Kēvens and the Post That Never Was.
In Fort Lauderdale, where every traffic light feels like it was programmed by an enemy of productivity, lives Kēvens, a man with endless talent and endless reasons why he cannot, simply cannot, write a blog post. His fans wait patiently. His website blinks in sorrow. His Word document sits with nothing but a lonely title. Yet day after day, somehow, life conspires against him.
He wakes with the best intentions. Green tea steaming, glasses polished, laptop open. He even whispers, “Today is the day.” Then his phone rings. His mother needs him to drive her to the pharmacy, but only the one across town because it has the exact lotion she likes. His father has misplaced his dentures again, and Kēvens is crawling around the living room searching under couch cushions instead of typing an opening paragraph. By the time both parents are settled, it is dinner time, and the only thing he has written is a grocery list.
Tea don’t write foo.
The house remodel makes things worse. Contractors appear like ghosts. One insists on cutting wood in the middle of the living room because the garage has “bad vibes.” Another swears the kitchen cannot be painted until Kēvens personally approves thirty-seven shades of white. Instead of writing about ReggaeEDM’s rise, he is debating whether “Eggshell Whisper” is warmer than “Cloud Mist Serenity.”
If he makes it into the studio, he is doomed. “Just one vocal track before I start,” he promises. Fourteen hours later he has layered vocals, rearranged the chorus nine times, and invented an entirely new genre that nobody asked for. The blog is untouched, while his neighbors now know every line of his unreleased tracks because the bass rattled through their walls all night.
Then there is martial arts. He convinces himself discipline is the key. But discipline in Kēvens’ mind means spending three hours in the backyard spinning through katas, shadowboxing the air, and bowing to palm trees. “Once my roundhouse kick is perfected,” he says, “my mind will be clear to write.” The kicks are spectacular. The blog post remains invisible.
And we cannot forget the remote control helicopters. The skies of Fort Lauderdale tremble whenever Kēvens decides it is “helicopter time.” He sends them buzzing over canals, dodging pelicans, and crashing into palm trees. More than once he has had to fish one out of a stranger’s swimming pool. The helicopters bring him joy, but they bring his blog absolutely nothing.
The excuses grow by the day. “The Wi-Fi was too slow.” “The moon was in the wrong phase.” “My tea got cold.” “A lizard stared at me through the window and I lost focus.” “My martial arts instructor texted me a quote and I had to meditate on it for four hours.” Each excuse is more colorful than the last, yet all lead to the same outcome: no blog post.
Friends beg him. “Just write one paragraph.” He nods, promises, and then vanishes into the Bermuda Triangle of distractions that is his life. Fans ask on social media. “When is the new blog coming?” He responds with a cryptic photo of a helicopter hovering over his half-remodeled kitchen.
Meanwhile the Word document taunts him. The cursor blinks like a ticking clock. “Dear beloved fans” it says. That is all. Three words. Three lonely words that have been there since the Obama administration. The document is less a blog post and more a monument to procrastination.
Someday, maybe, Kēvens will surprise the world. He will sit down, silence the helicopters, send the contractors home, and finish a blog post. It will be glorious. It will be poetic. It will be thirty thousand words long because he will have to make up for lost time. Until then, the excuses will keep flowing like cafecito in Little Havana.
The fans will wait. The cursor will blink. And Kēvens, master of music, martial arts, and remote-control aviation, will continue to dodge the one enemy he cannot defeat: the blog post deadline.
