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RM public.zip
2026-08-21 11:26:46 -04:00 · 2026-08-21 11:02:30 -04:00 · 2026-08-17 00:16:20 -04:00 · 2026-08-17 00:13:08 -04:00
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+# Hugo generated output
+public/
+resources/
+.hugo_build.lock
+
+# Archive of generated output
+public.zip
@@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
+++
+date = '{{ .Date }}'
+draft = true
+title = '{{ replace .File.ContentBaseName "-" " " | title }}'
+++
+
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+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <meta charset="utf-8">
+    <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1">
+    <title>Posts - {{ .Site.Title }}</title>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+    <header>
+      <h1>Posts</h1>
+    </header>
+
+    <main>
+      <ul>
+        {{ range .Pages }}
+          <li><a href="{{ .RelPermalink }}">{{ .Title }}</a> — {{ .Date.Format "2 Jan" }}</li>
+        {{ end }}
+      </ul>
+    </main>
+  </body>
+</html>
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+<!DOCTYPE html>
+<html lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <meta charset="utf-8">
+    <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width,initial-scale=1">
+    <title>{{ .Title }} - {{ .Site.Title }}</title>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+    <header>
+      <nav><a href="/">Home</a> › <a href="/posts/">Posts</a></nav>
+      <h1>{{ .Title }}</h1>
+      <p><small>{{ .Date.Format "2006-01-02 15:04" }}</small></p>
+    </header>
+
+    <main>
+      {{ .Content }}
+    </main>
+
+    <footer>
+      <p>&copy; {{ now.Year }} {{ .Site.Title }}</p>
+    </footer>
+  </body>
+</html>
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+---
+title: "BSD pt Deux"
+date: 2026-04-25T23:59:32-05:00
+draft: false
+toc: false
+images:
+tags:
+  - untagged
+---
+
+They did it again. Those glorious bastards over at Jupiter Broadcasting gave me another excuse to build another BSD machine. I already had a couple running (this website is an example of a thing of mine running on a bsd system), but I now have the opportunity to use a machine that wasn't built in the last century
+
@@ -0,0 +1,80 @@
+---
+title: "🏗️ Fostering 🏗️"
+date: 2025-02-28T09:58:07-06:00
+draft: false
+toc: false
+images:
+tags:
+  - untagged
+---
+
+## In the Beginning
+
+My wife and I met in highshcool. It's odd having an event that dominoed from me as a teenager, reaching forwards twenty years and having effects on my three and a half decade old self; but that's just how reality works. My own temporal dominoes are infinitesimal when compared to the trilobite I dug up on a field trip a few years before what I'm referencing here. A couple decades is nothing. 
+
+I was coming off of a breakup that, to an adult would probably seem like nothing. To my fifteen year old self, though, it felt like the world was ending. My now-wife was sitting near me in a vocation class I'd just started and decided I was too drab for her sphere of influence. A week later, we were skipping down the hallway, singing "We're off to See the Wizard" with arms interlocked and not a care in the world. The turned heads in that hallway are an insertion of my mind. I never looked for them.  
+
+She's seen real hardship, one of which is attested to by the foot-long scar stretching from her back to her stomach where the doctors opened her six-year-old self up and broke apart her ribs so that they could get to her heart and rebuild her aorta. Many of her other hardships come from growing up poor in Mississippi, a state that still refuses federal help for entirely political reasons. Others are associated with her chromosomes. 
+
+Turners syndrome is a condition caused when one of the two X sex chromosomes in a female is either broken or entirely missing. In her case, it was bad enough that she was told over and over growing up that she would never have children. The pregnancy test said different, at least until the miscarriage. That whole story repeated three times, the third one almost leading to her death in downtown DC. I left Bolling AFB that night and found her with the help of a Blackberry PlayBook and a disregard for traffic laws.
+
+It wasn't until 2013 that we truly moved on. By then I was given a PCS from Bolling, DC to Nellis AFB, Nevada; a diagonal line from one extreme corner of ConUS to the other. Nothing was the same there; not the climate, not the people, not my squadron. It was under this umbrella that we became foster parents. 
