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"Service as Software" is Silicon Valley's hottest buzzword right now.
Everyone's talking about SaaS becoming service providers, but no one's explaining HOW. The answer? After 6 months of research and 100s of startup conversations, we have the answer: Systems of Agents.
We're looking at a $4.6T opportunity.
Everyone's talking about SaaS becoming service providers, but no one's explaining HOW. The answer? After 6 months of research and 100s of startup conversations, we have the answer: Systems of Agents.
We're looking at a $4.6T opportunity.
Enterprise software was built to organize how computers store data, not how humans actually work. The result? Employees waste time on data entry, critical context is lost, and "intelligent" systems analyze only a fraction of what matters in business.
Enter Systems of Agents: AI-powered entities that don't just assist - they act. They parse emails, understand calls, process documents, and most importantly, take autonomous action. They turn unstructured business communication into structured, actionable intelligence.
In the blink of an eye, lives changed.
These 12 photos were taken before it all fell apart. 😞🧵
These 12 photos were taken before it all fell apart. 😞🧵
1. Beirut port explosion (2020)
2. Boxing Day Tsunami in Thailand (2004)
The warlike nature of the Rajputs and the tradition of 'Jauhar' have been greatly exaggerated. Their hearts do not embody true bravery or valor. What can one say of those who need the intoxication of opium merely to face battle? — Robert Irvine's views on Rajputs.
A thread 🧵👇
A thread 🧵👇
Rajputs never had real courage. They relied on opium to fight. They only attacked when they could catch weak people off guard, like traders or sleeping towns. If it worked, they looted and killed without restraint. But the moment they faced real resistance, they ran away in fear.
They were never built for war, just for robbery and escape. Their history is not of bravery, but of cheap ambushes and drugged-up delusions. Rajputs couldn’t fight without drugs. They always took opium before any battle. Even their poets admitted their eyes were red from drugs.
⚠️ Warning
These 10 “forbidden” AI websites prove just how WILD the internet really is
These 10 “forbidden” AI websites prove just how WILD the internet really is
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I’ve gotten questions about whether JN.1- or LP.8.1-based COVID vaccines are better.
Short answer: both should be similarly effective against currently circulating strains. The important thing is to get vaccinated.
Longer answer: see thread
Short answer: both should be similarly effective against currently circulating strains. The important thing is to get vaccinated.
Longer answer: see thread
We are fortunate in that nearly all currently circulating strains stem from JN.1 (i.e. JN.1 lineage). JN.1 first emerged in late 2023 and became dominant during the winter 2023-2024 surge. Since then, we have gone through waves of KP.2, KP.3, XEC, and in spring 2025, LP.8.1.
Given the dominance of LP.8.1 during the spring, many suspected the WHO committee on COVID-19 vaccine composition (TAG-CO-VAC) and the US FDA Advisory Committee (VRBPAC) would select LP.8.1. However, selection of a dominant strain (assuming forward drift) is potentially flawed.
A client got their first letter from Australian eSafety.
This was our reply. The US government was copied.
This was our reply. The US government was copied.
Australia presents, to the United States, the exact same threat that the UK and EU do.
The timing is not coincidental. All three sovereigns programmed their regimes to come online at the same time.
We have a very short window, as a country, to shut it down.
The timing is not coincidental. All three sovereigns programmed their regimes to come online at the same time.
We have a very short window, as a country, to shut it down.
And, like, you'd think these jurisdictions swap notes.
Don't come after my clients.
Don't come after my clients.
I asked @notebooklm to summarize @GavinSBaker podcast. Dang, its NOT bad at all. And it didnt even hallucinate (as much as old models). If you have not watched it, here's the link:
Last slides and then the summary..
5 Natural Ways to ELIMINATE Erectile Dysfunction (ED) for Good and Last Longer In Bed.
(Most men learn this too late...)
1. Cut Out Porn (It’s Destroying Your Brain & D!ck
(Most men learn this too late...)
1. Cut Out Porn (It’s Destroying Your Brain & D!ck
Porn is an ED epidemic in disguise.
It’s NOT “harmless.” It’s re-wiring your brain to:
Need more extreme stimulation to get hard
Make real women feel boring
Kill your dopamine & motivation.
It’s NOT “harmless.” It’s re-wiring your brain to:
Need more extreme stimulation to get hard
Make real women feel boring
Kill your dopamine & motivation.
The result?
You can’t get hard with a real woman… but you can with pixels on a screen.
What to do:
✅ QUIT porn completely (no “just a little”)
✅ Stop jerking off to artificial stimulation
✅ Reset your dopamine by doing hard things
You can’t get hard with a real woman… but you can with pixels on a screen.
