Buon Anno 2026

Mom

Today marks 15 years since my mother passed.

There was a time when this date felt like a weight. A reminder. Something that tightened my chest and pulled me backward. For a long time, anniversaries like this didn’t feel like reflections, they felt like reopenings. 

But today feels different. Today isn’t about grief winning anymore. Today is about celebration. I choose to celebrate her life. Her strength. Her sacrifices. Her love. I choose to honor the woman who helped shape me, even when life tried its hardest to break me.

I’ve come from places that weren’t easy. I’ve walked roads full of detours, dead ends, and lessons learned the hard way. I’ve stumbled, I’ve fallen, and I’ve had to rebuild myself more than once. But every step forward, every ounce of growth, every moment of resilience carries her fingerprint on it.

I know, without a doubt, that she would be proud of who I’ve become. Not because I’m perfect, FAR from it, but because I never stopped trying.

Because I kept moving. Because I turned pain into purpose and scars into proof that I survived. So today, I don’t mourn what was taken. I honor what was given.

Happy heavenly anniversary, Mom. Your love still walks with me. And I carry you forward in everything I do. 💙🤍❤️

The End Is Here

Hey

Merry NP Christmas

Santa really thought he could touch down in North Philly like it was some Hallmark movie, and the second he hit the pavement the reindeer took one look at the block, heard one distant “yo,” and launched themselves back into the sky like they had warrants. 

Meanwhile Santa’s jogging after them, out of breath, sack bouncing around, while three dudes in hoodies just stand there mean mugging him like he parked in someone’s shoveled out spot. Rudolph’s already three rooftops away, Donner’s doing 90 over Broad and Santa’s realizing this is the only city where even mythical creatures know to double park with the flashers on. 

Meryl Says Hi

Progress

A few months ago I was a size 46, tipping the scale at 323 lbs. Anyone who really knows me knows that’s the heaviest I’ve ever been. Life was life at the time, and it showed. Oh believe me it showed.

I didn’t jump on some extreme program or pretend discipline comes in a bottle. I just got honest with myself and focused on moderation. Consistency over chaos.

Today I pulled out an old pair of jeans I couldn’t even get past my thighs back then. 40x32 and they fit. Yeah, they’re skinny jeans, that’s a separate conversation, but they fit without pain or denial.

I’m down to 275 lbs now. Almost 50 pounds gone in a few months. No shortcuts. No hype. Just doing what needed to be done.

Goal’s 250-255, and I’m not rushing it. One second at a time. One decision at a time.

Progress doesn’t need applause. It just needs proof.

Honestly, I’m just grateful that things are moving the way they are. For a long time I lived waiting for the other shoe to drop, always expecting the anchor to fall. That constant tension, like peace was temporary and punishment was scheduled.

I don’t live in that headspace anymore.

I don’t even take life day by day. I take it second by second. I don’t know what’s coming next, and for the first time, I’m okay with that. There’s comfort in not bracing for impact all the time.

And yeah, I’m genuinely happy about these damn jeans. That was a real victory for me. A couple months ago I couldn’t even get into them, and that hit hard because I wore them last year. That weight wasn’t me. It felt like watching myself drift away.

Now they fit again. That alone feels like reclaiming ground. It opens my wardrobe back up, but more than that, it opens me back up. Proof that change is possible when you stop punishing yourself and start taking care of yourself.

Small wins matter. This one earned its place.

Rebuilding

What Kensington Left in Me

I used to think my life would end before it ever really began. Back then, nobody expected me to live past twenty-one. Truth be told, neither did I. When you grow up in a place like Kensington during the years I did, your future feels like a rumor you’re not meant to hear.

I carried anger like it was oxygen, walked streets that taught me to keep my head on a swivel, and made choices that could’ve buried me without anyone being surprised. There was a time when my greatest ambition was to go out on Somerset Street in a blaze of confrontation, as if destruction was the only ending a man like me deserved. That was the mindset — warped, reckless, and born from a childhood where chaos felt like the only language I spoke fluently.

