crushed me. If anything, each stumble has been a reminder that this whole thing is survivable. Laughable, even.

So here I am now, earbuds in, Zach Bryan still playing, watching the Houston sun sink into the horizon. Thankful for Emily’s quiet kindness. Thankful for Ramsey’s expertise. Thankful even for Tugboat’s stubborn stomach, because he gets me out walking when I’d otherwise sulk indoors.

It’s not the smooth, quiet trip I imagined—but maybe that’s the point. The chaos, the interruptions, the embarrassments—they’re not detours. They’re the path. And maybe, just maybe, they’re what keep me looking up instead of down.