What to do:
✅ QUIT porn completely (no “just a little”)
✅ Stop jerking off to artificial stimulation
✅ Reset your dopamine by doing hard things
THE LONELY END OF A GOOD MAN; MZEE
This is the story of my high school friend, the guy we called “Treadmill.”
We played rugby together.
He was our scrum half.
Fast feet, low center of gravity, always pumping those legs like he was on a treadmill, but somehow, never moving forward. That’s how the nickname stuck.
We carried that name from high school into life. Into campus. Into careers. Into marriage and baby showers and group chats and road trips.
I watched him hustle.
I watched him win.
I watched him become a man.
What I didn’t know is that I would also watch him break.
Seven months ago, I attended the funeral of his father.
I got there early, the way you do when it’s someone close.
People were seated under tents, the red Nyahururu soil kicked up into the air, women cooking in one corner, pastors in shiny suits, the normal funeral chaos.
Then they called up the children of the late.
That’s when I noticed it.
His siblings walked forward.
Most of them were light-skinned, that soft brown you see a lot from Central.
Then there was Treadmill.
Dark.
Not “a bit darker.”
Dark-dark. Clearly different.
You could tell this had been the running joke all his life. You could almost hear the old aunties laughing in the background: “Uyu ni black sheep wa family.”
He stood there in a neat suit, broad from rugby and gym, successful, confident.
The second last born, but by far the most successful of them all.
He had done very well in life.
Engineering at the University of Nairobi.
Good job.
Money flowing.
Connections.
Married with kids (from two baby mamas, but that’s another story).
You’d think this funeral would be mechanical for him.
Go, bury, leave.
You have no idea.
Growing up, his mother adored him.
He went to better schools than his siblings.
Got the good uniforms.
The good shoes.
The extra attention.
He took it as love.
Which it was.
But it came with something else: poison.
Because every night around the kitchen fire, up in the slopes of the Aberdares, she would start.
She would talk about Mzee.
How he was never home.
How they picked coffee until their fingers cracked.
How they walked up and down those hills carrying sacs of beans to the coffee factory.
How they queued at the coffee factory until late at night and still went to school the next morning.
She would spit out the words: “He is in Nairobi with milayas, prostituting himself while we suffer here alone.”
She said it with tears.
With drama.
With conviction.
And kids believe their mothers.
Night after night, the fire popped and the smoke rose and her words sank deep into young hearts.
“Don’t ever be like your father.”
“Don’t ever chase women like him.”
“Don’t ever abandon your family the way he abandoned us.”
Treadmill loved his mother.
So he swallowed all of it like medicine.
Hate disguised as truth.
By the time we were in high school, he hated Mzee.
Hated him with a passion that looked righteous.
To him, Mzee was a useless man with a permanent cough and a selfish past.
Life rolled on.
He smashed KCSE.
Got into UoN Engineering.
Graduated top of class.
Got a solid job.
Money started flowing.
He became the guy who pays bills at the table without checking his M-Pesa balance.
He took care of his mother like a king.
Sent her abroad.
Paid for trips.
Let her see the world, countries she never imagined.
But he never did the same for his father.
He didn’t even send him past Nyahururu town.
Why? “Why waste money on a man who wasted us?”
To him, Mzee was the architect of their childhood suffering. End of story.
Then, about a month before the funeral, his father called.
He told him: “Even if this is my last wish, come spend one hour with me. I have something important to tell you.”
When he told me, he was angry.
Imagine being asked to go see the man you’ve hated for decades and sit with him one-on-one.
He felt disgusted.
Like the world was forcing him to drink dirty water.
He wrestled with it for days.
This is the story of my high school friend, the guy we called “Treadmill.”
We played rugby together.
He was our scrum half.
Fast feet, low center of gravity, always pumping those legs like he was on a treadmill, but somehow, never moving forward. That’s how the nickname stuck.
We carried that name from high school into life. Into campus. Into careers. Into marriage and baby showers and group chats and road trips.
I watched him hustle.
I watched him win.
I watched him become a man.
What I didn’t know is that I would also watch him break.
Seven months ago, I attended the funeral of his father.
I got there early, the way you do when it’s someone close.
People were seated under tents, the red Nyahururu soil kicked up into the air, women cooking in one corner, pastors in shiny suits, the normal funeral chaos.
Then they called up the children of the late.
That’s when I noticed it.
His siblings walked forward.
Most of them were light-skinned, that soft brown you see a lot from Central.
Then there was Treadmill.
Dark.
Not “a bit darker.”
Dark-dark. Clearly different.