+
+She pulled me along this path an an unwilling participant. Without her, my motivations would have always been very different. With her, I found myself sitting in a classroom on MLK street in downtown Las Vegas beneath the sprawling spaghetti bowl that made up the center of the city. It was the part that homeless people were more familiar with and much less so the tourists who actually wanted to see Vegas. 
+
+## Young Parents
+
+We had no clue what we were doing. Even after the classes, we felt certain of only a few things. One, nobody was in charge and, two, nobody had any clue what was happening. 
+
+There's this undertone of belief that we're raised with. As children, our parents tend to be the epitome of confidence and knowledge. Even as adults, we morph that image onto the people in positions of power and expect that they know what they're doing. In every case I've ever witnessed, they were (at best) slightly more aware and capable than some random Joe off the street. 
+
+There's a (paywalled) [essay](https://www.nytimes.com/2023/08/21/opinion/elections-democracy.html) in the New York Times that I've had the displeasure of working my way through. God forbid I have an addon for my browser that makes the article readable by a lowly pion such as myself. Anyway, it points to [older data](https://psycnet.apa.org/doiLanding?doi=10.1037%2F1089-2699.2.3.168) 
+
+<!--
+nytimes.com
+Opinion | The Worst People Run for Office. It’s Time for a Better Way.
+Adam Grant
+3–4 minutes
+
+Advertisement
+
+SKIP ADVERTISEMENT
+
+Guest Essay
+
+Aug. 21, 2023
+A hand casting a ballot on which a question mark appears. The ballot box is emblazoned with an American flag.
+Credit...Photo illustration by Boris Zhitkov/Getty Images
+
+By Adam Grant
+
+Dr. Grant, a contributing Opinion writer, is an organizational psychologist at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School, the author of “Think Again” and the host of the TED podcast “Re:Thinking.”
+
+On the eve of the first debate of the 2024 presidential race, trust in government is rivaling historic lows. Officials have been working hard to safeguard elections and assure citizens of their integrity. But if we want public office to have integrity, we might be better off eliminating elections altogether.
+
+If you think that sounds anti-democratic, think again. The ancient Greeks invented democracy, and in Athens many government officials were selected through sortition — a random lottery from a pool of candidates. In the United States, we already use a version of a lottery to select jurors. What if we did the same with mayors, governors, legislators, justices and even presidents?
+
+People expect leaders chosen at random to be less effective than those picked systematically. But in multiple experiments led by the psychologist Alexander Haslam, the opposite held true. Groups actually made smarter decisions when leaders were chosen at random than when they were elected by a group or chosen based on leadership skill.
+
+Why were randomly chosen leaders more effective? They led more democratically. “Systematically selected leaders can undermine group goals,” Dr. Haslam and his colleagues suggest, because they have a tendency to “assert their personal superiority.” When you’re anointed by the group, it can quickly go to your head: I’m the chosen one.
+
+When you know you’re picked at random, you don’t experience enough power to be corrupted by it. Instead, you feel a heightened sense of responsibility: I did nothing to earn this, so I need to make sure I represent the group well. And in one of the Haslam experiments, when a leader was picked at random, members were more likely to stand by the group’s decisions.
+
+Over the past year I’ve floated the idea of sortition with a number of current members of Congress. Their immediate concern is ability: How do we make sure that citizens chosen randomly are capable of governing?
+
+Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.
+
+Thank you for your patience while we verify access.
+
+Already a subscriber? Log in.
