Before you read my Bio, you should check out the random TikTok video where I went viral.
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8sYPuX7
Decade One: The Concussion Years (0–10)
Jeff entered the world with the structural integrity of a wet paper towel and the self-preservation instincts of a moth. From the moment he could walk, he made it his life’s mission to introduce his forehead to every right angle in the house. Coffee tables feared him. Not because he was strong, but because he kept winning by losing. He’d run full-speed into furniture, bounce off, lie on the carpet for a respectful three seconds, then get up and do it again like a Roomba with a death wish.
His knees during this era were less “skin” and more “an ongoing scab subscription service.” He had a Band-Aid budget that rivaled a small hospital. Family legend holds that Jeff once tripped over a perfectly flat floor, gravity itself apparently filing a personal grievance against him. He believed ketchup was a beverage. He once ate a crayon for “research” and reported the blue one tasted the most “honest.”
Decade Two: The Nu-Metal Renaissance (10–20)
Ah, adolescence, when Jeff discovered that anger could have a soundtrack. Slipknot entered his life like a freight train made of masks, and he was never the same. He nodded along to songs with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb, despite having zero problems other than a curfew and a deep cosmic struggle with his own hair.
The hair. Dear god, the hair. Jeff weaponized pomade. He used enough product to seal a submarine hull, all in the noble pursuit of forcing his naturally rebellious follicles into flat, greasy submission. You could’ve fried an egg on his bangs. His pillowcase filed for hazard pay.
And the JNCO jeans, pants so wide they had their own weather systems. Jeff could fit a family of four and a continental breakfast in each leg. He’d skateboard down the street, denim flapping like the sails of a doomed pirate ship, attempting to ollie off a curb and instead inventing seventeen new ways to fall. He landed maybe one kickflip in his entire life, and he still brings it up at dinner parties. The jeans dragged on the ground and absorbed approximately one gallon of parking lot water per outing. He called this “the look.” It was not the look.
Decade Three: The Goofy Arts MFA (20–30)
This was Jeff’s intellectual awakening, in that he dedicated himself fully to the ancient and sacred discipline of Being a Goof. He studied goofiness the way monks study scripture. He developed a signature laugh. He perfected the art of the unprompted bit. If a room got too quiet, Jeff considered it a personal failing of the universe and corrected it immediately.
Simultaneously, he became a photographer of the deeply weird. While other people photographed sunsets and loved ones, Jeff photographed a single shoe abandoned on a highway. A suspicious stain on a ceiling. A pigeon that “had a vibe.” A crumpled receipt that “told a story.” He’d crouch in the middle of a sidewalk for eleven minutes to capture the perfect angle of a fire hydrant wearing a discarded traffic cone like a little hat. Strangers assumed he was a professional. He was not. He was simply committed. His camera roll was 4% friends and 96% close-up photos of textures he found “interesting.”
Decade Four: The Porch Sage Era (30–40)
And so we arrive at the present, where Jeff has completed his transformation into a man who stands on his back porch and narrates the weather to no one. The rain falls, and from somewhere deep in his chest, unbidden, comes the ancestral phrase: “Ah… we needed this.” He doesn’t farm. He doesn’t garden. He has no crops. The “we” is purely spiritual. But the rain needed to know it was appreciated, and Jeff was there to deliver the news.
His knees, meanwhile, have begun composing music. Every time he stands up, they produce a sound like someone slowly stepping on a bag of microwave popcorn. He has a specific groan he makes when sitting down, not from pain exactly, but as a customary greeting to the chair. He now owns Opinions About Mattresses. He gets genuinely excited about a good Tupperware lid match. He says things like “I just don’t bounce back like I used to” while reaching for something he dropped, which is now a 45-minute commitment.
The coffee tables of his youth have long since stopped fearing him. He’s slower now. Wiser. He sees them coming. But somewhere, deep inside the man on the porch, there’s still a kid with skinned knees, a teenager with concrete hair, and a goof with a camera full of weird pigeons, all of them creaking gently toward forty, and absolutely nailing it.
If you made it this far, you’re either Sarah Knarr, or some stranger that google sent here while searching for weird cult terminology. Don’t forget to RSVP to the party.