But here’s the strange thing: with distance, with age, with scars that cooled into wisdom, I don’t regret those years. I don’t want to relive them, and you couldn’t drag me back to Kensington today, but I’m grateful for what it carved into me.

The trials, the bad decisions, the near-misses — they forged the man I eventually grew into. Every wrong turn taught me how to recognize the right ones. Every moment I thought I was finished showed me a way to keep going. Every dark corner became a map I’d one day navigate my way out of.

If I had a time machine, I wouldn’t fix a thing. Not because the past was good — most of it wasn’t — but because without it, I don’t know who I’d be. Kensington didn’t give me comfort, but it gave me clarity. It showed me the version of myself I never wanted to become and the strength required to walk away from that path.

I’m forty-three now — twice the age anyone expected me to reach, plus one. And every year past twenty-one feels like a personal rebuttal to a fate I refused to accept.

Day by day, it looked like nothing was changing. But when I look back, everything is different. And I’m still here. Still moving. Still becoming.

Ultimate Dilemma 2

Real terror? Not death. Death is polite. Death knocks. Taps its little bony knuckle and waits on the welcome mat.

The fear comes before the knock. In the space where breath forgets itself. In the knowing that we don’t know what we know we shouldn’t know. The mystery behind the last door on the last hallway of the last dream.

Death is the riddle every mind hums under its pillow. Every culture scribbles the same wrong answer in different colors. Paradise, punishment, reincarnation, oblivion…one truth wearing many masks and no man can wear one mask to himself and another to the multitude without finally getting bewildered as to which one may be true. 

We whisper about it. Giggle. Pretending our bones aren’t counting down behind our skin. But everyone hears the ticking. Tick. Tick. Tickticktick.

Mortals race the clock because the clock is racing them. They paint to be remembered. They love to leave fingerprints. They build monuments so the dust has to climb over them politely.

But imagine, stretch it out, imagine forever. Forever-ever-never-ending-ever.

No stakes. No endings. No shadows to shape the light. Just a long, long corridor with no doors and no windows and the wallpaper starts whispering your name.

Immortality is not a gift. It is a loop. A curse that folds time so many times it tears.

Without death, life is flavorless soup. Lukewarm, eternal, and judging you.

Death is the silent sculptor. Carving meaning by threatening to take it away. Shadow paints the sun. Silence gives the music teeth.

Don’t love death. Don’t hate death. Just bow when she passes. She is the only queen whose crown fits everyone… eventually.

Not The Villain

People get bored with reality, so they decorate it with fiction. A plain fact never stands a chance against a juicy lie. And when their imagination needs a monster, they pick the closest silhouette and paint it black. You didn’t change. Their version of you did.

You didn’t become the villain.

They just needed one.

And instead of asking for the real story, they rewrote you in a script you never auditioned for. Their whispers became wildfire, their assumptions became armor, and suddenly you’re standing inside a plot twist you never agreed to star in.

But here’s the beautiful, rebellious piece of it:

You still own your narrative. Not the rumor mill. Not the bored spectators. Not the storytellers who skipped the truth because it wasn’t flashy enough.

You’re not the villain.

You’re the author who hasn’t spoken yet.

None

Busy

I've been neglecting this a little bit because I've been busy with the new career and everything so I'm going to try to keep this up to date but no promises. 

Hi

Italy

December, 1981. My mom was five and a half months pregnant with me, the newest chapter in our family story. Every Christmas, like clockwork, they traveled to Italy to visit my grandmother. After my grandfather passed in 1978, she had returned to her homeland, leaving America behind. What was meant to be a two-week holiday quickly took an unexpected turn.

Arriving in Italy, they discovered my grandmother’s health had declined. The short visit extended into a much longer stay, weeks blending into months, as my mother’s pregnancy progressed. By the time my grandmother recovered, it was too late for my mom to fly back to Philadelphia safely. In 1981, the rules for pregnant women traveling internationally were different—airlines allowed travel until about six months—but fate had other plans.

And so, I was born in Italy. Not by accident, but by a chain of circumstances that would change the course of my life before I even took my first breath.