+
+Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
+
+A version of this article appears in print on Aug. 23, 2023, Section A, Page 22 of the New York edition with the headline: To Improve Democracy, Get Rid of Elections . Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe
+
+Advertisement
+
+SKIP ADVERTISEMENT
+-->
+
+Despite the attestations of 
@@ -0,0 +1,107 @@
+---
+title: "Leveled"
+date: 2025-09-17T10:29:18-05:00
+draft: false
+toc: false
+images:
+tags:
+  - untagged
+---
+
+
+<style>
+
+  img{
+    margin-top: 5%;
+    margin-bottom: 5%;
+    border-radius: 2.5vh;
+  }
+
+</style>
+
+
+It’s not that I thought they would last forever, but that their disappearance was still so nonchalant. Of my many jobs, one is as a hand for my dad on a farm less than a mile from where my childhood trailer was. A couple weeks ago, I arrived at the farm and was greeted by the sounds of howling skidders and chainsaws. Without so much as a nod to myself, my brother or my sister, my dad sold half of the family’s land to a logging company. I was only told that morning when I noticed the noise and made a point of asking him.
+
+I didn’t react in the moment that he told me, mostly because I didn’t have a reaction to offer. Instead, I waited for him to leave before I ducked out of my work and disappeared. I hiked through the woods that connected the farm to the old trailer homestead, taking pictures as I walked. The land has changed a lot since my childhood, though it is still recognizable as what I once ran through as a single-digit aged child. What was once wild growth of hardwood trees interleaved by vines, bushes, and briars was now neat rows of softwood pines with random patches of undergrowth.
+
+![Rows of Trees](/trees1.jpg "Rows of Trees")
+
+As the sounds of logging increased, I came to the first of a couple breaks in what was left of the thirty year old pines. The clearing appears as a blue streak against the brown colored bark that is the norm that deep in the forest.
+
+Break from a Distance
+
+Once reached, the break opens up to reveal a ryegrass planted path along a finger that travels from hill to hill. Decades ago, this was a narrow trail, canopied by oak and muscadine vines, but now stands as a wide path that snakes along between sections of the trees.
+
+![Break from a Distance](/break.jpg "Break from a Distance")
+
+![The Open Path](/openpath.jpg "The Open Path")
+
+The sounds of sawing and falling continued to rise as I passed through the grass growth along the finger protruding from the clearing. There’s a sudden change in mood as you cross the now-invisible line where the fence once marked my back yard. My dad’s old ham radio shack is the only structure that is left standing in what used to be a collection of fiberboard and tin buildings. The rusted pulp wood truck that bought the ham radio now sits where the trailer once sat, a concrete sidewalk that my grandfather poured leading up to the passenger door.
+
+![Pulp Wood Truck](/truck.jpg "Pulp Wood Truck")
+
+The sidewalk’s form is now covered by long-dead grass and weeds, but if you look closely, you can make out the monkeygrass that my mother carefully cloned off of her own mother’s plants. It leads, almost sarcastically, to the passenger door of the truck, seeming to invite you to jump inside and try to drive off. Twenty-five years ago, I would have been sitting on a milk crate screwed down to the steel floor in leu of a seat as my dad played cassettes of classic rock on a boom box in the floor, all over the sound of the worn out motor. Now, shrubs take my place, slowly pulling the empty spot where I once sat apart through the unstopping growth of wood and leaves.
+
+![My First Back Yard Sidewalk](/sidewalk.jpg "My First Back Yard Sidewalk")
+![The Old Cabin](/oldcabin.jpg "The Old Cabin")
+
+I kept following the noises to the northwest section of the land, where an old cabin that we used to spend weekends and hunt out of sat. Now, it’s more of a monument to entropy. The front porch that I once shot pellet rifles off of is collapsed over the plywood and cinder block floor that held it up all those years ago. I made a diversion from my goal of the logging site to see where I spent my first birthday. The building is still intact, to a small degree; enough that I was willing to trust my feet to the frame and carpet that makes up the floor.
+
+In the corner sat an old dilapidated upright piano that hasn’t made music in decades, now acting as a stand for a long-dead television that once played episodes of The X-Files and TNG. The bunk beds that were once covered in thin mattresses with Star Trek sheets now look more like a survivalist’s cupboard built from plywood and scraps of two-by-fours. The old sofa that I once sank into as a kid sat almost unchanged in front of the window I opened and dove through as an 8 year old. The floors were covered in shredded insulation from the countless storms that ravaged this building since it was maintained. Where it once sat is now open sky.
