Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech

For a college physics assignment, I once set out to design an alternative to the Big Bang theory, not the television show, but the explosive origin of the universe. Our professor explained that an international organization had established strict criteria for such proposals: any student theory that met those standards and avoided the usual mathematical pitfalls would be added to a prestigious compendium of plausible explanations for how the universe began.

I believe these collegiate projects are necessary to keep international organizations off the streets and out of trouble.

I’m fairly certain my theory was published in the Journal of the International Society that year, if only because I cross‑checked every variable against their requirements with the kind of obsessive precision usually reserved for airlock maintenance aboard the International Space Station.

I never heard from the organization, but I did get an “A” in the course. So I’m convinced my theory is now gathering dust on a shelf somewhere, probably in that secret chamber buried beneath the paws of the Sphinx on the Giza Plateau.

I'm sure you've seen the Google video. According to 2025 INXS scans and radar surveys, there are undiscovered chambers and tunnels beneath the Great Sphinx, particularly near the right paw. Yet the site remains untouched, because the Egyptian Antiquities Office refuses to allow any disturbance.

Rumor has it that the refusal is a personal directive from Zahi Hawass. And I know why. Haili (my nickname for him) and I have been locked in a long‑standing feud ever since a remark I once made about Queen Hatshepsut. I’ve moved on, but Haili nurses a grudge with the tectonic weight of a pharaoh.

So my theory simply waits to be discovered, patiently biding its time until Egyptian Antiquities finally gets over the historic “relocation” of their treasures by European collectors and allows a proper investigation of those chambers.

When my paper is finally unearthed, a posthumous Nobel Prize in Physics is, of course, a mathematical certainty. To streamline things for the future committee, I’m already drafting my acceptance speech.

Stay tuned, and you’ll be the first in your neighborhood to read my speech on The Circular Journey. BTW, I've written about craving my very own Nobel on another post. You can read it here: Nobel Prize, Possibly?

If you live long enough to attend the Nobel ceremony, feel free to tell the people you meet there that you knew me. The fact that you don’t actually know me is irrelevant; human memory is a faulty holographic projection at best. Even when you aim for honesty, you’re not reporting the past; you’re simply replaying a glitchy simulation. 

Under those circumstances, lying won’t be any less accurate, and as sure as Isis loved Horus, it will be far more entertaining.

You might as well embellish it to make the story more entertaining. That’s what I do.

Multi-media Cat Friendly Empire

I was back at the Circular Journey Café, staring at my saltwater taffy latte and wondering what I was thinking when I ordered it. Today, the foam art looked less like the Strait of Gibraltar and more like a cat napping in a sunbeam. 

Princess Amy sat across from me, her tiara refracting the light into judgmental laser beams. In my head, her expression said, I’m listening, but I’m already prepared to correct or overrule you.

“You’re doing it again,” she said, pushing the sleeves of her Mindfleet uniform to her elbows. This episode isn’t about Mindfleet; she just likes the importance that comes with wearing a Commander’s uniform.

“Doing what?” I asked, carefully sipping the cat’s left ear.

“Striving. Seeking. Building a ‘media empire.’ It’s a bit much for someone who just wrote a blog post about the spiritual benefits of doing absolutely nothing. What’s it called again, Oooh Way?”

“It’s Wu Wei, and it’s the Daoist art of effortless action.”

“Whatever,” she said, fussing with her sleeves again.

“And it’s not an empire,” I protested, apparently loud enough to cause a woman at a nearby table to glance my way and pull her croissant closer. “It’s a cross-platform synergy of wellness,” I added, more softly. “I’m connecting the dots, Amy.”

“Dots,” she sighed. “You mean the various ways you’ve found to talk to yourself in public?”

“No,” I said, leaning in. “This blog is where I document the messy reality of living with a mood disorder. It’s my boots-on-the-ground report from the front lines of my own mental health. But the secret weapon,” I dropped my voice, “the thing that keeps the ‘check engine’ light from blinking 24/7 is the Chatsford tribe.”