Looking back, I love that twist of fate. It gave me something I treasure: dual citizenship. A literal connection to my heritage, a tie to my grandmother’s resilience, and a story I’ve carried all my life—a reminder of how history, family, and fate can collide in the most unexpected, beautiful ways.

The 50 Street Code Laws

1. Stay quiet after they answer — silence makes ‘em talk more. People expose themselves when you give ‘em room.

2. Nod slow while they talk — it pulls more outta them without you saying a word.

3. Ask, “What makes you say that?” instead of arguing. That’s how you make ‘em reveal their weak spots.

4. Mirror how they move. People trust reflections of themselves more than strangers.

5. Get three yeses before your real ask. Small wins make big ones automatic.

6. Ask for help instead of approval — folks ride harder for the ones they feel useful to.

7. When they diss you in public, stay cool. The crowd will check ‘em for you.

8. Give choices that still lead your way — “You wanna handle this now or later?” Either way, you win.

9. Match their talking pace — fast talkers respect energy, slow ones respect calm.

10. The one asking questions runs the room. Control comes from curiosity, not noise.

11. If they get defensive, ask “You good?” It cuts past ego and hits truth.

12. Talk slow, pause often. Calm makes you look like you know something they don’t.

13. People fear being left out more than being wrong. Show ‘em others agree, and they’ll fold quick.

14. Praise effort, not talent — it keeps ‘em working for your nod.

15. Make your idea sound like the “right” thing to do — most folks chase being good more than being smart.

16. Ask about their dreams once, then back ‘em up. You’ll live rent-free in their loyalty.

17. Close the gap slow — space creates distance, closeness builds trust.

18. Drop a small truth about yourself — they’ll overshare trying to match your “realness.”

19. Say what you see — “You seem upset.” People chill when they feel seen.

20. Ask deep “why” questions — it makes shaky people crumble.

21. Say, “You can say no.” Freedom tricks folks into saying yes.

22. “I need your help” works better than orders — people love feeling needed.

23. Add fake urgency — “I only got a minute.” It gets answers faster.

24. Don’t always be available — people value what they gotta wait for.

25. Use their name — it hits the brain like a spotlight.

26. Say, “You probably don’t wanna hear this…” — watch ‘em lean in every time.

27. Ask something personal, then shut up. Silence pulls secrets.

28. Speak first in a deal — your number becomes the anchor.

29. Ask, “What would you do if you were me?” — empathy exposes honesty.

30. Talk how they talk — people vibe with what feels familiar.

31. What they brag about is what they’re insecure about. Listen close.

32. End the convo first — mystery’s louder than words.

33. Ask, “What’s something nobody knows about you?” Curiosity digs deeper than trust.

34. Compliment something random — it throws ‘em off balance.

35. Let silence hang after a hard truth — they’ll fill it with confessions.

36. Boundaries ain’t always verbal — your body speaks too.

37. Drop your voice when things get heated — power whispers.

38. When emotions rise, say less. Calm is king.

39. Ask for small favors — help builds attachment.

40. Watch what makes ‘em defensive — that’s their wound.

41. Make your idea feel like theirs — people fight harder for what they “own.”

42. Say, “I respect your opinion” before asking — it softens walls.

43. Share one secret — it tricks ‘em into sharing two.

44. Say, “You probably already know this…” — it makes ‘em listen twice as hard.

45. When someone vents, don’t fix it. Just repeat what they said. Validation builds loyalty faster than advice.

46. People repeat what made you react — control your face and you control the game.

47. Never explain too much — mystery builds power, talking drains it.

48. The calmest one in chaos always wins — panic is loud, power is quiet.

49. Loyalty ain’t said, it’s shown. Watch patterns, not promises.

50. Respect is currency — spend it wisely, and you’ll never be broke in influence.

Touch Grass: A Reflection on Technology, Trust, and Real Life

Man… the world has changed. I get why some people use the virtual world for interactions — phobias, shyness, social anxiety — I get that. But it’s not going to help you grow or connect in a real way. FaceTime? Facebook? Instagram? TikTok? None of that replaces human interaction. You can’t read someone through a screen. You can’t gauge their reaction, feel their energy, or truly understand who they are.