+
+On the floor, old plastic tubs held religious books, someone’s abandoned journal, and an old hymnal. From the context, I guessed it was my grandmothers. The handwriting matched and she’d played piano in her church.
+
+I decided to leave it as it was. If she didn’t want it, I wasn’t going to push it on her. She had the tendency to horde and I wasn’t about to encourage that.
+
+I stood back and surveyed the inside of the doomed building. The back window was missing a corner, the old cupboards and refrigerator lay open, deer horns from a time before Facebook and electric cars stayed nailed where they were in the 90s, holding an old flyswatter from some time between then and now.
+
+In all, it stood the test of time well (or at least better than I expected). Ordinarily, I would have found solace in that fact, but now, with the screaming motors and chains in the background, I felt more like a grandchild as he watches a senile elder attempt to make out the faces of the strangers around his bed. This building was dead years ago; what I was seeing then was just the shell that once held what it was. In not too long, that would be gone too.
+
+It was now late in the day, and a short wait later, the sounds of logging died down. I watched from a distance as the loggers collected their tools and drove away. With the shadows long, but the sun still high enough in the sky for good pictures, I made my way out of the building and toward what remained of my childhood forest.
+
+![Collapsed Porch](/collapsedporch.jpg "Collapsed Porch")
+![Piano](/piano.jpg "Piano")
+![Collapsed Roof](/collapsedroof.jpg "Collapsed Roof")
+![Box of Books](/boxofbooks.jpg "Box of Books")
+![God Walks Hymnal](/hymnal.jpg "God Walks Hymnal")
+![Horns](/horns.jpg "Horns")
+![Journal](/journal.jpg "Journal")
+
+Virgil
+
+As I walked toward the border between what had been logged and not, I caught motion from the corner of my eye. What I saw was a small brown dog, an apparent pit bull mix of some kind, shuffling her way toward me with her tail tucked between her legs. She was a spitting image of a dog I’d had when I lived here, almost like she’d just fallen through a portal and found me decades later. Hobo was the first dog that I remember being part of my family, and just appeared out of nowhere like this one did. My guess is that she’s a descendant of that same family, maybe even a direct descendant of Hobo.
+
+I tried a few names before settling on Virgil, the moniker she seemed to respond to best. Regardless of the name, she glued herself to my side for the rest of the walk, occasionally rolling over and demanding belly rubs. She watched me closely, hanging on every possible change in emotion and direction.
+
+When we met the wall of consumption, Virgil felt what I did.
+
+![Belly](/belly.jpg "Belly")
+![Fisheye](/fisheye.jpg "Fisheye")
+
+The Wall
+
+From a bird’s eye view, the logging would have looked like a blight; a slowly expanding colony of some growth that moved out in all directions. Where I met the work was a a fence that left a sharp line between the touched and untouched land. They made short work of their charge. What was once the almost-magical forest that I feared and explored as a child was now more reminiscent of No Man’s Land from the first World War.
+
+There weren’t even stumps left, really. The trees had been cut so close to the ground that you would have to look hard to find them through the debris of twigs and soil. In the distance, a lone tree stood, not a solem victor against the onslaught, but the only tree not worth taking.
+
+Over the hill, I found my way down to an old artesian well that I once drank out of. Now, it was muddy and stagnant. The well would probably never provide again. A decade ago, I walked through these woods in search of a deer I’d shot and later, in search of an old tree that my father showed me as a child, then with my own son in tow. I found its stump and stared down at it for a minute. In child my mind, these woods would last forever, but now I stood over a stump of a tree that once greeted four generations of my family.
+
+Virgil approached the stump cautiously, one paw raised at a time as she did. She paused, looked around, then touched her nose to the flat wood surface and stepped back, clearly unimpressed.
+
+“My thoughts exactly.”
