Sometime last month, I wrote a post called Lines. It was about my fascination with wordplay in writing, and how I try to weave those little tricks and textures into my posts.
I also wrote it with the intention of creating a Part 2, Part 3, etc.—to pluck out, call out, and break down a handful of new lines I’m particularly proud of (or at least fond of).
Like I mentioned in my original Lines post, all of these bits were written by me. And usually, I had to fight AI to keep them in there, as-is. I guess the computers in the clouds don’t like the composition of my mess.
(I kinda liked that line! The alliteration of the “C”s, paired with the “M”s in “my mess.” Fun.)
Here we go with Part 2.
Re-learn
So I fired up Internet Explorer on our Windows XP-powered computer, typed in “Stay Together for the Kids Blink 182 guitar” (or something close), and stumbled on a magical thing called “Tabs.”
I wanted this one to be oddly specific—to lean into that early-2000s nostalgia. The playfulness and slight ridiculousness of it still make me smile. Looking back, I could have pushed it further:
“So I fired up Internet Explorer on our Windows XP-powered computer, typed in ‘Stay Together for the Kids Blink 182 guitar’ (or something close) over AOL disc-powered Internet, and stumbled on a magical thing called ‘Tabs’—a series of hyphens and numbers glowing on my 17-inch CRT monitor.”
AOL discs. CRT monitor. The ancient tech detail dials up the nostalgia and makes the sentence even more absurd.
Relearning isn’t regression. It’s respect.
I love the sharpness of this one. The alliteration with the “R”s—Relearning. Regression. Respect. The mirrored structure of “isn’t” and “is.” Simple, rhythmic, punchy.
Repeat
Say 3 things. 3 times. 3 ways.
This one was different. What I loved most about Repeat was how the whole post became wordplay. Structured to embody its own lesson: Intro. First. Second. Third. And then—Again.
Usually I tuck my wordplay into single lines. This was my biggest “scaling” of it—letting the entire post take the shape of the point. That was fun.
Canvas
Giant letters in a tiny viewport.
Contrast in one line. I love when a phrase pulls on imagination or our senses—big vs. small, loud vs. quiet, clean vs. messy. You can feel the tension instantly.
Sometimes you have to ignore “best practices” when they’re not your best practice.
This one was a happy accident in editing. While polishing the conclusion, I wanted to distill everything into one sharp hit. Wordplay by repetition, but also a line you have to re-read—slowing down each time—until it clicks. Those are my favorite kinds of lines.
Sketching
Characters came to life on our old CRT screen, powered by VHS tapes that hissed when you hit rewind.
Hah! Remember in Re-learn when I mentioned the CRT? I guess I did use it before. Totally forgot.
Same idea: odd specificity, layered senses. The glow of a screen. The hiss of a rewind. The tactile thunk of pressing a button. It’s playful, but it puts you right there.
Grace
Funny how often—too often—care shows up as suffocating criticism. A bat wrapped in a red bow. The voice that’s meant to lift you up ends up beating you down.
I debated keeping this one. Was it too violent? Too sharp?
“A bat wrapped in a red bow.”
Bat. Red bow.
I sat with that for a while. But the truth is, negative self-talk can get brutal. Sometimes it feels exactly like that: dressed up as care, but crushing. For me, this line was a way of capturing that headspace—and a reminder that I have a choice not to go there.
This morning, I said tomorrow. And tomorrow is okay with me.
An homage to Nike’s “Yesterday you said tomorrow.” The power wasn’t just in the line—it was in what I did with it next.
Run + Blog
Yesterday I said tomorrow. And tomorrow is happening right now.
The callback the very next day.
Now, running around my park, yell-talking into the butt of my phone, moving at an uncomfortably slow yet difficult speed, with every step reminding me how bad I’ve become at doing this thing. All in slightly hot, but otherwise perfect, no-excuse weather.
This whole post was different. I basically transcribed my 30-minute run: one long yell-talk into my phone, cleaned up just enough to read.
And that’s why I love these lines—they’re playful and ridiculous. Not just “talking,” but “yell-talking.” Not just “phone,” but “butt of my phone.” Not just “slow,” but “uncomfortably slow yet difficult speed.”
And to wrap it with: “All in slightly hot, but otherwise perfect, no-excuse weather.”
No. Excuse. Weather. Probably one of my favorite nonsense phrases I’ve ever written. And I delivered it exactly like that while running, which makes it even sillier.
Let me keep going a little bit more. Let me slow down. Mall-walker pace. With a bit of upper-body movement to show that I mean business.
Callbacks. Motifs. And then that last line—ridiculous, unnecessary, perfect. It makes me smile every time I read it.
Wrap
That’s a wrap for now. I need to do these posts more often.
Honestly, they feel like filler posts—like those Simpsons episodes where Troy McClure hosts a recap in front of a live audience or some TV special.
But still, there’s something fun about pulling back the curtain. About sharing not just the posts, but the stitching—the tiny scraps of wordplay, the odd details, the lines I can’t help but smile at.
Until next time: keep scribbling!