Big Tech is locking up infrastructure — whoever controls compute controls AI progress.

You asked recently to be kept informed about OpenAI-related investment opportunities — this is exactly the kind of strategic move that reshapes the market.

OpenAI has agreed to spend $38 billion to run its AI on Amazon Web Services (AWS) over multiple years.

I had to give up my first home and walk away with nothing — because my sister needed a home “for the babies.” When the mayor came out at 3 a.m. to condemn the property a second time, he told me it was the worst nuisance property in the city. The neighbors had made over fifty calls that night about the loud music, the cars, the fights, the underage drinking.

It’s easier to become an Amazon Bestseller than most readers realize—and that’s exactly the problem. Behind every ad promising a “6-step system to make your book a bestseller” is a finely tuned sales funnel designed to sell dreams, not books.

Here’s how it works: first, they hook you with empathy—“You wrote a great book, but no one’s buying it.” They walk you through your heartbreak step by step until you feel completely understood. Then comes the bait: “Or… learn my proven system.” That “system” is rarely about writing, readership, or authentic marketing. It’s a downloadable PDF, a free webinar, or a “blueprint” built to collect your email so they can sell you something bigger.

The truth is, most of these “bestseller launches” exploit a loophole. They push a handful of sales into obscure Amazon categories—ones with so little competition that a few dozen purchases in 24 hours can land a book at #1. The marketer takes a screenshot, declares victory, and another “bestselling author” is born.

It’s not fraud—it’s finesse. But it’s also why so many indie authors end up broke, disillusioned, and wondering why their “bestseller” didn’t change their life. The game isn’t about art or readership. It’s about optics—and who can sell the illusion of success faster.

🛠️ Excerpt from The Backyard Mechanic

by Scott Shriner

The first time I held a wrench, it felt like a key—one that might unlock more than just the bolts on a busted carburetor. My mother was still healing from her accident, and I was still learning what it meant to grow up too fast. We didn’t have money for a mechanic, so I became one. I learned in a gravel driveway, beside a van that coughed and sputtered like an old drunk, while my uncle cursed at the sky and my mom kept believing I could do anything.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment I stopped breaking things just to see how they worked—and started fixing them to see if I could.

“The Sunday Scroll”

It’s Sunday, and the algorithm is asleep.
My post drifts into the void, a digital ghost among cat videos and casserole photos.

The rubber chicken sits beside me — plastic, patient, profoundly unimpressed.

We stare at the screen together, watching the numbers refuse to climb.

One like. Maybe two. A pity heart from someone who still thinks Facebook is a church bulletin.

The chicken leans closer, whispering without words: You’re talking to the wind again, darling.

And maybe I am.
But I keep posting anyway — because even in the silence, truth has a pulse.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Now, when I write, I think of roots—of what lies unseen but keeps everything standing. Healing, to me, isn’t about forgetting; it’s about re-rooting. Taking what was painful and growing something living from it. Every story I write plants a small light where once there was darkness.

His hands were more problematic than his eyes because I couldn’t cut them off the way I wanted to.

A gaze is easy enough to divert. I am careful to avoid eye contact with men because I know they are looking for signs of permission.

Excerpt from “Unfortunate Events That Lead To Money”

by Guest Writer S.A. Shriner

Every downfall starts with a moment you never see coming. Mine came in the back seat of a Chevy Citation — glass, metal, and silence where laughter used to be. That’s the day my mother’s neck broke and my childhood ended.

I didn’t grow up chasing dreams. I grew up chasing rent money, mowing lawns to keep the lights on, and feeding a family with five dollars and grit. Survival was the only skill I had — but it turned out to be the only one I’d ever need.

This isn’t a sob story. It’s a map. Every mistake, every loss, every heartbreak became currency — lessons I traded for freedom. And if you’re standing where I once stood, this story’s for you.