Listen up.

I'm not like these other clowns out here, alright? I burn local.
I’m talkin’ hand-split oak from Jerry’s Backyard Timber Lot off Route 17. Not some big box, mass-produced, chemically-soaked, pre-cut, shrink-wrapped pine nonsense, man. That ain’t me. That’s not how I was raised.

I got a guy, alright? I got a firewood guy. He’s got rough hands, drinks coffee from a Thermos that smells like diesel fuel, and he calls me "boss" even though I tell him not to. That’s real. That’s authentic.

And I don’t burn in no prefab fire pit you get from a catalog, okay? I built mine. With my own two hands.
...And a Task Rabbit named Caleb. But I supervised. I supervised hard. I was out there. Gloves on. Patagonia fleece zipped halfway up. Grinding.

You ever start a fire in the rain?
No? Then don’t talk to me about struggle.
I was out there last Thursday. Drizzle. 63 degrees. No wind cover. I still lit that match. You think you know pressure? Try igniting damp kindling with artisanal strike-anywheres while a date watches from the porch with a glass of chilled Tempranillo.

I’m not out here for clout, alright? I’m not burning for the 'Gram.
I don’t need no fire-filter. This ain’t about aesthetics. This is about honor.
This is about grit. This is about being a real one.

You think I post my firewood stack online?
Hell no. That stack’s for me.
It’s crooked, yeah. A little wobbly. But it’s honest. It’s built with love. And with the help of my landscape architect, Ron, who honestly gets me.

I don’t need to prove nothin’ to nobody.

So yeah. I burn local.
Because real recognize real.
And if that makes me different?
Then maybe the rest of y’all are just cold.