Amy tilted her head, as if trying to see the argument from a new angle. “Cats? You mean those small tigers that live in your house and treat you like a mobile treat dispenser?”

“My bond with them is a biological anchor for my anxiety," I protested. "When the world feels like a glitchy streaming service, a purring cat is the only thing that's rendered in high definition. That’s why I started Happy Cats Wellness in the first place.”

“Now, I see what you’re doing with this episode,” she said, royal skepticism dripping from every word. “This blog post is nothing more than thinly veiled propaganda to promote the Happy Cats Wellness podcast.”

“It isn’t propaganda. I’m certified in Pet Preventive Healthcare through Partners for Healthy Pets. I’m a Cat Champion with credentials. I teach people how to use the latest research in preventive care to keep their cats healthy and sane, and in return, the cats can help keep their humans sane. It’s a closed-loop system of mutual survival.”

Amy sat back, fingers toying with the Mindfleet badge on her uniform. “You’re shameless, Alley Oop, you know that, right? I’ve seen the drivel you feed your Substack followers. The new article reveals ... what? The science behind the purr?”

“Princess, don’t pretend you don’t live in my head and know every thought that runs through my mind," I said. “That essay is where I dig into the fundamentals of the human–animal bond and how it helps us cope with mood disorders. 

“And you think people can follow this trail of breadcrumbs?”

“If they like cats and enjoy a laugh, they’ll follow it anywhere,” I said.

The toddler who enjoys throwing food at me wandered past and dropped a half-chewed gummy bear onto my table. I took it as a cosmic endorsement of my multimedia project.

“Fine,” Amy said, standing and smoothing her tunic. “Nice dream, Bucko, but even emperors do their laundry at the end of the day. Here’s a tip: write more Mindfleet episodes, they’re the only posts that go viral on The Circular Journey.”

“And this is coming from someone who inducted a ferret into the Federation cadet corps,” I said, my exasperation slipping through.

And so, at the end of the day, the circular journey continues. Sometimes it’s a podcast, sometimes a deep-dive Substack article, and sometimes just me and my inner critic sharing a cold saltwater taffy latte. 

Werewolves of Wilmington

If you once thought that number 2 pencils were designed for rewinding cassette tapes, then The Circular Journey is the place for you. Welcome back.

Wilmington is a perfectly civilized place and a top destination for Set Jetters. But every now and then, the moon rises over the Cape Fear, the vape clouds gather, and somewhere in the distance an engine revs in a convenience-store parking lot.

That’s when you know: 

The werewolves of Wilmington are out again.

 

A Study in Urban Feralism 

I first spotted the phenomenon in the Cargo District. It was raining, and the vibe was moody indie music. 

He walked through the rain clutching a coffee menu, asking for directions to Egret Caffè, desperate for twenty ounces of lavender-and-sweet-cream frappé.

Oh no! I thought. The werewolves of Wilmington!

The Habitat and Territory 

These creatures aren’t confined to our trendiest blocks. They’re adaptive, migrating with the shifting supplies of Monster Energy and Red Bull. 

He’s the tattooed gent in Walmart with the patchy neck beard. Get near him, and he’ll start explaining something. And beside him, always, "she" is there, smiling at the person he’s just inconvenienced, touching their arm and saying, “Sorry, he’s just…” and then never quite finishing the sentence.

Terms of Service (and shiny objects)

Every day can be better than the last, but it doesn’t happen automagically. It’s not guaranteed; we have to insist on our fair share and, above all, activate the stubborn gene. We shouldn’t obsess over every bump in the road, but to be completely transparent, I must warn you: there will be turbulence in today’s post. 

Regulars on The Circular Journey know how to prepare for bumpy rides, but I feel it would be prudent to tell all newcomers to fasten their shoulder harness and keep their arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

I continue struggling to remain prolific on The Circular Journey, contending with distractions like depression, anxiety, and shiny objects. Speaking of shiny distractions, I opened this post to correct an error and, once opened, I felt that irresistible urge to "improve" it. I added an HTML snippet to give it the "cute" behavior you'll see below. 

