Tag: Sunday Poser

The Things I Choose to Put There

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Initially, I would tell you I’m not fussy about my food.

However, that would be a big fat lie.

The truth is, I think about what I eat. Not obsessively, and certainly not because I require some sophisticated culinary experience every time I sit down at the table. Nobody needs to arrange three green beans artistically across my plate and drizzle something around them that I’m apparently supposed to admire rather than eat.

My considerations are considerably more practical.

Some are religious.

Some are medical.

And somewhere underneath all that responsibility is the simple matter of whether I actually want to eat the damn thing.

As a Muslim, there are boundaries around what I eat. Pork and its derivatives aren’t part of my diet, and when it comes to meat, I prefer halal.

That creates a practical problem where I live.

There isn’t a halal butcher nearby, so getting meat requires planning. I have to travel for it, which usually means buying enough to make the trip worthwhile and making room in the freezer when I get home.

Apparently, even dinner requires logistics.

Islam makes allowances for genuine mistakes and circumstances beyond our control. I will also use kosher-prepared food in a pinch, while still paying attention to what is actually in it. Kosher and halal aren’t identical, and there are differences of scholarly opinion concerning some of the particulars.

But when I have the choice, I choose halal.

I don’t mess around with that.

Then there is the other consideration.

I’m diabetic and hypertensive.

My doctor, my body, and occasionally my common sense have formed a committee regarding what I should eat. I don’t remember voting for any of them, but apparently they have jurisdiction.

That means something can be perfectly acceptable according to my faith and still not be a particularly wise thing for me to eat.

There are foods I enjoy that I may pass on because I know how they affect me. Sometimes the issue isn’t the food itself but the amount or how it has been prepared. Something doesn’t magically stop looking good because I know I shouldn’t have it.

A slice of cake has never once looked at me and said, “Mangus, you should probably reconsider.”

Cake has no integrity.

Unfortunately, my body has never been particularly impressed by my arguments either.

So I make choices.

Sometimes I eat less of something. Sometimes I change how I prepare it. Sometimes I substitute something else. And sometimes I simply don’t eat it while silently resenting everyone who can.

I never claimed enlightenment.

After enough years inhabiting the same body, you learn that wanting something and needing something are two entirely different conversations.

Cooking at home makes those conversations easier.

I control what comes into the kitchen. I know what’s in the food, and I can adjust what needs adjusting without sacrificing everything I enjoy about eating. Healthy does not have to mean sentencing yourself to a lifetime of culinary sadness.

Because if the solution to living longer is eating food that makes those additional years feel considerably longer, somebody has misunderstood the assignment.

Perhaps that is where the original question becomes more complicated than it first appears.

Put a plate in front of me and I might say, “No, thank you.”

From across the table, that can look like I’m being fussy.

What you don’t know is why I said no.

Maybe my faith says no.

Maybe my health suggests that I should know better.

Maybe I simply don’t like the damn thing.

Those aren’t the same decisions.

There are foods I cannot eat according to my faith. There are others I could eat but sometimes choose not to because the consequences aren’t worth it. Then there are the things I simply don’t want.

And no, everything I refuse does not require a philosophical explanation.

Sometimes broccoli is just broccoli.

Somewhere along the way, though, I’ve had to learn the difference between deprivation and discipline.

One says, I can’t have that.

The other says, I could, but I’ve decided something else matters more.

That distinction reaches considerably farther than my kitchen.

Faith requires choices even when nobody else is watching. Taking care of yourself requires choices even when the thing you’re turning down would be considerably more enjoyable than the sensible alternative. Neither feels particularly dramatic while you’re standing in front of the refrigerator deciding what to make for dinner.

Most discipline doesn’t.

It looks remarkably ordinary from the outside.

So, how fussy am I about food?

Probably less than it appears.

Faith determines some of what I may eat. My health influences some of what I should eat. Personal preference handles the rest.

And every now and then, I look at something I absolutely should not eat and briefly consider presenting my case before a higher court.

So far, common sense has a winning record.

Mostly.

The plate isn’t defined by everything I’ve had to remove from it.

It’s defined by what I choose to put there.

Author’s Note: A quick thank you to Sadje for providing such an intriguing question for Sunday Poser. What looked like a simple question about being fussy with food turned out to have considerably more hiding beneath the plate. Funny how the best questions tend to do that.

Can We Talk? Truth, Precision, and the Work 

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Editing doesn’t start when the draft is finished. 

It starts before the first word hits the page. 

Every idea you choose… and every one you don’t… that’s editing. That’s preproduction. You’re already deciding what matters. The clearer you are on what you want to say, the less you have to clean up later. 

Then comes the writing. That part? Easy. That’s instinct. That’s the words showing up like they’ve been waiting. 