+
+She looked up at me, then back at the stump as I jammed my hands in my pockets. We both stared down for a minute before she looked back up at me, asking for some kind of signal to move. I turned to walk away, stealing one last look back at where water once bubbled up from under the ground.
+
+There’s a prequel to The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe called The Magician’s Nephew. Of all the Narnia books, that one captured my imagination the most as a child. At one point, it describes a magical forest full of springs, each one leading to another world in an infinite multiverse. When I was young and imaginative, I liked to think that our own spring would act as a gateway that would sweep me away to some far-off land full of unicorns and talking lions. Now, reality had come literally crashing down around it and all that was left was a mud puddle.
+
+![The Line](/theline.jpg "The Line")
+![No Man’s Land](/nomansland.jpg "No Man’s Land")
+
+I made my way back toward the farm as the sun sank under the trees. Virgil bounced alongside as I cut a straight line back to where I originally started. On top of a hill, I caught a flash of light and motion where my dad was arriving from picking up my son. I turned and walked up the hill to see what they were up to.
+
+Behind my dad, my grandfather drove up on a tractor with a plow attached. Over the next thirty minutes, we all taught my son how to plant potatoes. It struck me that he had just turned 9, the same age I was when we started the process of moving away from the homestead. This was his forest on top of this hill, and one day, it would be my choice to preserve that. For now, we have a new farm dog and I can’t get caught up on what has already passed.
+
+![Dog](/dog.jpg "Dog")
+![Field](/field.jpg "Field")
+![Trench](/trench.jpg "Trench")
+![Plow](/plow.jpg "Plow")
@@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
+++
+date = '2025-02-20T20:29:48-06:00'
+draft = true
+title = 'My First Post'
+++
+## They Told Me That I Would Never Change the World
+They were right. 
@@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
+---
+title: "NewStyle"
+date: 2025-02-27T21:22:54-06:00
+draft: true
+toc: false
+images:
+tags:
+  - untagged
+---
+![Yup. That's a jail.](/jail.png)
+![Yup. That's a jail.](/jail.png)
+![Yup. That's a jail.](/jail.png)
+
+![Yup. That's a jail.](/jail.png)
@@ -0,0 +1,9 @@
+---
+title: "Test Publish"
+date: 2025-09-17T10:30:00-05:00
+draft: false
+tags:
+  - untagged
+---
+
+This is a test post to verify Hugo is generating HTML output.
@@ -0,0 +1,70 @@
+++
+date = '2025-02-22T15:12:59-06:00'
+draft = false
+title = 'The Bsd Challenge'
+++
+
+<style>
+
+  img{
+    margin-top: 5%;
+    margin-bottom: 5%;
+    border-radius: 2.5vh;
+  }
+
+</style>
+
+# My Attempt at the BSD Challenge
+
+<div style="margin-top: 10%">
+
+#### Woops
+*Apparently, Ghost BSD isn't allowed. I reject this reality.*
+
+<div class="jump" style="margin-top: 10%">
+
+<hr style="width: 50%; opacity: 0.3; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%;">
+
+### Section 1: Relentless Waffling (you should skip this section if you have a life to live)
+I was 19 years old when I first heard of BSD. At the time, I was an Airman training with the Army at Ft. Leonard Wood's engineering program and had a serious case of self-imposed insomnia. I'm not going to dig into why this insomnia was happening (cough cough underage drinking cough cough), but I found myself sitting in the barraks at 2 AM surrounded by sleeping Airmen, incapable of making myself lay down and looking for something to take my attention now that everyone else was unconcious. Being the nerdy teenager that I was at the time, one of my main interests was computing, specifically Microsoft's Photosynth, a program that would take a collection of images of something from different angles, then stitch them together into a 3d map that could be walked through and explored. Of course, Microsoft being Microsoft, it was dropped a few years later and all of the data was deleted. Those memories being destroyed was an influential moment that led me down the road of becoming a self-hosting free software nut.
+
+But I digress. 
