The Forest and other stuff

The Forest.

Listen, I’ve got no idea where moss actually grows. I’ve seen it in movies, sure. On trees. Or maybe under them? But as for using it to find north? Yeah, that’s a no from me, dawg. Maybe rethink recruiting Bear into your party.

Also, let’s be real: your foraging and herbology skills are clearly not maxed out. No way you're successfully identifying edible mushrooms or healing herbs. And what if you eat a poisonous one? You thought about that? Not all of them scream “I'm a death cap!” with neon signs. And the forest you're thinking of shacking up in? No oranges, no bananas. You’re not surviving on bark, dude— this ain’t ramen with seasoning packets.

So here's the better plan: move into a hut near the forest, ideally with a small store nearby that sells all the essentials. You don’t need much. If they’ve got chips and soda, you’ll survive—for a bit.

Until gastritis shows up and knocks on your door like an aggressive driver.

Now let’s talk huts. You probably imagine your dream cabin as a janky wooden shack with a leaky roof, the kind where college kids show up with Necronomicons and start summoning demons in Latin.

Honestly? I respect it. There’s some real entrepreneurial spark in you.

You could sell those chips at a markup. And demons aren’t even real (just don’t mention that to your customers). Worst-case scenario: you end up with a demon infestation and carpenter beetles, and have to call both pest control and the freaking Winchesters.

Only problem? You have to build that hut first. And you don’t know how.

Look, I know you’ve watched like a dozen YouTube tutorials and now think you’re the king of DIY. But did any of those off-grid gurus building houses from tinfoil, goat milk, and Loch Ness monster glands ever tell you that you need hands? Not just eyes to watch the videos—actual hands to hammer stuff.

And it’s those hands that’ll build your cozy forest palace in a region with solid infrastructure—but, sorry, no ocean view.

Tell you what—let me play realtor for a sec. We’ll find you a pre-built little house out in the middle of nowhere. Like Wisconsin! Wait... scratch that. Dangerous too. Let’s keep browsing.

One last thing: forests are creepy at night. So maybe, just maybe, consider bringing your grandma along. No, she won’t be much help if a grizzly shows up, but she can read you comic books before bed.

And bonus: she’s kind and wholesome. Sprinkle of cuteness for the soul.

The Cave.

It’s cold inside. Like, seriously cold. Like “my-nipples-could-cut-diamond” kind of cold. Oh, and it’s pitch dark, too.

Sure, you might get lucky and stumble upon some glowing microorganisms that light up your new dwelling with that soft, bioluminescent glow... but let’s be honest: you can’t cook a burger on a jellyfish rave. So bring a portable grill instead. You’ll need it.

Also, stock up on power banks so your phone flashlight doesn’t die mid-doomscrolling. And start thinking now about what you’ll do with the bats. Yeah, they’re probably not gonna throw you a welcome party. So maybe bake them a cake as a peace offering. Bat cake diplomacy—very underrated survival tactic.

Dragging a wardrobe down into a cave? Yeah, no. I feel your pain. Instead, use the stalactites and stalagmites around you. The ones hanging from the ceiling look like stone fangs, sure, but the ones rising from the floor? Boom. Instant minimalist clothes rack.

Cave ceilings are great for keeping things out—like human attention, nuclear blasts (well... maybe), and the slow, disappointed head-shaking of your parents right before they say:

"We really thought you'd open a law firm in this cave. You’ve let us down, son."

And that slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip sound echoing around the chamber? Might drive some people nuts, but not you. To you, it sounds like binaural beats, celestial choirs, and a chill duduk melody straight outta an Armenian spa playlist.

Your eyelids are heavy. You wanna lie down for a bit. You’ve prepped that trusty fold-out cot, and it’s almost comfortable... but damn, it’s cold in your subterranean kingdom. What to do?

Here’s the pro tip: bring a second robe and layer that sucker over the first one. Voilà. You’re now protected from hypothermia and spontaneous Sub-Zero cosplay. Time to drift off and dream.

Dreams of flight. Dreams of escape. Dreams of places you'll float to next.