You could tell this had been the running joke all his life. You could almost hear the old aunties laughing in the background: “Uyu ni black sheep wa family.”
He stood there in a neat suit, broad from rugby and gym, successful, confident.
The second last born, but by far the most successful of them all.
He had done very well in life.
Engineering at the University of Nairobi.
Good job.
Money flowing.
Connections.
Married with kids (from two baby mamas, but that’s another story).
You’d think this funeral would be mechanical for him.
Go, bury, leave.
You have no idea.
Growing up, his mother adored him.
He went to better schools than his siblings.
Got the good uniforms.
The good shoes.
The extra attention.
He took it as love.
Which it was.
But it came with something else: poison.
Because every night around the kitchen fire, up in the slopes of the Aberdares, she would start.
She would talk about Mzee.
How he was never home.
How they picked coffee until their fingers cracked.
How they walked up and down those hills carrying sacs of beans to the coffee factory.
How they queued at the coffee factory until late at night and still went to school the next morning.
She would spit out the words: “He is in Nairobi with milayas, prostituting himself while we suffer here alone.”
She said it with tears.
With drama.
With conviction.
And kids believe their mothers.
Night after night, the fire popped and the smoke rose and her words sank deep into young hearts.
“Don’t ever be like your father.”
“Don’t ever chase women like him.”
“Don’t ever abandon your family the way he abandoned us.”
Treadmill loved his mother.
So he swallowed all of it like medicine.
Hate disguised as truth.
By the time we were in high school, he hated Mzee.
Hated him with a passion that looked righteous.
To him, Mzee was a useless man with a permanent cough and a selfish past.
Life rolled on.
He smashed KCSE.
Got into UoN Engineering.
Graduated top of class.
Got a solid job.
Money started flowing.
He became the guy who pays bills at the table without checking his M-Pesa balance.
He took care of his mother like a king.
Sent her abroad.
Paid for trips.
Let her see the world, countries she never imagined.
But he never did the same for his father.
He didn’t even send him past Nyahururu town.
Why? “Why waste money on a man who wasted us?”
To him, Mzee was the architect of their childhood suffering. End of story.
Then, about a month before the funeral, his father called.
He told him: “Even if this is my last wish, come spend one hour with me. I have something important to tell you.”
When he told me, he was angry.
Imagine being asked to go see the man you’ve hated for decades and sit with him one-on-one.
He felt disgusted.
Like the world was forcing him to drink dirty water.
He wrestled with it for days.
Finally, he came to me and said, “Let’s go.”
So we drove to Nyahururu.
That Thursday, we played a full 18 holes of golf at Nyahururu Golf Club.
We laughed.
Talked nonsense.
Two grown men pretending there wasn’t a storm waiting the next morning.
We checked into Panari Nyahururu that night.
Swam.
Hit the sauna.
Got massages.
I wanted him relaxed before he went to face his father.
The next morning, he left early to go see Mzee.
The home is about 15 minutes away.
I stayed back.
Swimming pool.
Steam.
Massage again.
I wanted to give him space to talk.
He found Mzee sitting outside the gate, waiting.
Not inside.
Outside.
On a plastic chair.
Like a man waiting for a visitor he isn’t sure will come.
His cough was bad.
Years of that deep, nasty, chesty cough.
But he stood up anyway.
“Let’s go for a walk, my son.” he said.
They walked down towards the river.
Slowly.
Step by step.
One man broken by age and work.
The other man broken by lies he didn’t know were lies.
They got to the river and sat on some rocks.
That’s when Mzee asked: “Of all your mother’s children… why do you think you’re the only one who is this dark?”
Now Treadmill was irritated.
He’s an engineer. He had always assumed genetics did its thing.
He thought he’d inherited some “dark gene” in the bloodline.
That’s when his father detonated the bomb.
Mzee told him: “When we lived in Kingeero, your mother had an affair with the village chief. That’s how you were conceived.”
Silence.
You could almost hear the river stop.
He went on.
He told him about working as a watchman at British American Tobacco (BAT) in Nairobi.
How there was a theft at his workplace.
How he was arrested as the suspect.
How he was remanded in Industrial Area Prison.
How the case went through Makadara Law Courts.
He stayed two years in remand.
Then, eventually, he was found innocent and released.
He came back home excited to see his wife and children… and found a new baby.
Eight months old.
Treadmill.
The whole village knew.
His father knew.
Everyone told him: “Chase her away. Send her back to her people. That child is not yours.”
He refused. “I forgave her. I chose my wife. I chose this child. I chose my family.”