+
+On that particular night, I found myself sitting in the fire escape of my building at Blanchard Barraks on a cheap laptop that I'd been planning to nuke'n pave for awhile. I'd heard about this Linux thing and wanted to give it a shot, but I wanted to make sure there wasn't anything else out there that I'd want to install, so I looked up lists of OSes and landed on [this awesome old page.](https://www.pingdom.com/blog/10-amazingly-alternative-operating-systems-and-what-they-could-mean-for-the-future/)
+
+I never installed anything listed there, mainly because I wanted something that could actually be used to do things that weren't bragging about my alternative-os e-peen around niche forums that aren't around anymore, but the first line caught my attention. 
+> This post is about the desktop operating systems that fly under the radar of most people. We are definitely not talking about Windows, Mac OS X or Linux, or even BSD or Solaris. There are much less mainstream options out there for the OS-curious.
+
+BSD? What is BSD? The rest of that night was spent bouncing from one website to another, educating myself on this wild new world that I'd happened upon.
+
+I never installed BSD that year, or the next, or the next. It wasn't until 2015 that I picked back up my interest in the *One True Unix*(™). I'd been listening to the Jupiter Broadcasting network's shows for a few years at this point, probably since 2012 or so, and one of their shows was called BSD Now. I started listening to that show around that time and found myself drawn in by what the hosts kept promoting as the advantages of the OS. 
+
+In parallel with me beginning to listen to that show, Digital Ocean, one of Jupiter Broadcasting's sponsors, started offering Free BSD as an OS on their virtual servers that they rented out. I was deploying soon and wanted something to set up that I could use to self-host stuff close by, but that wouldn't be insecure. Free BSD seemed perfect for that. I was enamored with it from the start. Compared to everything I'd used up to that point, Free BSD was simple and straightforward. There wasn't service X that monitored application Y so that daemon Z could manage program λ. You just ran λ and everything else was up to you. That's the kind of simplicity that I want out of everything in life. Why have a self-driving car that forces you to watch ads before you can accelerate when you can just use the petal on a completely normal car? I hear I'm abnormal in that sense, but if Ron Possible taught me anything, it's that being normal is for losers. 
+
+<hr style="width: 50%; opacity: 0.3; margin-top: 5%; margin-bottom: 5%;">
+
+### The Challenge
+
+Despite my love for the OS, I've only ever occasionally used it. Regardless, I found myself exited when Jupiter Broadcasting issued their BSD challenge on episode 600 of the Linux Unplugged program almost a decade after the deployment where I first found my excuse to run Free BSD. [The rules](https://github.com/JupiterBroadcasting/linux-unplugged/blob/main/challenges/FreeBSD.md) were pretty simple, and most of them were things that I've already done. 
+
+#### Initial Targets (two points each)
+- ☑ Install BSD and get it online. (Win by default. Ghost BSD)
+- ☑ Record audio of you from a working desktop. (Taken one step further by recording video and audio)
+- ☑ Get one "server or service" running, accessible from the LAN. (You're looking at that right now)
+
+Six points right out of the gate. 
+
+#### Bonus Targets (5 points each)
+- ☑ Get an app running inside Podman or Jails (See attached image)
+![Yup. That's a jail.](/jail.png)
+- ❌ Install and configure a firewall (Fail. No points)
+- ☑ Get Tailscale working on a BSD system (EZ PZ)
+![Yup. That's tailscale.](/onTailscale.png)
+- ❌ Try out two BSDs (I mean, I did a long time ago. Zero points now, though.)
+- ❌ Nix BSD (No points. Ran out of time)
+- ❌ Get a non-BSD native video game running. (Zero points. No GPU)
+
+All told, I got 16 points. It's a pittance compared to what some in the JB community got, but the points don't really matter. What really matters is that people are getting started with BSDs in a world that has been completely dominated by Linux for some time now. It also got me off my ass and got me hosting something of (I hope) value; something that you're reading right now. 
