It's me!

Murderous lobsters. Afro-frazzling tornadoes. Nerve-rending glitter bombs. Growing up the gay son of two wildlife biologists in small-town Alabama was like competing in one long rendition of The Hunger Games. But it was nothing compared to growing into the archaeologist I’d always dreamed of becoming, only to leave that sepia-tinged career behind—in a cloud of glitter on a military base—as I authored my cross-country love story with the boy next door.

A polite southern fish flopping out of water onto California’s heated desert, I cobbled together a new career and a new marriage in Los Angeles. But happily ever after didn’t quite pan out. Instead, I found myself single and broke in Seattle, with my faithful Crayhound JoJo (Chihuahua-Italian Greyhound) by my side.


The semantic seeds for YBM were sown early on, in the first journal I started when I was eight—its entries detailing the horrors of grade school; wearing sequined costumes while admiring Zach Morris’s chiseled jawline; and returning home from a football game I was forced to attend to find my beloved hamster dead. (Not that I’m bitter.)

Ever the southerner, I find stories in everything I do. Sometimes I feel as though ink flows through my veins, driving me to record seemingly insignificant, mundane moments—recognizing that there’s often more meaning locked inside daily minutiae than I initially realize.

And when words fail, art, design, and vintage finds help remind me that imperfection, in all its forms, is wildly underrated.

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