Take my recent experience: someone charged $19 to my account from a virtual card I didn’t even know I had. Unauthorized. I froze my cards, started a dispute, and now I have to wait for my bank to do their thing. The money isn’t the problem — it’s the principle. That someone got access to something that’s mine without permission. It’s aggravating, and it’s made me think a lot about the digital world we live in.

Platforms like OnlyFans? Not for me. Personally, I see them as virtual prostitution, and I’m not here to sugarcoat it. People selling themselves to strangers online isn’t empowerment — it’s exploitation disguised as opportunity. You can’t read a person, you can’t trust a screen, and you can’t replace the human experience with a subscription.

I’m not saying everyone should unplug forever, but people need to step outside once in a while. Take a walk. Touch grass. Feel the sun. Experience life outside of notifications and pixels. Back in my day, my mom would have to search for my ass to come back into the house. Now, kids have to be dragged out of their rooms. There’s something wrong with that.

Phones tracking you, apps broadcasting your location, platforms luring attention from every angle — it’s convenience at the cost of your autonomy and your connection to reality. TikTok? Attention-whoring. Stupid challenges that can get someone hurt. Instagram? A filtered illusion of life you don’t really have. Facebook? Everybody has the most perfect life, they're so happy with their significant other and their life is just picture perfect which is a bunch of bs.

Yet, technology isn’t all bad. I love platforms that provide knowledge, efficiency, and curiosity — YouTube videos about history at the push of a button, tools like Google that help me get answers faster than I could on my own. That’s tech done right: it empowers without replacing humanity. That's what the internet was created for in the very beginning information gathering. 

Life isn’t lived in notifications, subscriptions, or pixels. It’s lived in people, choices, and experiences. Knocking on doors, reading body language, showing up, being present — that’s what builds character, trust, and real connection. And yeah, I’ll say it again: sometimes, you just need to touch grass.

And for the record, some memories stick forever. Like my mom yelling from the yard down the alley: G.T.F.I.T.H.R.N.B.I.B.Y.A — “GET THE FUCK IN THIS HOUSE RIGHT NOW BEFORE I BEAT YOUR ASS.” That line, burned into my brain, is a reminder of what real presence felt like: authority, urgency, and love all at once. You can’t replicate that through a screen, no matter how high-res the video is.

So yeah, unplug occasionally. Go outside. Talk to people. Experience life. Use technology to enhance, not replace, the very thing that makes us human. And the biggest question I have where do you draw the line between convenience and outsourcing a piece of yourself?

Onlyfans

I want to talk about something that’s been bugging the shit out of me for awhile, OnlyFans. You’ve seen the headlines: “So-and-so makes more than professional athletes,” or “This person got rich overnight.” But I want to cut through the hype and give you the reality. Because in my eyes, platforms like OnlyFans aren’t empowerment — they’re exploitation disguised as freedom.

On the surface, OnlyFans looks like autonomy. A woman, a camera, a smartphone, set your price, set your rules. It’s marketed like entrepreneurship, like you’re your own boss. But let’s be real. This is a mechanism of exploitation. Marxist feminist critiques nail this point: “free choice” is a smokescreen. Most women aren’t logging on because it’s their dream career, they’re doing it out of financial necessity. And when the system boxes people into selling themselves to survive, that’s not empowerment. That’s exploitation, plain and simple.

Let’s look at the math. The average creator on OnlyFans makes between $150 and $180 a month. That’s it. Not life-changing money. Not even bill money. Meanwhile, the top 1% of creators take home anywhere from 33 to 60 percent of the platform’s entire revenue. That means the headlines about million-dollar payouts? They’re outliers. They’re bait. The reality is most creators are hustling for scraps while the platform and a few celebrities pocket the big cash. That’s not entrepreneurship that’s a power law distribution, where the rich get richer and everyone else stays broke. And the money isn’t the only problem. The work itself takes a mental and emotional toll. Studies show sex workers, including OnlyFans creators, report high rates of depression, anxiety, and even PTSD.