+
+
+
@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+++
+date = '2025-02-20T20:48:44-06:00'
+draft = false
+title = '🏗️ Who I Am 🏗️'
+++
+
+I was raised in a trailer tucked deep in the woods of the DeSoto National Forest because my parents couldn't afford the rent at a trailer park for the first decade of my life. Most of my early memories don't make sense to normal people and I find it hard to separate what counts as unique experiences and what counts as broken neurology. Sometimes, it's easy to say that such-and-such behavior is stereotypical autism or ADHD or whatever the mental illness desure is, then I remember that I lived too far from our nearest neighbor to build normal relationships outside of the regimented and archaic South Mississippi school system. There's something neurological, for sure; I just don't know what counts fully as growing up how I did and what's normal for any kid. 
+
+As an example, to this day, I feel a sense of low-speed solitude when I think back to myself staring at the sky from the back seat of an old Corsica parked in the grass. I don't know why I was there, but something had led my mom to leave me to sit in the car while she walked herself into the thin-walled trailer. I stared at the tops of the pine trees as the clouds passed by and watched the trail of a jet cut a straight line across the sky for what must have been thirty minutes. 
+
+When she finally called me in, I didn't want to leave the car. There was no difference between being out here in the car with no TV, AC, or toys and being inside of the house with a broken TV, a broken AC, and a couple decade-old toys I'd lost interest in. My focus faded as the clouds lost their already tenuous form and the tops of the pines swayed with the gentle wind of what must have been a spring or summer day. My eyes, unfocused as they were, locked in on a spot I couldn't look away from as I went into something akin to flow state. 
@@ -0,0 +1,33 @@
+baseURL = 'https://www.ministryofmayhem.space'
+languageCode = 'en-us'
+title = 'Ministry of Mayhem'
+# theme = 'ananke'
+theme = 'hello-friend'
+customCSS = ['/custom.css']
+markup.goldmark.renderer.unsafe = true
+pagination.pagerSize = 10
+
+[params]
+  dateform = "2 Jan, 2006"
+  dateformShort = "2 Jan"
+  disableReadOtherPosts = false
+
+  [[menu.main]]
+    identifier = "blog"
+    name = "Read Me"
+    url = "/posts"
+
+  [[menu.main]]
+    identifier = "minetest server"
+    name = "Minetest Server"
+    url = "mt."
+
+  [[menu.main]]
+    identifier = "pass"
+    name = "Do Not Enter"
+    url = "localhost:1313/fugg/index"
+
+  [[menu.main]]
+    identifier = "creepypasta"
+    name = "CreepyPasta"
+    url = "/creeps"
@@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
+html{
+    background-color: #f00;
+}
@@ -0,0 +1,35 @@
+#centerstar{
+  left: 50vw;
+  font-size: xx-large;
+  color: red;
+}
+
+hr{
+  color: red;
+  background-color: red;
+  height: 10px;
+  opacity: 0.1;
+}
+
+.shawdy{
+  width: 50%;
+  margin: auto;
+}
+
+.jump{
+  background-color: red;
+  margin-top: 100vh;
+}
+
+img{
+  margin-top: 59%;
+  margin-bottom: 5%;
+}
+
+h1{
+  color: red;
+}
+
+h2{
+  color: blue;
+}
Author	SHA1	Message	Date
Nolan	f115874e65	Compress referenced images; remove 272 unused images from static/ - Compressed 21 used JPEG/PNG images in-place: JPEG via jpegoptim (-m85 -s), PNG via optipng (-o4) Overall static/ size reduced from 1.9 GB to 99 MB - Removed 272 unused images (770 MB) that were not referenced by any markdown post; originals preserved in ~/dev/ministry-unused-images/ and ~/dev/backup-orig/	2026-08-21 11:26:46 -04:00
nolan	5e613c4deb	RM public.zip	2026-08-21 11:02:30 -04:00
nolan	af30b50980	pruned	2026-08-17 00:16:20 -04:00
nolan	019107dd18	First after switch	2026-08-17 00:13:08 -04:00