Post-production… that’s where it gets real. 

That’s where doubt walks in. 

You read it back and start asking harder questions. Is it believable? Does it land? Can someone else sit with this and feel something… or is this just me talking to myself? 

Because readers are worse than any editor. They don’t analyze—they react. And if it doesn’t feel right, they’re gone. 

So you cut. You rewrite. You tighten. 

Sometimes you write a sentence that’s beautiful… and it doesn’t belong. You cut it anyway. It hurts. It’s supposed to. The story is better without it. 

Grammar matters. But a perfect sentence that does nothing is still useless. 

So you go back and find better words. Not bigger words. Better ones. No five-dollar words when a two-dollar one will carry the weight. 

That’s where poetry comes in. 

It teaches command of language. Every word has a job. What you leave out matters just as much. 

You learn restraint. 

I’m not trying to explain everything to you. I’m trying to let you sit next to me and feel it. The grit. The tension. The atmosphere. If I do it right, I don’t have to walk you through it. 

Sometimes, it sounds like this: 

Shrieks and whimpers blend in the shadows, composing a chilling melody… one haunting, yet familiar. Propped on padded steel, I reflect. Inaction’s consequence has become the gallow’s pole. Action’s responsibility—the weight for which I dangle. 

No explanation. Just placement. 

But truth isn’t fixed. It’s perception. 

All I can do is tell it the way I see it. If I say it with enough precision, you’ll find yourself somewhere in it. 

That’s the job. 

Not perfection. Mediocrity is unacceptable—but that doesn’t mean perfect. It means no carelessness. No lazy writing. 

Not every line has to shine. But every line has to matter. 

Life doesn’t wrap things up neatly. It doesn’t hand you clean endings. Sometimes things just sit there unresolved. That belongs in the work too. 

I don’t tie everything up. 

I just make sure you feel what’s left hanging. 

And here’s the part people don’t like— 

I can’t control how you feel about any of this. 

All I can do is put it on the page the way it needs to be. 

Truth over popularity. No exceptions. 

But don’t get that twisted—the reader always matters. 

It makes no sense to write something that can’t be understood. If you can’t enter the work, that’s on me. Not because the idea is wrong, but because I didn’t translate it clearly enough. 

That’s where precision comes in. 

Perception without precision gets lost. 

So I aim for clarity. Not to make it easier… but to make sure you can find me. 

What looks raw on the page usually isn’t. It’s intentional. Sometimes the gut punch waits in the shadows. Other times it’s right there in the open. 

Either way… it’s placed. 

I’m not trying to impress you. 

I’m trying to tell the truth the best way I can. 

If I do that right— 

you’ll believe me. 

And maybe… you’ll listen. 

Author’s Note

A thank you to Sadje for her Sunday Poser—a question that turned into something more than an answer. It turned into a conversation.:::

That Damn Test

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I’m not even sure what that means—taking an online IQ test.

I’ve read the definitions. I understand what it’s supposed to measure. Pattern recognition. Logic. Processing speed. A neat little number that tells you how well your brain behaves under controlled conditions.

Clean. Clinical. Impressive… if you like that sort of thing.

But I’ve met people who can ace those tests and still can’t think their way around the corner. The kind of folks who can solve theoretical problems all day long but freeze when reality refuses to follow instructions. Book smart, sure. Life confused.

I’ve also known people who wouldn’t impress anyone on paper… but you’d trust them when things went sideways.

Same world.

Different kinds of intelligence.

And that number?

It only tells you part of the story.

I remember taking a test once—military entrance.

I was drunk and hungover at the same time. Which shouldn’t be possible, but there I was… living proof that bad decisions can overlap.

And yeah—I bombed it.

Still passed, somehow. Just enough to get in the door, not enough to get a seat at the table. My score boxed me in. Limited options. Limited expectations. Funny how a number you barely remember taking starts speaking for you like it knows your whole story.

I remember how they treated us based on that score.

You could feel it.

Who got respect. Who got side-eyed. Who got talked to like they were already behind before they even started.

Here’s where it got interesting.

I’d be standing next to guys with higher scores—on paper, sharper minds, better placements—and they couldn’t figure out some of the basic tasks tied to their own jobs. Not all of them. But enough to notice something didn’t add up.

So I tried to help.

Most of them didn’t want it.

Here come the pretentious jerk balls… fresh out the factory, still wrapped in confidence they hadn’t earned yet. The kind that would rather struggle in silence than accept help from someone “below” them.

But one of them?

He was different.

We stepped outside, sat on the stoop, and worked through it. No rank. No scores. Just two people trying to solve a problem without making it more complicated than it needed to be.

When we finished, he looked at me and asked,
“Why aren’t you in my field… at my level?”