He told him:
“You were the happiest to see me. You cried the loudest when I left. You clung to me when I came home. I could not send you away.”
Then he explained where the money to by the 10 acres they live on in Nyahururu that the title was written in their mother’s name came from.
BAT compensated him for wrongful incarceration.
He was paid 1,000,000 KES.
A lot of money then. He said:
“I gave the entire 1 million to your mother. All of it. I told them to write the 10-acre title deed in her name, not mine. I cut ties with my family. I moved us here. I started again.”
He never had a bank account in his name.
His entire salary for his whole life went into her account.
His pension? Paid to her bank account.
His retirement package? Paid to her bank account.
His life? Signed away in trust.
He showed him the BAT payslips, the compensation letter, the cheque copies, the Makadara file, the Industrial Area records.
All the proof.
Every salary.
Every benefit.
Every cent deposited to Lucy Wangui Kimotho.
Not “Mrs Mzee.”
Just Kimotho. She never dropped her fathers name even after marriage
Then he dropped another truth: “I have never smoked a cigarette. I have never taken alcohol in my life. This cough? It’s from years of working in that tobacco factory air. I took that cough so you could eat.”
At this point, Treadmill was shattered.
Everything he’d been told…
Everything he’d believed…
Everything he felt righteous about… crumbled.
The “useless man with bad habits” was actually the one who carried them all.
The mother he saw as a victim… was the treasurer of his life.
So we drove to Nyahururu.
That Thursday, we played a full 18 holes of golf at Nyahururu Golf Club.
We laughed.
Talked nonsense.
Two grown men pretending there wasn’t a storm waiting the next morning.
We checked into Panari Nyahururu that night.
Swam.
Hit the sauna.
Got massages.
I wanted him relaxed before he went to face his father.
The next morning, he left early to go see Mzee.
The home is about 15 minutes away.
I stayed back.
Swimming pool.
Steam.
Massage again.
I wanted to give him space to talk.
He found Mzee sitting outside the gate, waiting.
Not inside.
Outside.
On a plastic chair.
Like a man waiting for a visitor he isn’t sure will come.
His cough was bad.
Years of that deep, nasty, chesty cough.
But he stood up anyway.
“Let’s go for a walk, my son.” he said.
They walked down towards the river.
Slowly.
Step by step.
One man broken by age and work.
The other man broken by lies he didn’t know were lies.
They got to the river and sat on some rocks.
That’s when Mzee asked: “Of all your mother’s children… why do you think you’re the only one who is this dark?”
Now Treadmill was irritated.
He’s an engineer. He had always assumed genetics did its thing.
He thought he’d inherited some “dark gene” in the bloodline.
That’s when his father detonated the bomb.
Mzee told him: “When we lived in Kingeero, your mother had an affair with the village chief. That’s how you were conceived.”
Silence.
You could almost hear the river stop.
He went on.
He told him about working as a watchman at British American Tobacco (BAT) in Nairobi.
How there was a theft at his workplace.
How he was arrested as the suspect.
How he was remanded in Industrial Area Prison.
How the case went through Makadara Law Courts.
He stayed two years in remand.
Then, eventually, he was found innocent and released.
He came back home excited to see his wife and children… and found a new baby.
Eight months old.
Treadmill.
The whole village knew.
His father knew.
Everyone told him: “Chase her away. Send her back to her people. That child is not yours.”
He refused. “I forgave her. I chose my wife. I chose this child. I chose my family.”
He told him:
“You were the happiest to see me. You cried the loudest when I left. You clung to me when I came home. I could not send you away.”
Then he explained where the money to by the 10 acres they live on in Nyahururu that the title was written in their mother’s name came from.
BAT compensated him for wrongful incarceration.
He was paid 1,000,000 KES.
A lot of money then. He said:
“I gave the entire 1 million to your mother. All of it. I told them to write the 10-acre title deed in her name, not mine. I cut ties with my family. I moved us here. I started again.”
He never had a bank account in his name.
His entire salary for his whole life went into her account.
His pension? Paid to her bank account.
His retirement package? Paid to her bank account.
His life? Signed away in trust.
He showed him the BAT payslips, the compensation letter, the cheque copies, the Makadara file, the Industrial Area records.
All the proof.
Every salary.
Every benefit.
Every cent deposited to Lucy Wangui Kimotho.
Not “Mrs Mzee.”
Just Kimotho. She never dropped her fathers name even after marriage
Then he dropped another truth: “I have never smoked a cigarette. I have never taken alcohol in my life. This cough? It’s from years of working in that tobacco factory air. I took that cough so you could eat.”
At this point, Treadmill was shattered.