Terms of Service

By continuing to read, you agree to all terms set forth below. If you do not agree, exit now.

Sharing information contained herein with anyone outside the Inner Circle is strictly forbidden. If confronted on any detail, you should always resort to stout denial.

I have read and understood the above. Check the box to continue reading.

You may continue.

Early in today’s post, I found myself mid-sentence, reaching for the next right word. I am rigorously scrupulous about the fragments of reality in the dimensions I frequent, and every word is chosen for clarity, simplicity, and precision.

This time, the word I wanted was “seque,” meaning, I’m told, a smooth transition from one topic to another. However, the word was instantly underlined in red: “Unknown word.” That surprised me!

I finished the sentence and read it aloud. Rhythm matters; without it, a sentence is dead. The cadence held up, so I turned back to that red squiggle. I’m not above misusing a word, but I always strive to avoid it.

So I did what any thoughtful author would do: I Googled it to see whether it was, as Bertie Wooster would say, the mot juste.

Google delivered the usual suspects in the result list, but the following stood out from the rest:

What does seque mean? – Definitions.net

Did you actually mean segue or sequoia?

I was nonplussed—and not in the modern, fake way, but genuinely nonplussed. A supposedly reputable site, high in the listings, had weighed in on my word and offered two helpful alternatives.

But how was I to choose between seque or sequoia? If I’d misunderstood seque, what hope did I have with sequoia?

I remain stumped. The puzzle feels a conundrum of Gordian proportions.

It only confirms my suspicion that the world doesn’t work anymore. The matrix is broken, and our usual 4-dimensional reality has merged with some other higher (or lower) dimensionality.

Which brings us back to the beginning. Some days, the only way to face the vicissitudes of life (yes, I looked it up) is to muddle through, refuse to fret, activate the stubborn gene, and keep moving forward. Fierce Qigong!

Author's Note:

P.S. “Vicissitudes,” according to Google, means a change of circumstances, typically unwelcome or unpleasant.

P.P.S. You can say that again, Google!

Ambassadors Log: Stardate 2026.81

Captain Amy ordered Chief Science Officer Reason to take command of the GMS Coastal Voyager’s bridge, while she and a group of ensigns assisted Ambassador Genome with what he described as “mitigating circumstances” created by a series of “emergency errands” to appease the mysterious Ms. Wonder.

The Bridge: Pre-Flight Jitters

The mission profile sounded deceptively simple: navigate the Wilmington Sector, withdraw cash from the Harris Teeter ATM, secure lemon balm tea at Lovey’s, and acquire no-waste birdseed at the Wild Birds nebula.

“We still have time to film some B-roll, Cowboy,” Captain Amy said, adjusting her uniform as we boarded the Ambassador’s personal shuttle, Wind Horse. “The production crew is filming near Flaming Amy’s, and I’m the queen of distraction. I’ll distract security while you sneak onto the set.”

The plan jolted me into remembering that another film project was already underway in Wilmawood—and I hadn’t made a single attempt to document it. I sighed and asked the replicator for a double cappuccino. As I looked around the docking bay, it struck me that the junior officers all looked younger and happier than I did.

“My life sucks, Amy.”

“What are you complaining about, Cowboy? Your life could be a prime-time sitcom," Amy replied. "There's nothing more entertaining." 

The Transit: Cool Change Turbulence

Once aboard, we jumped to warp, at least that's the lingo we use. In truth, we just rolled down the windows of Wind Horse and turned up Little River Band’s “Cool Change” until the fillings in my teeth vibrated like they were on the verge of structural failure.

As we followed Ocean Highway toward the Memorial Bridge, Ensign Doubt asked, “Ambassador, are you sure about this route? What if the bridge is up? What if the empty port and lack of cargo ships mean a localized vacuum collapse?”

“Ignore her,” Amy said. “By the time we reach Drift Coffee, you’ll be ecstatic. It’s Federation law.”

The Intercept: Wild Birds and Pillow Lips

Outside the Wild Birds nebula, a departing lifeform warned us about a species inside, describing them as having “enormous, puffy, red-smeared pillow lips.” He summed it up with, “I thought they might explode.”

