I have to say, I love port 22. It’s ubiquitous enough that no system administrator would dare block it, as he would be binding his own hands possibly permanently. Port 22 is the glorious port assigned to secure shell. It’s also how 99% of the internet’s heavy lifting has historically been performed. It’s great to use OpenSSH everywhere as a result, and on occasion you can even pipe traffic over SSH via dynamic port forwarding and whatnot. Good stuff.

I guess I really didn’t want to do a technical write-up of port 22 and had planned, instead, to use it more as a literary device than anything else.

I would be lying if I said it didn’t affect me at all that my mom, sibling, and step-father are not a part of my strong personal support network. They never really have been. Everything I know about being supportive for people I had to figure out independent of my immediate family. It does suck. It also was not great having that relationship strain exacerbated by two exes that took advantage.

I don’t know. I have more to say and I want to unburden myself with these thoughts but I also can’t find the energy or time to do so. I don’t want to do anything. I want to curl up into a ball and never move again. I know that writing more makes me feel better, it helps me sort thoughts and feelings out and sometimes reconcile with them. But I haven’t been able to lately. Everything just feels so much heavier than it actually is. The days feel short, unoccupied moments last an eternity when I have nothing by my mood in the foreground. I don’t want to see the people who make me feel this way, honestly.