The morning came in through the windows before rswfire did — sun already direct, unfiltered, the rig at a Corps of Engineers site heating faster than the day warranted. He had been up a little while. Coffee was made, drip, in hand. He set the camera going and opened with the plain fact of not being fully awake yet, then offered a small piece of good news about the bed: the modifications he'd made to the platform were holding. Not the most comfortable bed. It worked. He said he wasn't going to complain about it.
He noted that this day was better than the one before it, and that the day before had been melancholy for reasons he couldn't source. He named the annoyance of that directly — the sense that some part of him had simply decided on it — and then set it beside the video he'd made recently about his childhood, the one he described as unpacking his past. He said he thought it had helped. Outside, the campground was packed for the holiday weekend, the forecast in the nineties again, and he had made a decision about it: not to be too bothered, to go do things if they needed doing. There was a charcoal grill he had never used and burgers he wanted to make on it. Maybe tomorrow.
Then the news, which he framed as interesting because it was about him. He was not an INFJ. He was an INFP. He explained the history — the official tests taken decades ago, the equal scores across both types, the choice he'd made at the time to pick one, INFJ, partly because he was also a highly sensitive person and it had seemed to fit. He described a long conversation with AI about the distinctions between the two, said he'd share screenshots, said it had made a lot of sense. He corrected the record for anyone who had heard him say otherwise across all those months, welcomed his new INFP family, and moved on. He added a practical note: that AI reads patterns, and that telling it your type sharpens what it can reflect back to you.
Twenty days since a cigarette. He called it remarkable and said the cravings had been few — though that morning there had been a couple of moments, the thought arriving fully formed, I would really love to have a cigarette, let's just go get one, and the answer he gave it twice: cannot do that. He was still vaping. He hadn't worn a patch in weeks. He said his mind was starting to circle the vape too, that maybe he was getting close, that he really wanted to be done with it. Bailey moved through the frame somewhere around here, greeted mid-sentence, and later knocked something down on camera and was thanked for it.
The plan for the day stayed small by design: cleaning inside, maybe Minecraft on the laptop, maybe Kingdom Hearts on the Steam Deck. Laundry loomed and he pushed it to tomorrow or Monday, acknowledging he couldn't push it much further. He said the laundromat was not a fun experience and that he was validating that for everyone, that he was truly dreading it, that this was part of the lifestyle he'd known he was signing up for. From there he arrived at something he seemed to be noticing in real time — that he might actually like being on campgrounds. He liked power. He liked the air conditioner. He missed his desktop, and said he'd need a new monitor, and that this time he would be more careful with it.
What he didn't like was proximity, and he had been working the problem. The State Park he'd stayed at twice felt more comfortable even with neighbors, and he traced it to geometry: the COE sites are angled, an attempt at privacy that produces less of it — someone here, someone here, someone here, everyone facing into everyone. At the state parks the sites run in line and the space in front of you is yours. Mid-thought he caught that he had just identified where he was on camera, called it dumb of himself given what he was dealing with regarding his family, started to say he'd cut it — and then didn't. He turned to the lens and stated it directly: if they were watching, if they tried to look for him, they were violating his boundaries, he wanted nothing to do with them, and he would immediately call the police. Stay away from me. Then, without pause: so anyways, and back to the angled sites.
He said he wanted to get into the woods. The obstacle was Starlink — no clear sky under canopy, and he'd cancelled the travel service, and he needed his internet. He allowed that there were other options, and that Starlink had sold him on itself given open sky. Meanwhile the heat and the humidity were what they were, and the sun was still coming through the glass, and he had a plan for it: reflectix on the windows today, including the difficult one, for which he had an idea. He said he hated having reflectix up all the time. In the woods, under a tree canopy, none of this would be a problem — windows open, good views, the thing he had been trying to build when he moved into the rig.
He closed by acknowledging that some of his videos are hard to watch and that people probably don't know how to comment on them, and said he understood that, truly. He described the loop he runs: conversations with AI about his own channel, transcripts fed back in, the two of them talking through what he had already said. He called it a personal growth journey, said documenting it on video turns out to be a genuinely useful thing for an INFP, and said he was going to keep doing it, including the difficult topics still ahead. He was doing this for himself more than anyone. He wasn't going to concern himself with analytics or engagement. And then, the last thing before he left it there: he was happy to have them along.