You’re putting on a suit. You’re walking into a board game café. You’re going to sit down across from people who are also in suits, and you’re going to argue about loyalty and betrayal over a table covered in cardboard tokens. This is not up for discussion.
This is happening because a man about to enter the single most statistically lethal year for talented people has decided to mark the occasion by getting the people he cares about into one room, putting them in formalwear, and watching them accuse each other of treason during a round of Avalon.
I want you to look like you’re orchestrating a hostile corporate takeover — while rolling dice and staring me dead in the eyes.
The venue is a board game club. The dress code says suit up. The disconnect between those two things is not a bug. It’s the entire point.
Mean Business
Gifts
There’s One Thing I Want
I’m saying this with zero ambiguity — please do not bring a gift. Not a bottle. Not a card. Not a “small thing.” Nothing wrapped, nothing purchased, nothing at all.
The year that killed Hendrix and Cobain, I’m choosing to spend building something I’ll be launching soon. It’s the reason I haven’t slept properly since May. When it goes live, the single most meaningful thing you could give me is a reshare, a signup, a message to one person saying “someone I know made this — have a look.”
That’s not a placeholder ask. I mean it literally. When the time comes, I will ask, and your attention for thirty seconds will mean more to me than anything you could carry through a door.
Your support when it matters is the only gift I want at twenty-seven.