I took a drag from my cigarette.

“Hot chicks and alcohol.”

He nodded.
“I been there.”

We laughed.

Because sometimes the gap between where you are and where you could’ve been… isn’t intelligence.

It’s choices.

“I’m not smart.”

I say that a lot.

Not fishing for compliments—I’ve known people who are genuinely brilliant. The kind of minds that move faster, see further, connect things before you even realize there’s something to connect.

I’m not that.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

My wife used to roll her eyes every time I said it.

“Whatever.”

That was her whole argument.

And she had reason.

That woman watched me do some of the most impressively idiotic things a grown man can do without supervision. The kind of decisions that make you question whether common sense is optional.

But she also saw me when I got stuck.

Not the casual kind of stuck—the kind where your brain locks up and frustration settles in like it pays rent. The kind that makes you feel useless.

She never agreed with me in those moments.

Never argued either.

She’d just tell me to step away.

Then she’d come back with a cup of coffee, sit beside me, and wait. No pressure. No speeches. Just presence. Like she understood that clarity doesn’t come from force—it comes when the noise finally settles.

And when I started something—really started—she already knew what I needed.

Legal pad.
Red pen. Black pen.
A full carafe of coffee.

Set it down… and give me space.

She’d even keep the kids away.

Not because I didn’t want to see them—I never minded when they came to talk—but she understood something I didn’t have the words for back then:

There’s a point in the process where stopping costs more than continuing.

So until I got there?

“Leave your father alone.”

She protected that space like it mattered.

Like I mattered.

I remember one time I was tearing into my team—just destroying them. They’d done something I thought was ridiculous. Not just wrong… obviously wrong.

Apparently, one of them called my wife.

Little bastards were always ratting me out.

They knew I wouldn’t listen to my bosses…
but they knew I’d listen to her.

Phone rings.

“What happened?” she asked.

So I told her.

“I told you—they had the same training I did.”

“Listen.”

That one word hit harder than anything I’d said.

I felt it—that irritation. Like she wasn’t hearing me.

But she was.

Better than I was.

When I got home, the coffee was ready. That expensive stuff I hated paying for… and loved drinking anyway.

We sat down.

She let me talk.

Then she said it plain.

“Your old team was with you for five years.”

I nodded.

“You had time to learn them.”

Another nod.

“You have to do that again.”

I didn’t like that answer.

So yeah… I pouted.

“What?” she asked.

I stared into my coffee.

“That damn test.”

My son asked me once—he served too—how my time in the military could’ve been harder than the guys he knew doing the same job.

Same title.

Different story.

I laughed.

“The guys I knew doing my job?” I told him. “They had it easy as hell too.”

That confused him.

So I told him a few things.

Not everything. Just enough.

His eyes widened.

“How?”

I smiled. Gave him a wink.

Because some things don’t translate.

Not cleanly. Not completely.

And definitely not into a number.

Over the years—teaching, training, watching people succeed and struggle in ways that don’t make sense on paper—I’ve learned this:

Intelligence is an elusive beast.

It doesn’t sit still long enough to be measured cleanly.
It shows up when it wants to.
Hides when you need it most.
And sometimes looks nothing like what you were taught to recognize.

So no—

I’m not saying intelligence doesn’t matter.

I’m saying it doesn’t live inside a number.

And if you think you’ve got it figured out because of a score on a page…

You probably don’t.

Author’s Note

This piece was written in response to Sadje’s Sunday Poser #279—a weekly, thought-provoking prompt that I’ve come to appreciate in my own quiet way. I don’t always jump into the ring and participate, but I read the question every time. There’s something about the way it lingers… like a conversation you didn’t realize you needed until it’s already started.

This one stuck with me longer than most.

Not because I had an answer ready—but because I didn’t.

So I sat with it. Let it circle. Let it pull at a few old memories I hadn’t planned on revisiting. What came out wasn’t a clean response or a polished argument—it was something closer to a reckoning. A look at the difference between what we measure… and what we actually understand.

That’s usually how it goes around here.

Questions don’t get answered so much as they get unpacked.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you walk away seeing something you missed the first time.

Respect Isn’t Rescue

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On Quiet Power, Unfinished Equality, and Knowing When to Step Aside

Women have been shaping the world from the quiet corners for as long as there’s been a world to shape. History loves its kings and loudmouths, but look closer and you’ll see the fingerprints of women everywhere—deals struck over kitchen tables, revolutions whispered into motion, empires shifted by a single word.

The damsel-in-distress? Pure fiction. Every woman I’ve known has been a strategist or a survivor. I was raised by women, so I never bought the stereotype. My mother, aunts, and grandmothers ran their worlds with a precision that left no room for excuses.

