Daniel sent us this one — he's asking what the most laid-back countries and cultures are, the kind of places where time moves differently, where the rhythm of daily life is the most extreme antidote to the frenetic pace of the modern world. He wants to know where someone should actually visit if they need that reset. It's a travel question, but it's really a question about values — what cultures have decided speed isn't the point. There's a lot to unpack here.
The first thing worth saying is that "laid-back" isn't one thing. There's a real difference between a culture that's relaxed because of material abundance and strong social safety nets — think Scandinavia — versus a culture where the pace is slow because the metaphysical assumptions are different, where ambition itself is framed differently.
One is "I don't have to rush because I'm secure." The other is "I don't rush because rushing is missing the point of being alive.
And the prompt is clearly asking about the second one. The extreme antidote, not just "a nice place to decompress.
Where do we even start? Because I feel like there's a canonical answer here that everyone reaches for, and it might be right, but we should probably look past it too.
The canonical answer is Bhutan. And it's canonical for a reason. Bhutan is the only country in the world that officially measures Gross National Happiness instead of Gross Domestic Product. This isn't a metaphor — it's actual government policy. They have a GNH Commission that screens every major policy proposal. If a proposed highway or dam or trade agreement doesn't pass the happiness screen, it doesn't happen.
Which sounds lovely until you realize someone had to operationalize happiness into a government metric. There's something darkly funny about that.
There absolutely is. The GNH Index has nine domains — psychological wellbeing, health, education, time use, cultural diversity and resilience, good governance, community vitality, ecological diversity and resilience, and living standards. They survey thousands of households, weight the responses, and produce a number. It's the bureaucratic sublime.
"Sorry, your bridge scored poorly on community vitality. The bridge is sad.
Here's the thing — it does produce real outcomes. Bhutan maintains a constitutional mandate that sixty percent of the country must remain forested. It's currently over seventy percent. They're carbon-negative — one of the only countries in the world that absorbs more carbon than it emits. Tourism is capped through a daily sustainable development fee. When I was there, it was two hundred fifty dollars per day, and it recently dropped to a hundred, though that's been fluctuating with policy changes.
Wait, you've actually been?
I went in twenty eighteen. And I have to say, the pace is genuinely different. It's not performance. You land in Paro — the airport is this tiny strip between mountains, only a handful of pilots in the world are certified to land there — and immediately everything feels less urgent. People walk slower. Conversations take as long as they take. There's no sense that the person you're talking to is mentally calculating when they can exit.
Which is the default mode in most of the world now. Every conversation is a transaction with an invisible timer.
That's what we're really talking about here, right? The prompt is asking for an antidote to a world where everything feels like it's accelerating. Where attention is fragmented, where notifications are relentless, where the baseline state is low-grade overwhelm. So the question becomes: which cultures have built systems — formal or informal — that push back against that?
Bhutan's the poster child.
Laos deserves a real mention, and it's often overlooked because it gets lumped in with its neighbors. But Laos has something distinctive. There's a concept — "sabai sabai" is the Thai version, but in Laos it's even more embedded. It roughly translates to "relaxed, comfortable, take it easy," but the deeper meaning is about not letting things disturb your inner state.
The Lao version of "no worries.
Yes, but deeper. It's connected to a Buddhist framework where attachment and craving are understood as the root of suffering. So the cultural ideal isn't just being chill — it's a practiced non-attachment. You see it in the pace of life in Luang Prabang especially. Monks collecting alms at dawn, the Mekong River moving slowly, markets that open when they open. There's a phrase there: "bor pen nyang" — it means "it's nothing" or "no problem," but it's used in contexts where a Westerner would be visibly stressed. "Bor pen nyang."Bor pen nyang." It's not denial. It's a genuine cultural value that getting upset doesn't help.
I've always found that tension interesting though. Because from the outside, "bor pen nyang" can look like passivity or lack of initiative. And I'm sure there are Lao people who feel suffocated by it. The laid-back culture that's a salvation for the stressed visitor can be a cage for the ambitious local.
That's the central tension of this entire conversation, and we should sit with it. One person's peaceful rhythm is another person's stagnation. When we romanticize these cultures, we're often doing it from a position of having already accumulated — career, savings, experiences — and now we want the off-ramp. But for someone born into it, the slowness isn't a luxury; it's just the water they swim in.
The water can feel like quicksand if you want to move faster than the culture allows.
There's a term in psychology — "person-culture fit" — and it cuts both ways. The same cultural trait can be a blessing or a burden depending on the person.
We should probably acknowledge that built into the premise. The quest for the most laid-back culture is inherently a quest by someone who's not from one. It's a search for contrast.
That's fine. The prompt is honest about that — it's someone looking for the extreme antidote. So let's give the answer while being clear-eyed about what we're doing.
Far we've got Bhutan and Laos. What about the Pacific Islands? That seems like the obvious next cluster.
Vanuatu has topped the Happy Planet Index multiple times — it was number one in the last full ranking I saw. The Happy Planet Index, by the way, measures sustainable wellbeing. It's a ratio of life satisfaction and life expectancy to ecological footprint. Vanuatu scores extraordinarily well because people report high wellbeing while consuming very little.
It's efficient happiness. High miles per gallon on contentment.
That's exactly what it is. And if you go there, the pace is immediately obvious. "Island time" is a cliché, but in Vanuatu it's not just about things starting late — it's about a fundamentally different relationship to clock time. In many villages, if you ask when something will happen, the answer is "when it happens." Not as evasion, but as a genuine expression that time isn't something to be controlled.