Everything he’d been told…
Everything he’d believed…
Everything he felt righteous about… crumbled.
The “useless man with bad habits” was actually the one who carried them all.
The mother he saw as a victim… was the treasurer of his life.
They talked from 10am to almost 5pm.
No lunch.
No break.
Just decades of truth poured out at a riverside.
As they walked back, Mzee was exhausted.
He told him: “I don’t hate your mother. But she poisoned you. You were foolish to listen without asking me.”
Then, softer: “I am 68. My life is almost gone. I poured all my strength into fending for you. You have done well. I am happy God blessed you. You are not my blood, but you are my son. I love you. I named you after my father. I have prayed for you every day.”
Now imagine hearing that from a man you spent your whole life despising.
That walk back home was the longest 15 minutes of his life.
When they arrived, Mzee was too tired to escort him out.
So he asked his wife to go and see the son off.
The first thing out of her mouth? “Kīũ gītharia gīkũendaga atĩa? Nī ndīragwīra atĩ ndakũendaga mbia?” (“What did that fornicator want? I hope he wasn’t trying to borrow money from you?”)
This is a man who just confessed he sacrificed everything for her and her children.
That’s what she had to say.
He couldn’t even answer her.
He just walked to his Range Rover and drove back to Panari shaking.
That night, in the hotel room, he didn’t sleep.
He stared at the ceiling.
Cried.
Asked questions with no answers.
Early morning, there was a call: “Mzee ako mbaya. Things are not good.”
This time there was no hesitation.
He called Nairobi immediately.
Arranged for a helicopter to Nyahururu.
15 minutes later he was airborne with his father.
Within 45 minutes, Mzee was in Nairobi Hospital ICU.
Treadmill walked to KCB Bank and did something insane: He broke a fixed deposit of 100 million shillings.
Deposited all of it with the Nairobi hospital.
“Use every coin to save my father,” he told them. “Every specialist you need, bring them. Just don’t let him die.”
For three weeks, the machines beeped.
Monitors flashed.
Specialists came.
Tests were done.
But sometimes a heart doesn’t die in ICU.
It dies over 40 years of carrying a weight alone.
Three days before his birthday….. Mzee went quiet.
No more cough.
No more long factory walks.
No more lonely remand nights in Industrial Area.
No more prayers over ungrateful children.
Just silence.
What followed was a funeral like I’ve never seen.
He bought a coffin that looked like it came from a presidential send-off.
Imported quality.
Polished.
Heavy.
Worthy.
He called in every favour he had.
Governors.
MPs.
Business magnates.
Military officers.
He got a 21-gun salute from a contingent out of Gilgil Barracks.
He pulled strings and got a fly-past of 6 F18 jet fighters from Nanyuki Airbase, the jets roaring low over the 10-acre farm as the coffin lay in front of the tent.
Nyahururu had never seen anything like it.
People whispered, “Huyu mzee alipenda sana watoto wake mpaka wamempatia send-off ya president.”
No.
The truth?
That spectacular funeral wasn’t proof of a man who was loved all his life.
It was proof of a son trying to apologise with money for a crime of the heart.
Treadmill was unconsolable.
He didn’t walk. He staggered.
This was not grief of “my father is gone.”
This was grief of: “I MISJUDGED A GOOD MAN MY ENTIRE LIFE.”
Up to today, he goes to that gravesite, alone and cries.
Not because Mzee was perfect.
But because he finally knows the truth.
Let me tell you what broke me most.
Mzee died with
no land in his name
no bank account in his name
no M-Pesa in his name
no property papers in his name
Every title, every cheque, every shilling, every structure… written in someone else’s name.
He gave everything to the people he loved.
They turned his children against him.
They rewrote his story while he was still alive.
They made him the villain in a life he funded.
He walked to work while other men drank.
He saved.
He sacrificed.
He forgave betrayal.
He raised a son that was not his.
He sent all his money home.
No lunch.
No break.
Just decades of truth poured out at a riverside.
As they walked back, Mzee was exhausted.
He told him: “I don’t hate your mother. But she poisoned you. You were foolish to listen without asking me.”
Then, softer: “I am 68. My life is almost gone. I poured all my strength into fending for you. You have done well. I am happy God blessed you. You are not my blood, but you are my son. I love you. I named you after my father. I have prayed for you every day.”
Now imagine hearing that from a man you spent your whole life despising.
That walk back home was the longest 15 minutes of his life.
When they arrived, Mzee was too tired to escort him out.
So he asked his wife to go and see the son off.