That lesson stuck. My daughters and granddaughters get no slack because they’re women—the only pass they get is being mine, and even that expires fast. I’ve watched women pick up the slack when men fall short, holding things together while someone else grabs the credit. And still, women are underestimated in ways I’ll never understand. The proof stands right in front of us, yet people squint as if strength needs permission to be real.

I saw it firsthand in the military. Equality is improving, but the gap is still wide. A striking new soldier joined our unit, and the guys forgot every rule of conduct, circling her like moths while she tried to learn her job.
So I played the villain. I called people out, made her untouchable, and turned would-be defenders into cautionary tales. I hated doing it, but it gave her room to breathe. Her father was a command boss I’d butted heads with, so I expected trouble. Instead, we ended up on good terms, a quiet truce born from protecting his kid. She and I became friends, and years later, I still get the occasional text or Facebook update from her and the husband I once terrorized.

Long before marriage, an older woman once told me over beers, “If I can’t get what I want with a look and a smile, I’m not doing my job.” Back then, I didn’t get it. Marriage cleared that up. My wife could hold an entire conversation with a single glance, seal the verdict with a faint smile, and I’d move before she spoke—remembering that barroom oracle and chuckling while carrying out silent orders.

Here’s the tricky part: as much as I know the women in my life can handle themselves, the instinct to defend them never leaves. But that impulse can backfire. Sometimes the smartest move is to pick your battles, stay alert, and trust their strength. Respect isn’t rescue—it’s giving credit, stepping aside, and making sure the field is clear when they swing the hammer themselves.

Even after a lifetime of their guidance, I still don’t have a clue how women work. They tell me that all the time. I just smile, nod, and keep doing my chores. History is finally, grudgingly, starting to catch up.

Author’s Note
I like Sunday Poser’s questions. They make me think—probably more than they should, but think nonetheless. Anything that stirs the mind is a good thing. So, thanks to Sadje for providing these tremendous challenges.

Prompt Addicts Anonymous

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Hi, my name is Mangus, and apparently… I write.

“Me, pretending I’m above blog prompts while secretly outlining my fifth entry.”

Do I like blogging challenges and blog hops?
No. They’re annoying. They’re addictive. They’re helpful. And I resent all of that.

I don’t like being told what to write.
Until I do.
Then suddenly I’m five prompts deep, haven’t blinked in two hours, and now I’m questioning my entire emotional architecture because someone dared to ask, “What does the moon mean to you?”

I don’t like structure.
But I need it.
Because without a deadline or a theme, I will absolutely stare into the void and call it “research.”

Blog hops? Ugh.
Too much small talk.
Too many exclamation points.
And yet, three comments in, I’ve discovered a writer who casually blew my mind with a six-sentence story about grief and bees, and now I’m subscribed, emotionally compromised, and wondering how I ever lived without them.

So yeah. I complain. Loudly. Often.
I feel this way on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
I suppose it’s because my coffee delivery is usually late. My favorite pen ran out of ink again, and the “good” refills are on backorder on Amazon.
It’s not that I’m bitter. I’m just… creatively dehydrated and emotionally overcaffeinated on the wrong days.

However, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, something shifts in the universe.
Champagne falls from the heavens.
Words become the elixir of the gods.
In the dead of winter, I smell the tranquil aroma of lavender in the gentle breeze.
My fingers dance. My spirit opens. The muse doesn’t knock — she kicks down the door with glitter in her wake and says, “Write, fool.”

And I do.

And don’t even get me started on the enablers.
There’s Sadje, who keeps creating these annoying, wonderful challenges, like Sunday Poser. So, what if I built an entire series based on one of them?
Then there’s Di, dropping a daily prompt I now use as a backbone for long fiction like it’s a casual hobby. She’s also got this “Share Your World” thing — yeah, I’m not sharing jack. Even though, if we’re being honest, this post accidentally answers the first two questions of this week’s challenge. I have no idea what she’s talking about on the last two.
And Fandango — this ole fart has a daily word challenge I use across multiple posts. I’m an ole fart too, fist in the air and all that. Solidarity.
Melissa from Mom with a Blog — I don’t know, maybe moms were the original Jedi. She posts these random images with alt text that make me write funny, weird things… and I enjoy it. Can you say,” Jedi mind trick?” The betrayal.
Eugi doing all kinds of magical stuff and her Moonwashed Weekly Prompts got me feeling all peace, love, and hair grease. Writing beautiful peaceful stuff. That’s just wrong! Shame on you!
And Esther Chilton? She just shows up once a week, drops off a prompt like it’s no big deal. I gotta wait a whole week for the next one. It’s crap like that which killed cable.
Let’s not forget the peskily awesome staff at Promptly Written, who boldly accepted the rantings of an insomniac and continue to push their readers to explore their creative limits. What the hell is that? Inspiration by force? Motivation disguised as structure. Madness. Glorious, structured madness.

