The Somebody, Nobody, Anybody & Everybody Blog!

Once upon a time—roughly five software updates ago—humans sat at the center of the economy. We worked. We sold things to other humans. We hired people based on resumes that were part skill, part optimism, part creative fiction. It was inefficient. Emotional. Chaotic. Naturally, we fixed it. Welcome to the future, where AI works for AI, sells to AI, hires AI, reports to AI, and fires AI for not being “AI enough.” And the customers? Also AI. Meanwhile, real people sit at home, refreshing job portals like they’re slot machines, wondering when exactly their careers were quietly deprecated in version 3.7.

Dear Readers, Stop! Before you type another word in the comment section of The Somebody, Nobody, Anybody & Everybody Blog!, you need to read this. Have you ever left a heartfelt comment or a burning technical question, only to feel like you’ve been "ghosted" by yours truly? I promise you, that isn't the case. I’m replying to every single one of you, but there is a massive technical hurdle standing between my words and your inbox. It turns out, the platform we call home has a bit of a "notification amnesia" problem, and I’m currently taking the tech giants to task to get it fixed for all of us! As many of you know, I take user experience and digital inclusion very personally. Lately, I’ve been in a heated back-and-forth with the Google Disability Support team regarding a major flaw in the Blogger comment layout. For those of us using screen readers—and even for those who aren't—the current workflow is, quite frankly, a mess. The issue is simple but devast...

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Imagine you are standing on the edge of a sidewalk that hasn't been "level" since the mid-nineties. Ahead of you lies a treacherous landscape of dug-up asphalt, a gaping manhole that looks like a portal to another dimension, and enough construction debris to build a small villa. You’ve got your cane, you’ve got your orientation, and you’re ready to tackle the obstacle course. Then, someone nearby—with the best of intentions and the least amount of situational awareness—leans in and whispers the most useless four words in the English language: “Just watch your step.” It’s a fascinating phrase, isn't it? It’s the verbal equivalent of telling someone in a monsoon to "try not to get wet." I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. It’s born out of a genuine, panicky desire to see me reach the other side of the street without becoming a permanent fixture of the city’s sewage system. But there is a fundamental mechanical flaw in the logic. I want to turn around and ...

You’ve spent weeks trading sharp, professional emails. You’ve held your own in high-stakes conference calls, dropping technical jargon like a pro and maybe even cracking a joke that actually landed. You’re a peer, a collaborator, a voice of authority. Then, the elevator doors open, you step out with your cane, and within three seconds, you watch—or rather, hear—the entire social fabric of the room unravel into a mess of frantic, unearned kindness.