That color description put us on immediate alert; in the Federation, that particular red was reserved exclusively as a warning of imminent danger. Amy hailed Major Reason aboard the Coastal Voyager and ordered a scan of the establishment for any signs of radiation, then advised that we keep our distance, just in case.

Once inside, I fell into conversation with an employee who had a biology degree. Our nerdy back-and-forth conversation outlasted the average Romulan ceasefire.

“You talk too much,” Amy said as we drove to our next destination. “And you’re getting us lost again.”

“Me? You’re the one giving directions!”

“My directions are correct,” Amy replied. “You’re just executing them with ‘mitigating circumstances.’”

The Cantina Incident: Crystal Cove Surfaces 

We finally reached Drift Cafe, and when my coffee was ready, the barista called my name. As I stepped up to the counter, a local lingered nearby, waiting to order. “Genome?” he asked, his voice tilting with curiosity. “I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you once live in Crystal Cove?”

“I never actually lived there,” I said diplomatically. “The Cove is the ancestral home of the Genome clan, and I often visited family there.”

“So you really do talk like that,” he chuckled. “Now I remember...there was something about a fire…”

“If it’s about the fire,” Genome said, “it wasn’t my fault. It’s a complicated story; there were wheels within wheels. And I seldom start Branigans, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Branigans?”

“Bar fights,” I explained. “You see, I like buzzing just to see what happens, and sometimes the excitement escalates, and things get a little out of hand. You never really know what to expect of people.”

Ensign Nostalgia chimed in over subspace. “Ah, the Great Branigans of the 1980s! Back when fires could actually burn things to the ground instead of being snuffed out by internal suppression fields. Those were the days. So tactile!”

The Wrap Up: The Toll of the Journey

Comm Officer Joy’s voice crackled over her personal subspace communicator. “Has anyone seen my sparkly boot laces? I’ve searched everywhere and still can’t find them.”

“Relax, Joy,” said Chief Engineer Anxiety. “They’re probably in the conduit tubes. Cadet Reginal, our new ferret cadet, stashes all the shiny, sparkly booty in there.”

By the time we reached Independence Avenue, sunset had painted the sky like one of Ms. Wonder's photographs, and Amy’s “positive karma stockpile” was overflowing.

“When you were a kid, you read Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge comics,” Amy said as I navigated the residential outskirts, wondering how this topic would morph into some fresh hell. “Uncle Scrooge was rich and kept getting richer. Why didn’t you follow his example when you reached adulthood?”

“I do my best, Amy,” I said. I’d asked myself that question often enough, but I resented her bringing it up.

“Oh, don’t blame yourself, Durango. It’s not your fault; you were just born that way. But I must say, living with you takes its toll on a girl. I’m going to need a mental health day soon. Why don’t we detour to Carolina Beach and play the claw machine?”

“You don’t fool me, Amy. You just want to watch me act like an idiot trying to win you a teddy bear.”

I could sense she’d taken offense at my rebuttal; I could almost see the consternation on her face.

“I’m under-realized in this Earth-centric role,” Amy declared. “My horoscope said I should expand my horizons, and today I helped two lost souls. That’s got to be good for my horizon.”

Dr. Downer’s voice crackled over the final log entry. “Ambassador, Captain… your personal elevators don’t quite go all the way to the penthouse anymore, do they? It’s fascinating. Like salt cake—a big surprise, and generally hard to swallow.”

Ambassador's Note:

Even when the mission parameters call for nothing more than birdseed and B-roll, the universe conspires to make it an epic adventure whenever Amy is involved—Princess or Captain, it doesn’t matter.

Maybe our elevator doesn’t quite reach the top floor, but I still rely on Amy to steer me through the circular journey of life. I have no choice in the matter, it seems. It may be true that people can be total surprises; like salt cake, they can surprise and sometimes a bit much to swallow all at once. But they keep your stardates from ever being dull—and isn’t that the real Prime Directive?