Don’t get me started with the photography challenges.
Cee — may Allah have mercy on her — encouraged me to explore my camera, sending me running to capture images of things I’d normally ignore without a second thought. Who does that? Cee did.
Images I took for her challenges have ended up as descriptions or scenes in so many stories. Too many to mention.
And Leanne Cole with her Monochrome Madness — scoffs — having me try to add depth, texture, and shadow to things that clearly weren’t meant to be that serious. And yet… I tried. Multiple times. Because apparently, I have no control over my own artistic direction anymore, if ever.
Because of these women — and others — I’ve even heard people refer to me as a Photographer. Of course, I correct them. Obviously. But people be yapping about anything these days.

Here’s what I say about the lot of them:
“How dare you ask me to create my ass off and enjoy it?”
Complete. Utter. Rubbish.

So? Which one of you enablers got under your skin this week?

Sadje. Di. Fandango.
The crime? Just read the damn blog.

Let’s call it what it is: Prompts Addicts Anonymous.

“Hello, my name is Mangus…”
[sniff]
“…and I’m a…”
(It’s okay, we’re here for you.)
“…I’m a prompter.”
(Applause)
“Hey Mangus…”

Author’s Note:
This essay was born in public — a response to a simple blog prompt that, like most of my writing, spiraled into something I didn’t expect. It lives on the edge between complaint and confession, between sarcastic side-eye and real reverence for the people and prompts that keep dragging me back to the page.

If you’ve ever rolled your eyes at structure, dodged a deadline, or cursed the muse for showing up late and uninvited — this one’s for you.

And if you’re one of the people I name in here?
Yeah, I’m talking about you — but in a good way.
With sincere gratitude and thanks. You guys and so many more are one of the reasons I keep going.

— Mangus

Nothing to Prove, Everything to Say

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A blog I forgot I started. A voice I didn’t know I needed. And the stories that refused to stay silent.

Motivation for Starting the Blog

I started this blog back in 2011, though I didn’t even remember creating it until I stumbled across it during a Google search of my name. My wife was sick then, and I was drowning in anger and helplessness. Someone once told me every serious writer had a blog. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going to be taken seriously — even if I didn’t know what I was doing with it.

At the time, it wasn’t about building an audience. I was just trying to write my way through something I couldn’t fix. I’ve solved hard problems my whole life — but that one, watching someone I loved slip away, broke me in a way nothing else had. Writing was the only thing I had that didn’t ask for solutions. It let me feel what I was afraid to say out loud.

Mangus Khan wasn’t supposed to turn into all this. He was just a character I was kicking around for a novel I never finished. But before I knew it, Mangus became more than a name — he became me. There was no turning back the clock, no putting the genie back in the bottle. I didn’t plan it. I never looked back.

In 2023, I made the choice to keep this space alive and see what it could become. It’s the framework of something I’ve been carrying around in my head for decades. I wanted to grow as a writer — to see if there was any real interest in the kind of stories I wanted to tell. When I returned, this blog had 42 members. That was enough. I kept writing until I got sick. Then I recovered and came back swinging, writing without expectations.

Lately, I’ve been working on building a larger space to house all of this — something broader, something that reflects everything I’ve come to care about. I still don’t have any big expectations. Some people retire and fix up cars, build boats, and travel the world. I tell stories.

Expectations for Audience and Reach

I didn’t start this blog expecting a crowd. When I found it again in 2023, it had 42 members, and that felt about right. I wasn’t chasing followers or clicks. This was just a space where I could clear my head and cleanse my soul.

Then the strangest thing happened: people started showing up. And they stayed. I never expected that. I’m still blown away, honestly.

I’ve been fortunate in life — I’ve traveled around the world, solved complex problems, and worked with people from all walks of life. That was my world for years. But as much as I accomplished in that space, I’m not sure it made the kind of impact I feel now. That’s because of the reader engagement. The comments, the conversations, the quiet understanding from strangers — it’s different. It’s human. And it’s deeply personal.

I still look at other blogs and wonder how they pull it off — all that strategy and polish. That’s never been me. I just show up, write, and try to keep it honest. If that’s enough for people to stick around, then I’ve already received more than I ever asked for.

Hopes for Personal Growth

At first, I was just trying to survive. But somewhere along the way, I realized I had grown — not just as a writer, but as a person. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s everything I’ve lived through. But I have a deeper, more meaningful appreciation for things now — moments, words, silence, people.

When I decided to keep this blog going in 2023, part of it was a challenge to myself: could I still push my craft? Could I write with more clarity, more courage, more control? I wasn’t chasing perfection. I just wanted to be sharp. Clear. Unafraid to say what mattered. To explore what was still inside me, and maybe even finish the novel I’d started after my wife passed.