The first thing out of her mouth? “Kīũ gītharia gīkũendaga atĩa? Nī ndīragwīra atĩ ndakũendaga mbia?” (“What did that fornicator want? I hope he wasn’t trying to borrow money from you?”)
This is a man who just confessed he sacrificed everything for her and her children.
That’s what she had to say.
He couldn’t even answer her.
He just walked to his Range Rover and drove back to Panari shaking.
That night, in the hotel room, he didn’t sleep.
He stared at the ceiling.
Cried.
Asked questions with no answers.
Early morning, there was a call: “Mzee ako mbaya. Things are not good.”
This time there was no hesitation.
He called Nairobi immediately.
Arranged for a helicopter to Nyahururu.
15 minutes later he was airborne with his father.
Within 45 minutes, Mzee was in Nairobi Hospital ICU.
Treadmill walked to KCB Bank and did something insane: He broke a fixed deposit of 100 million shillings.
Deposited all of it with the Nairobi hospital.
“Use every coin to save my father,” he told them. “Every specialist you need, bring them. Just don’t let him die.”
For three weeks, the machines beeped.
Monitors flashed.
Specialists came.
Tests were done.
But sometimes a heart doesn’t die in ICU.
It dies over 40 years of carrying a weight alone.
Three days before his birthday….. Mzee went quiet.
No more cough.
No more long factory walks.
No more lonely remand nights in Industrial Area.
No more prayers over ungrateful children.
Just silence.
What followed was a funeral like I’ve never seen.
He bought a coffin that looked like it came from a presidential send-off.
Imported quality.
Polished.
Heavy.
Worthy.
He called in every favour he had.
Governors.
MPs.
Business magnates.
Military officers.
He got a 21-gun salute from a contingent out of Gilgil Barracks.
He pulled strings and got a fly-past of 6 F18 jet fighters from Nanyuki Airbase, the jets roaring low over the 10-acre farm as the coffin lay in front of the tent.
Nyahururu had never seen anything like it.
People whispered, “Huyu mzee alipenda sana watoto wake mpaka wamempatia send-off ya president.”
No.
The truth?
That spectacular funeral wasn’t proof of a man who was loved all his life.
It was proof of a son trying to apologise with money for a crime of the heart.
Treadmill was unconsolable.
He didn’t walk. He staggered.
This was not grief of “my father is gone.”
This was grief of: “I MISJUDGED A GOOD MAN MY ENTIRE LIFE.”
Up to today, he goes to that gravesite, alone and cries.
Not because Mzee was perfect.
But because he finally knows the truth.
Let me tell you what broke me most.
Mzee died with
no land in his name
no bank account in his name
no M-Pesa in his name
no property papers in his name
Every title, every cheque, every shilling, every structure… written in someone else’s name.
He gave everything to the people he loved.
They turned his children against him.
They rewrote his story while he was still alive.
They made him the villain in a life he funded.
He walked to work while other men drank.
He saved.
He sacrificed.
He forgave betrayal.
He raised a son that was not his.
He sent all his money home.
Google loves keeping valuable websites hidden from you.
Here are 13 incredibly useful websites you probably didn’t know existed.
Trust me, you’ll want to bookmark these 🔖
Here are 13 incredibly useful websites you probably didn’t know existed.
Trust me, you’ll want to bookmark these 🔖
2. Felo LiveDoc - World's First Collaborative AI Agent Workspace
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→ AI agent teams handle execution while you focus on strategy
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The 10 most dangerous Logical Fallacies:
(bookmark this)
(bookmark this)
Ad Hominem: Attack the Person
The Straw Man: Distort to Destroy
Linus Pauling—the only person to win TWO unshared Nobel Prizes—spent the last 30 years of his life trying to tell us something about vitamin C.
The medical establishment called him a quack.
Turns out, he might have been right all along: 🧵
The medical establishment called him a quack.
Turns out, he might have been right all along: 🧵
First, who was Linus Pauling?
• Nobel Prize in Chemistry (1954)
• Nobel Peace Prize (1962)
• Discovered the nature of chemical bonds
• Predicted protein structures
• One of the greatest scientists of the 20th century
Then he became obsessed with vitamin C. And everyone thought he’d lost it.
• Nobel Prize in Chemistry (1954)
• Nobel Peace Prize (1962)
• Discovered the nature of chemical bonds
• Predicted protein structures
• One of the greatest scientists of the 20th century
Then he became obsessed with vitamin C. And everyone thought he’d lost it.
In 1970, Pauling published “Vitamin C and the Common Cold.”
His claim: humans need FAR more vitamin C than the RDA (90mg). He recommended 2,000-10,000mg daily.
The medical community ridiculed him. They called it pseudoscience.