Why? Because the job isn’t just uploading a picture. The real money comes from interaction. Constant chatting, custom requests, roleplay. For some creators, 70% of their income comes from responding to messages. And what are those messages? Harassment, abusive comments, vile fantasies. That’s the daily reality. Again this isn’t empowerment. This is emotional labor at its most toxic where your paycheck depends on how much abuse you’re willing to tolerate.

So who really wins here? Not the average creator. Not the men paying for a false sense of connection. The winners are the platform itself raking in fees and commissions and the celebrities who treat it like a side hustle. Meanwhile, the women selling their intimacy are left with digital footprints they can’t erase, psychological scars, and no retirement plan. Someone younger, someone hungrier, will always be ready to replace them.

So let’s stop pretending OnlyFans is some revolutionary path to empowerment. It’s the same transaction that’s been going on for centuries selling intimacy for survival just dressed up with hashtags and smartphones. If you want to call that empowerment, fine. But I call it what it really is: a system that preys on loneliness, desperation, and instability, while the real money flows upward to the very few.

The Meme Myth Manifesto

We live in a society that has traded wisdom for punchlines. What once were stories, myths, and parables meant to guide us toward virtue have now been replaced by memes cultural snapshots that spread faster than wildfire but carry no light. Instead of elevating us, they drag us down, normalizing dysfunction under the guise of humor.

Memes are the myths of our age, but they don’t teach courage, patience, or honor. They glorify pettiness, excuse vice, and turn toxicity into entertainment. Wrapped in irony and shared for laughs, they weave themselves into our collective consciousness. Before long, we don’t just laugh at them we live by them.

And what drives this circus? Strings. We’re all puppets now, tugged and pulled by algorithms that feed us whatever sparks the loudest reaction. Not wisdom. Not truth. Not growth. Just division, outrage, and the endless scroll of distraction. People argue not to be right, but to be heard. They disagree not out of conviction, but out of compulsion.

The saddest part is that we’ve accepted it. We’ve mistaken noise for dialogue, trends for culture, and memes for meaning. Our myths no longer point us upward; they keep us stuck, clapping and booing at the same hollow stage show.

But here’s the thing: we don’t have to be puppets. We don’t have to mistake dysfunction for identity. We can choose to build new myths stories worth passing down, lessons worth remembering, truths that outlast the trend cycle.

The 30-Year Rule: A Glimpse into the Past, A Leap into the Future

The world of 1905 moved at a slower pace. Horse-drawn carriages, gas lamps, and telegrams still define everyday life. The Wright brothers had just taken flight, and the automobile remained a luxury novelty. Daily routines still felt tethered to the 19th century.

Just thirty years later, by 1935, that world was unrecognizable. The Great Depression was in full swing, but technology had already transformed society. Cars were mass-produced, reshaping cities and mobility. Radio had become the dominant form of mass media, pulling news and entertainment directly into living rooms. Airplanes were no longer experiments they carried passengers across continents. All of this unfolded against the backdrop of a world reeling from World War I, with politics and perspectives permanently altered.

The cycle repeated. From 1935 to 1965, humanity endured a second global war, rebuilt shattered economies, and launched into the Space Age. The shift from radio to television defined an entire generation, forever changing culture and communication.

Then came the next leap. From 1965 to 1995, the world saw the rise of personal computing, the birth of the internet, and the end of the Cold War. Music, film, and fashion evolved at a pace that made the 1960s feel like a distant memory. To someone from 1965, the world of 1995 would have seemed impossibly futuristic.

Now, in 2025, we look back at 1995 and feel the same astonishment. A world without smartphones, social media, broadband, or GPS feels almost alien. The digital transformation has been so complete that it’s difficult to imagine daily life without it. What was once cutting-edge is now a relic.

The 30-year rule reminds us that “normal” is always temporary. Each generation lives through revolutions in technology, culture, and worldview that feel both sudden and inevitable in hindsight. The only constant is change—change faster than we expect.

The real question is: what will 2055 look like?

Terrance Crawford