Writing forces reflection. It exposes the things I usually keep buried. And growth doesn’t come from breakthroughs — it comes from the grind. From showing up on the blank page when no one’s watching. That’s where I’ve grown the most.

Expectations Around Content and Consistency

When I first started, there was no plan. No roadmap. Just the need to write. I figured maybe I’d post once a week if something came to me. But life doesn’t follow calendars, and neither does creativity.

What’s come out over time has been a mix of fiction, essays, and visual art — sometimes sharp and focused, other times loose and wandering. I never set out to define a genre or lane for myself. I just followed what moved me.

There were stretches where I disappeared — illness, life, burnout. And there were stretches where I wrote constantly, chasing down stories, experimenting with form, pushing myself to see how far I could take a single idea. After I recovered, I kicked things into gear and just kept going. Not for clicks. Not for an audience. Just to stay in motion.

I thought about organizing the content more, making it cleaner or easier to follow. But I’ve found that consistency for me isn’t about structure — it’s about showing up with honesty. Whether it’s fiction, a personal reflection, or a visual piece — if it’s real, it belongs here.

Surprises Along the Way

I didn’t expect to still be here. I didn’t expect Mangus Khan — once just a throwaway character — to become part of who I am. And I definitely didn’t expect people to stay, read, and respond like they have.

I never expected to embody Mangus Khan, but I have.

What surprised me the most, though, is how much this space has mattered — not just to readers, but to me. I’ve done work all over the world. I’ve solved big, technical problems and made decisions that impacted entire systems. But somehow, writing a story that makes one person feel seen hits harder.

This blog wasn’t supposed to become something. But somehow, it did — a record of survival, growth, grief, imagination, and unexpected connection.

Some people restore old cars in retirement. Some build boats. I tell stories. That’s the project. That’s the work. And if it ends tomorrow, I’ll still be proud of what came from it, because none of it was supposed to happen in the first place.

I’ll see you when the ink dries.

Author’s Note:

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

I’m building something bigger — a space called the Mangus Khan Universe.

It’s not a brand. It’s not a business. It’s a creative world I’ve been sketching in pieces for years — fiction, essays, visuals, and ideas I can’t shake loose.

This piece was written in response to Sadje’s Sunday Poser — a prompt that turned into a reckoning, a reflection, and a return to something I didn’t know I’d missed.

If you’re here for the stories, you’re already part of it.

Stay tuned. There’s more coming.
I’ll see you when the ink dries.

Black Card Revoked (And I’m Okay With That)

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Am I a Snob?

I wish I could say no. That I’m above all that—ego, elitism, the subtle flexes wrapped in “taste” or “refinement.” I’ve tried, seriously. I’ve had the talks, done the therapy. I even cracked open the workbooks—are they still called that? Maybe it was a podcast. Or one of those journaling things we do when someone who shouldn’t matter (and whose name I can’t even remember) says something that sticks. It latches on like gum to your shoe, and suddenly you’re spiraling.

You know the kind of advice—like taking relationship tips from a guy who’s never had a girlfriend. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him talk to a woman.

Food Snob? Maybe. But It’s Personal.

“Nothing stays the same”—that’s the mantra we mumble when something doesn’t taste like it used to. The moment hits, and the only explanation that feels right is, “The bastards changed the formula.” Maybe they did. That’s possible.

But what’s also possible—and we hate admitting it—is that the stuff always tasted like garbage. We just didn’t know better. No one had the heart to tell us, because we loved it. And love, especially the nostalgic kind, can turn trash into treasure.

Still, when that old flavor hits different, I dig in. I refuse to accept that it’s me who changed. No—they changed it. And now it’s a matter of principle. “The bastards changed the formula” isn’t just a phrase. It’s my truth. I’m sticking to it.

Culture Snob? Absolutely.

Let’s be real—taste isn’t just personal. It’s cultural.

As a Black man in America, I grew up hearing things you couldn’t say out loud today. Not in public, anyway. Stuff like, “White folks don’t make potato salad like Black folks.” And everyone around the table would nod, mouths full of Granny Smith’s version, hoping for seconds before it disappeared. Because we all knew the danger of ending up with Ms. Johnson’s version. She never quite got it right. But her rhubarb pie? That had fifty things going on, and every one of them hit.

It’s remarkable how the world now dictates what’s considered refined. What’s divine? Overhyped restaurants serve up culture on a plate and call it status. Sure, sometimes it’s good. But nothing compares to the food from our cookouts, our picnics, our church socials. That food had soul. That food knew where it came from.