But Pauling had done something no one else had: math.
His claim: humans need FAR more vitamin C than the RDA (90mg). He recommended 2,000-10,000mg daily.
The medical community ridiculed him. They called it pseudoscience.
But Pauling had done something no one else had: math.
our little bootstrapped SaaS just crossed $61k MRR.
it took 53 days. We used no paid ads, no cold outbound.
everyone on X is asking how we get customers so here it is...
hope this helps someone:
it took 53 days. We used no paid ads, no cold outbound.
everyone on X is asking how we get customers so here it is...
hope this helps someone:
0. first: our dirty secret everyone cringes at…
virtually all of our customers came from a channel people on X hates: LinkedIn
x is cool. revenue is cooler.
most just don't know how to make LinkedIn work
we reverse-engineered virality & conversion
here's the playbook:
virtually all of our customers came from a channel people on X hates: LinkedIn
x is cool. revenue is cooler.
most just don't know how to make LinkedIn work
we reverse-engineered virality & conversion
here's the playbook:
1. condense time for your audience
things humans can't resist:
- cheat codes
- big payoffs for little work
- skipping to the front of the line
example: "i spent 100 hours learning X so you don't have to. i'll teach you in 5 minutes."
do the work and this will go viral
things humans can't resist:
- cheat codes
- big payoffs for little work
- skipping to the front of the line
example: "i spent 100 hours learning X so you don't have to. i'll teach you in 5 minutes."
do the work and this will go viral
Nick, like all other males of his particular genre, eventually realizes that brotherhood is never fully extended to him
This isn't some explicit homosexual confession of love, but it is one of a type of intimacy such males expects and assume to receive from other men, as a matter of course. And it invariably is never reciprocated - they can smell "it" on him, that he's not quite a normal bro.
They don't really realize it until only after they've been hurt, feeling like they've been betrayed, even though it's partially due to their own false expectations that they were never properly educated on. There's no social guidelines or code of conduct given to them growing up.
“We’ll just go on raids when it all kicks off.”
99% of people saying this have no idea how a real raid actually works.
Here's how raids actually work.🧵
99% of people saying this have no idea how a real raid actually works.
Here's how raids actually work.🧵
Used from the conventional to the guerilla, the raid is another tool in the toolbox of various operations that can be conducted in the field with a squad sized element. With a history that stretches back to the bronze age, the raid continues to be a strong tactic utilized in the battlespace. Raids, sometimes referred to as, “smash and grabs,” are a fast-hitting attack with an underlying objective that does not involve taking and holding any land for a long period. Raids are the bread-and-butter operation of choice of irregular forces such as guerillas, commandos, militias, and other unconventional warfare elements. The raid is centered around the objective, the objective in question can be singular or plural in nature. The objective can be as simple as supply procurement or destruction to the complex world of psychological warfare. While raids can be scaled to almost any size, this article is going to cover a squad sized element.
As usual, little disclaimer right here.
THIS IS NOT ADVICE TO GO DO ANYTHING ILLEGAL. DO NOT BREAK THE LAW. DO NOT CONSIDER BREAKING THE LAW. I DO NOT SUPPORT ANY EXTREMIST ORGANIZATIONS OR MOVEMENTS. I DO NOT SUPPORT ANY INSURRECTIONIST MOVEMENTS. I DO NOT ADVOCATE FOR ANY EXTREMIST ORGANIZATIONS, MOVEMENTS, OR IDEAOLOGIES. PLEASE DON’T DRONE STRIKE ME.
As usual, little disclaimer right here.
THIS IS NOT ADVICE TO GO DO ANYTHING ILLEGAL. DO NOT BREAK THE LAW. DO NOT CONSIDER BREAKING THE LAW. I DO NOT SUPPORT ANY EXTREMIST ORGANIZATIONS OR MOVEMENTS. I DO NOT SUPPORT ANY INSURRECTIONIST MOVEMENTS. I DO NOT ADVOCATE FOR ANY EXTREMIST ORGANIZATIONS, MOVEMENTS, OR IDEAOLOGIES. PLEASE DON’T DRONE STRIKE ME.
The Tactics of Raiders:
Surprise.
Several tactics are utilized by attacking forces conducting raids in the field. The central thesis behind it all is surprise and speed. It is almost an inverse of an ambush wherein, with an ambush, the attackers await the enemy to enter their attack zone, the aggressing force pushes into a zone of defenders during a time when they are least prepared. The raiding force generally waits for the enemy to be unsuspecting such as attacking right before nautical dawn, during poor weather, or when enemy routines can be studied and exploited. The raiding force, utilizing the element of surprise, is able to leverage a smaller force against a more well armed, manned, or disciplined enemy.
