Morning fellas 
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Good morning Stranger 
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Do as I do and just grow other stuff
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My first grow was Hella Jelly and I had fun torturing her in multiple ways. I started with topping her…and saving the trimming for my first attempt at cloning…first clone! Mama became a quad and produced 4 more clones. I grew them all out in a 3x3 and flipped all at the same time and scrogged the whole tent. Three years later, I finally smoked the last of it this past winter
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There are SO many things you can do with one plant. Hell look at what El Kaptian does to his. 
Maybe play around a bit
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The Great Surrender
Willy had been trying. He really had. Life, the universe, and everything was bearing down, and he was determined to handle it with grace.
He’d gone to the beach, put on his traditional regalia, and tried to connect with the taotaomona, the spirits of his ancestors, in a gentle way. He just wanted a little strength, maybe a small nod of approval.
Antoine, always the supportive, if slightly formal, well-fed friend, was right there. He’d even worn his purple beret and scarf to the beach to show solidarity through fashion, though he mostly stood around eating pizza and wondering why the ancestors needed to be this sweaty.
It was working. Briefly. Then, something cracked. This tiny request of the spirits came with a price. You must show desire and passion, tempered with great respect. The pressure from the ancestors didn’t let up. Willy’s primal defense was triggered. It started with a low mumble. A few guttural phrases in an ancient tongue Antoine didn’t recognize. The rhythm was changing. The polite request was dissolving into a deep, vibrating chant. The taotaomona weren’t just nodding; they were answering. And they were answering loudly.
Willy felt the ancient rage rising. The primal defense mechanism, the Tarsier Hulka, was taking over. His eyes popped. His skin tightened. His blue Wildwood Willy hat slipping off in a surge of energy. He was done being nice.
Willy: Hu sen faisen hita… guma’ta… Hu sen faisen… HU SEN FAISEN TAOTAOMONA!!! CHANT IT BACK, ANTOINE!
Antoine: “You chant, I’m doing pizza.”
Willy arches his back into a gravity-defying, backward-bending exorcism pose. His arms are outstretched, his mouth is open wide with his tongue flying out in a deep, guttural wazzup bishes, with his bloodshot eyes staring down his nose directly into the soul of anyone watching.
Antoine: Mon Dieu, Willy S’te-plaît e’ merci! L-Look, I… I am a supporter of la culture, but I… I did not sign up for… this primal intensity, snap out of it mon ami!
Antoine starts backing away in genuine terror, his fur standing on end. He reaches for his purple beret, which is now tied to a stick as a makeshift white flag of surrender, waving it frantically.
Willy: THEY HAVE NOT HEARD ME YET! Hu… Hu… HULKAAAA!!!
Willy begins to stomp the sand, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, guttural bark that echoes off the cliffs:
GUÅHU I NA’YAN! (Stomp)
GUÅHU I NA’YAN! (Stomp)
THE SPIRITS ARE THIRSTY, ANTOINE!
GUÅHU I NA’YAN! (Stomp)
THEIR THIRST MUST BE QUENCHED!
Antoine realizes he has had a visceral, pants-ruining biological reaction to the sight. The rhythmic thud of Willy’s feet feels like a heartbeat under the sand. He looks for the nearest exit, eyes wide and whiskers twitching in panic, his tail retracting in fear!
Antoine: Non! Non! Arrrgh! Non, c’est trop! Help! À l’aide! Arrgh, I am… I am… j’abandonne! I have peed a small amount! I am running! J’ABAN-DONNE, TABARNAK! S’te-plaît, arrête là! Willy!!
Antoine is an orange blur, running blindly down the beach and waving his tiny flag as the sand explodes around Willy’s feet. The children of the land have found their life, and Antoine has found the fastest way to the parking lot.
As Willy hits that final, bone-chilling note of the Hulka, the wind off the Philippine Sea picks up, carrying the scent of salt and ancient fires. The dancers in the background stop. They don’t see a Tarsier in a costume, they see a vessel.
Willy: (Voice dropping from a scream to a gravelly, earth-shaking whisper) Maman’ugo i famagu’on gihan i lina’la.
Antoine: (Stopped running, frozen for one last second, flag trembling) I do not know what you just said, mon ami, but the very sand is vibrating under my paws…
Willy stops his chanting, takes a deep breath and whispers: Si Yu’os ma’åse’ taotaomona.
The dust from the Hulka finally settles. The dancers have scattered, and the only sound left is the gentle lap of the Philippine Sea against the shore and the distant, rhythmic thumping of Antoine’s paws hitting the pavement in the parking lot.
Willy reaches down and picks up his blue hat, dusting the sand off it with a slow, steady hand. The primal fire has been replaced by a quiet, unshakable peace. He looks at the horizon, where the last sliver of the sun is dipping below the water, and speaks into the salt air.
Hu guaiya hao, i mames yan bonita asaguå-hu, todu i tiempo yan para siempre.
He isn’t just a warrior, he is a testament to the power of faith and family. He stands tall, not because the burden is light, but because his heart is full. He knows that even in the face of the unknown, he has a home in that love.
High above, the taotaomona finally go quiet, satisfied with his respectful display. Willy puts his hat back on, adjusts his sinahi, and starts the long walk home, leaving a single trail of small footprints in the cooling sand.
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morning Willy…such a imagination growmie… 
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Antoine got me crying this morning, he’s just perfect. I’m pleased to welcome him to my crazy French family’s 
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Morning ROG, it’s keeping me busy hope your day goes well brother
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Morning Monsieur Kap. When Antoine starts that Quebenglish you know it’s getting good .
I appreciate you, hope you day goes well brother.
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Me too Antoine, me too.
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Rats live on no evil star
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They may be closer than cousins. Antoine has said his Papa was a rolling stone plus fold a pizza slice you got a taco
Here he is on the cover of their new album named ‘Go hang a salami, I’m a lasagna hog!’
Antoine, discovers the legend—Taco Cat— isn’t just a linguistic anomaly, he’s family.
And of course Antoine has that Rolling Stone lineage! When your Papa is the stuff of legends (likely Keith), you don’t just eat pizza . . . you fold it. Because you are, implicitly, a Taco Cat. It’s in the DNA.
So, ladies and gentlemen, prepare your ears and hide your snacks. Making his grand debut, and embracing his folded-pizza paladrome destiny, here is the original Rolling Stone kitten himself, on tour for the chart-topping album:
GO HANG A SALAMI, I’M A LASAGNA HOG!
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Morning Brother Willy, you’re an AI wizard
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Morning OG, thanks brother. Hope your day goes well.
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Right back at ya Brother
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Here’s some inspiration for them… 
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