Now we pay $25 for a steak that comes out wrong and has to be sent back, just to taste decent—something we could’ve cooked at home better and cheaper, with seasoning that actually makes sense. But we do it anyway, because it makes us feel like we belong to something. Like we’re part of a club. Even if that club leaves us hungry and a little hollow.

That right there? That’s the bullshit I’m done with.

Ideology Snob? Let’s Get Real.

Let’s talk ideology. The code we live by. The beliefs hardwired into us through culture—whether we chose them or not.

They show up in how we talk, how we dress, what we read, the music we blast, and the stuff we secretly love but feel judged for.

And here comes the contradictions.

I’ve been told, “You act white.” Like that’s a crime. “I’m pulling your Black card.” “You’re an Oreo—Black on the outside, white on the inside.”

I used to carry a bag of Oreos with me. I liked them. And the same people who said that crap? They’d always take one when I offered. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

Then there are the stereotypes. Once, it was sweltering out, and some coworkers brought watermelons to beat the heat. One of my White friends waved and said, “Hey, we’ve got some watermelon!”
I shouted back, “I’m good, thanks.”

He came over to my truck looking confused.
“Hey man,” he said, “we’ve got some watermelon.”
“I don’t eat that shit,” I said flat.
He raised an eyebrow. “Next thing you’re gonna tell me is you don’t eat fried chicken.”
I looked at him and said, “I prefer mine baked.”

Truth? I love fried chicken. But my wife had me on baked for my blood pressure. That moment wasn’t about the food. It was about reclaiming space. Drawing a line. Saying, you don’t get to define me.

People try to strip your identity when it doesn’t fit their version of what Black is “supposed” to be. But if you stand still too long, they’ll say you’ve stopped growing. You can’t win. So you make your own rules. You claim the parts of yourself they don’t understand, and keep walking.

Music Snob? Nah. Just a Metalhead.

I’m a metalhead. But really, I love music across genres. Blues, jazz, hip hop, classical, metal, whatever hits. If it moves me, I’m in.

But I’ve caught flak for it. Side-eyes at shows. People coming up to me, tilted heads, awkward grins: “Are you enjoying yourself?” Like, I crashed the wrong concert. Like metal has a sticker on it that reads “For White Folks Only.”

Really? That’s your question?

As if I need permission to feel that same raw, gut-deep power you feel. As if I have to prove I belong. I didn’t know loud music came with gatekeeping.

Let’s be clear: music doesn’t segregate. People do. And the real pandemic? It’s not my playlist. It’s the weirdo energy and backhanded doubt people carry around like a badge.

The Labels Don’t Stick.

Stereotypes. Prejudices. Respectability rules dressed up in soft language and cheap slogans. You can’t run from them. We’re told to be ourselves, so long as it fits the mold. Be different, but not too different. Be authentic, but stay in bounds.

Nah. I’m done with that.

So I wear the names they throw at me. I carry them, not as scars, but as proof. Proof that people will always try to box you in. But boxes are for storage, not for living. And if they actually knew me—or tried—they’d realize we’d probably get along just fine.

I love exploring culture. I love discovering new food, ideas, and perspectives. I don’t just tolerate differences. I chase it. That doesn’t make me less Black. It makes me human.

And if I’m anything?

I’m weathered. But I’m true.

Author’s Note:
This rant was written for Sadje’s Sunday Poser, which I genuinely enjoy. It gives me space to think about real things—stuff that hits closer to home than all those philosophies written by dead people.

No, I don’t believe in ghosts.

Well… maybe?

Okay, that came out of nowhere.

Common Sense: Missing. Presumed Ghosting.

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RANDOM THOUGHTS – SUNDAY POSER #236

Do most people possess common sense? Technically, yes — in the same way most people technically have a brain. It’s there, but how often it’s used is another conversation. Do we have enough time for that conversation? Absolutely. Will it change anything? Highly doubtful.

See, Voltaire wasn’t just tossing out a witty one-liner when he said, “Common sense is not so common.” He was diagnosing a condition that, centuries later, still plagues society like an expired meme.

Common sense, by definition, should be the basic ability to make sound judgments. Simple, right? But here’s the catch: what counts as “sound judgment” depends on where you grew up, what you’ve lived through, and whether you think TikTok life hacks are a credible source of advice.

And let’s not kid ourselves — emotions are the silent saboteurs. Stress, pride, laziness — they hijack reason faster than you can say “bad idea.” It’s not that people can’t be rational; it’s that they often choose not to be. Rationality takes effort. Effort is wildly overrated these days.

Plus, humans come preloaded with some lovely mental software bugs. Take overconfidence bias — the tendency to think we’re way smarter and more capable than we really are. It’s why your coworker with a GED believes he’s a financial genius after one good week in the stock market. Or why Karen from Facebook suddenly feels qualified to rewrite the CDC guidelines after reading one half-baked blog post. Overconfidence blinds people to their own poor judgment, rendering common sense optional, such as using a turn signal.