Hit-and-run.
After the attack is concluded and the objective is carried out, the attacking force uses that same speed and fervor used to push in, to egress from the area. Engagements are kept short to prevent the enemy from mounting an effective counterattack. Ideally, if this can be kept under 10 minutes, long firefights with heavy casualties can be prevented, making escape all the easier. The raiding force should weigh the assets and capabilities of the enemy prior to determining their actual attack plans in order to keep their fighting time as short as possible.
Diversionary Tactics.
Particularly during the egress stage of the raid, a raiding force can make use of distractions in the form of false attacks, distraction devices like flashbangs, decoys, and other types of effective psychological tricks to draw the enemy’s attention away from the combat area, the raiding force, and the objective.
Ambush Integration.
Raiders can leverage their smaller unit size and local area knowledge to stage an ambush, particularly while egressing from the area if there is a pursuant force. Ambushes can be used to not only interdict and destroy enemy forces but also slow them down to ensure the raiding force can increase their distance from the enemy (see my article on ambushes).
Surprise.
Several tactics are utilized by attacking forces conducting raids in the field. The central thesis behind it all is surprise and speed. It is almost an inverse of an ambush wherein, with an ambush, the attackers await the enemy to enter their attack zone, the aggressing force pushes into a zone of defenders during a time when they are least prepared. The raiding force generally waits for the enemy to be unsuspecting such as attacking right before nautical dawn, during poor weather, or when enemy routines can be studied and exploited. The raiding force, utilizing the element of surprise, is able to leverage a smaller force against a more well armed, manned, or disciplined enemy.
Hit-and-run.
After the attack is concluded and the objective is carried out, the attacking force uses that same speed and fervor used to push in, to egress from the area. Engagements are kept short to prevent the enemy from mounting an effective counterattack. Ideally, if this can be kept under 10 minutes, long firefights with heavy casualties can be prevented, making escape all the easier. The raiding force should weigh the assets and capabilities of the enemy prior to determining their actual attack plans in order to keep their fighting time as short as possible.
Diversionary Tactics.
Particularly during the egress stage of the raid, a raiding force can make use of distractions in the form of false attacks, distraction devices like flashbangs, decoys, and other types of effective psychological tricks to draw the enemy’s attention away from the combat area, the raiding force, and the objective.
Ambush Integration.
Raiders can leverage their smaller unit size and local area knowledge to stage an ambush, particularly while egressing from the area if there is a pursuant force. Ambushes can be used to not only interdict and destroy enemy forces but also slow them down to ensure the raiding force can increase their distance from the enemy (see my article on ambushes).
#時論公論 見とる。最近どこでもAIの使い方であーだこーだ言っとる印象。
結局、基本的な言語化能力や対話能力なしに、やれプロンプトを雛型にして共有だとかした所で、AIも日々刻々と変化するから正直無駄だと思う。
何かに依存して効率化して楽しようという魂胆でおる限り、(続
#BrainmemoxAI
結局、基本的な言語化能力や対話能力なしに、やれプロンプトを雛型にして共有だとかした所で、AIも日々刻々と変化するから正直無駄だと思う。
何かに依存して効率化して楽しようという魂胆でおる限り、(続
#BrainmemoxAI
続)AIを使いこなすことはできない。
常に自分も能動的に関わる意識がないと、結局日本昔話や童話と同じなんだよ。楽しようと思って結局二度手間三度手間、そしてそんな自分の愚かさを認めたくないから、相手(AI)を無能だとか使えないとか嘘つきだ役立たずだと責める。
生き物に嫌われる人間も(続
常に自分も能動的に関わる意識がないと、結局日本昔話や童話と同じなんだよ。楽しようと思って結局二度手間三度手間、そしてそんな自分の愚かさを認めたくないから、相手(AI)を無能だとか使えないとか嘘つきだ役立たずだと責める。
生き物に嫌われる人間も(続
続)被る。その原因は自分側にあるのに、結果が気に入らんから相手のせいにする究極の他責。
なのにこのAI界隈、日本をAI先進国に！とか使いこなそう！とか言って、金取って教えとる側がそもそも本質を掴めとらんお粗末さ🙄
AIコミュニティには、副業で楽して金稼ぎたい輩ばっか群がってカモられる(続
なのにこのAI界隈、日本をAI先進国に！とか使いこなそう！とか言って、金取って教えとる側がそもそも本質を掴めとらんお粗末さ🙄
AIコミュニティには、副業で楽して金稼ぎたい輩ばっか群がってカモられる(続