Then there’s normalcy bias — our charming ability to assume that because things have been fine, they will be fine. It’s the psychological equivalent of whistling past the graveyard. People often ignore flashing warning signs — both figurative and literal — because facing reality would require them to take uncomfortable action. Why evacuate when you can assume the hurricane will magically change course? Why stop texting while driving when you’ve never crashed before? Common sense doesn’t stand a chance against that kind of wishful thinking.

Even Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., one of the sharpest legal minds in American history, saw through the myth of pure rationality. Holmes didn’t believe the law was built on logic — he famously wrote, “The life of the law has not been logic; it has been experience.” And when courts invoke the “reasonable man” to judge behavior, they’re really invoking a legal unicorn — an imaginary figure of perfect average judgment. Spoiler: that person does not exist.

Reality? The reasonable man would be rear-ended by someone arguing with their GPS, and then sued for “stopping too suddenly.”

So no, common sense isn’t common. It’s a delicate, context-riddled figment of collective imagination, constantly trampled by human bias and stubbornness. Expecting it from everyone is like expecting a glitch-free Zoom call: a beautiful dream, consistently crushed by reality.

Common sense isn’t dead — it’s just ghosting us. I feel disrespected.

Ego, Snacks, and the Search for Peace

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PROSE – REFLECTION – SUNDAY POSER #230

At my core? Still me. Still sarcastic. Still curious. Still low-key allergic to group think and people who say “per my last email.” But life—especially this past year—shifted something in me. A life-altering moment has a way of stripping you down to the truth, whether you’re ready or not.

It made me realize I’ve been sitting on a set of gifts I’ve treated like party tricks. I can do more. I should do more. Sure, I could keep yelling into the void about the uncultured swine running the world (still baffled by how that happened). And if I accidentally handed them the keys somewhere along the way, then yeah—I’ve got some things to atone for. Maybe even finish the time machine in the basement.

But mostly, I’ve just changed in the way that matters: I’ve started trying. Less coasting, more choosing. Less needing to be right, more needing to be honest.

Wisdom? Not exactly my department. I’ll never be that guy. Never been that smart, and I’m okay with that. What I am is honest enough to admit I’m a deeply flawed man. Whatever good I carry, I got from my mother. The rest is a work in progress.

Marcus Aurelius said, “Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.” I’m trying. Some days better than others. And like in Sufism, where they speak of the nafs—the lower ego—it’s a constant fight. Not to eliminate your ego, but to tame it. To bring it into balance. Peace doesn’t come from pretending to be pure—it comes from wrestling with your own chaos and not letting it win.

And honestly? If King Solomon—the wisest man to ever live—couldn’t get it all right…

I think I’m good.

Sunday Poser #173: Aging

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE

My response to Sadje’s challenge

Do you like the age you are now?

This is one of the easiest questions I’ve answered in a while. The answer is YES. I love it. However, it feels odd to say so when that hasn’t been the case. For decades, I had this thing where I wanted to be older than my age. Almost like I was born during the wrong era or something. The problem I could never settle on a period I really wanted to be from.

Then was the whole “you’re just a kid. You’ll understand when you get older.” I hated being treated like a kid. I refused to believe that age possessed this fountain of wisdom that eluded my entire youth. Often, I wondered what age or day I was going to understand the mysteries of the world suddenly. Would it be on a weekday? Or on the weekends? I hoped for sometime during the week because, let’s face it, on the weekends, there was beer and women to be ignored by. Disgusted or disapproving looks from members of the opposite sex while standing obnoxious with the fellas is a rite of passage.

However, I would like to be on a Monday if it was during the week. Many complain about Monday’s, but I don’t mind so much. Over the years, I found several to be rather pleasant. Tuesdays would be alright, too, yet it doesn’t pop off on Mondays. Any day after is a negative ghost rider. There to much preparation from the pending weekend. You can’t be bogged down with a complex thought. I can see it now, sitting there tugging on your peach fuzz chins, saying, “Hmm.” For those fellas who could grow full beards in high school, I am jealous.

I enjoy my age now because all I have to do is sit around looking at people like they’re crazy. Who needs cable? Have you ever looked at the younger folks when you get older? They are hilarious, aren’t they? It’s alright. You can admit it. The only drawback is the random, unprovoked ailments that surface periodically. Yes, I said unprovoked. This is my story, and I’m sticking with it. I can speak my mind. I’m old enough to know better but too old to give a shit. After all this crap of wishing I was older, I’m finally in the winter of life. It gets a little chilly at times, but hey. Excuse me while I slip on a sweater.