There's a philosophical distinction here that I think matters. Some cultures are laid-back because they've rejected the clock. Others are laid-back because they've never been colonized by it in the first place. Vanuatu is more the latter.
That's an important distinction. The rejection of clock time — what you see in some Western intentional communities or the slow food movement or whatever — is a conscious countercultural choice. It's a decision. In places like Vanuatu, or parts of rural Indonesia, or the more remote islands of Fiji, the clock simply never achieved full dominance. It's not a counterculture because there's no dominant time-obsessed culture to counter.
It's prelapsarian. Before the fall into scheduling.
That's romanticizing it, but structurally, yes. And to be clear, these places aren't utopias. Vanuatu is one of the most disaster-vulnerable countries on earth — cyclones, earthquakes, volcanic activity. The laid-back quality coexists with real material hardship. It's not a vacation resort that happens to have a relaxed vibe; it's a place where people have built resilience through community and acceptance because they have to.
Which makes the "antidote" framing a little complicated. You're not visiting to absorb their wisdom; you're visiting to feel better. There's an extractive quality to it if you're not careful.
But the prompt isn't asking us to solve that. It's asking where to go. And I'd still say Vanuatu belongs on the list.
What about Costa Rica? That's the one everyone mentions in these conversations.
Costa Rica is fascinating because it's a modern state — reasonably developed, decent infrastructure, functioning democracy — that has nonetheless built slowness into its national identity. "Pura vida" is both a greeting and a philosophy. It literally means "pure life," but functionally it means something like "this is what life is, accept it, enjoy it, don't fight it.
The interesting thing about "pura vida" is that it's used in contexts where we'd say "it is what it is" or "that's life" — but with a positive valence. Our versions are resigned. Theirs is affirmative.
And Costa Rica also abolished its military in nineteen forty-eight and redirected that spending to education and healthcare. It consistently ranks near the top of global happiness indices. It's the most biodiverse country per square kilometer on earth. There's a structural basis for the chill.
It's not just vibes. There's a material foundation. Free education, universal healthcare, no military budget, extraordinary natural beauty. The "pura vida" attitude is downstream of actual conditions.
But culture isn't purely downstream of material conditions. There's a feedback loop. The decision to abolish the military and invest in wellbeing was itself a cultural choice. A different culture with the same resources might have made different choices.
So Costa Rica is on the list. What about the Mediterranean? Greece, Italy, Spain — these places have reputations.
They do, but I think we need to be careful here. The Mediterranean siesta culture is real, but it's also under pressure. Greece has been through a decade and a half of economic crisis. Youth unemployment has been catastrophic. The relaxed café culture still exists, but it's increasingly a coping mechanism rather than a philosophy.
"We're not relaxed, we're exhausted.
That said, there are pockets where the pace is different. Sardinia is one of the world's Blue Zones — regions where people live measurably longer. The lifestyle includes a lot of walking, strong community ties, a diet heavy in legumes and vegetables, and a pace that isn't frantic. The centenarians there aren't doing high-intensity interval training. They're just living slowly and consistently.
Sardinia is interesting because it's not on the main tourist circuit the way the Amalfi Coast or Tuscany is. It's more insular, more stubborn about its own rhythms.
That insularity is part of what preserved the pace. Globalization is a homogenizing force, and one of the things it homogenizes is speed. Places that stay slow are often places that are harder to reach, less connected, less eager to accommodate outside expectations.
Which brings us to the broader point: the most laid-back places tend to be the ones that aren't trying to attract you.
And that's almost a paradox for the traveler. The kind of place the prompt is asking about — the extreme antidote — is probably not a place with a tourism board that's optimized its Instagram presence. It's a place that's indifferent to whether you come or not.
The travel industry sells "escape" but delivers the opposite. The resort that promises tranquility is often just a dense concentration of the same frenetic people in a prettier setting. The real escape is going somewhere that wasn't designed for escape.
Then the question becomes: what are the places that are indifferent to the global economy of attention and pace?
I'd put parts of Mongolia on that list. And I'm not just saying that because of my extremely well-documented Mongolian heritage.
Your heritage is documented nowhere. You've produced zero documents.
The documents are in Mongolia. You wouldn't know them.
Okay, but setting aside the fictional biography — Mongolia is actually a strong candidate. The nomadic herding culture that still exists across huge swaths of the country operates on a rhythm that's seasonal, not hourly. Decisions are made when they need to be made. The landscape itself imposes a pace — you can't rush across the steppe. The distances are too vast, the conditions too extreme. It forces a kind of patience.
There's a cultural value around hospitality that's tied to that pace. If you show up at a ger — the traditional felt tent — you'll be offered tea. It might take an hour to prepare. You'll drink it slowly. There's no rush because where are you going? The next ger is fifty kilometers away.
The geography as a forcing function for slowness is something we see in a lot of these places. The Andean highlands in Peru and Bolivia — altitude forces you to move slower. You literally can't rush at four thousand meters. The body won't allow it.
The altitude does the cultural work. You don't need a philosophy of slowness when your lungs make the decision for you.
And in the Andes, you also have indigenous concepts of time that are fundamentally different. The Aymara people, for instance — there's linguistic evidence that they conceptualize the past as in front of them and the future as behind them. The idea is that you can see what's already happened, so it's in front of you. The future is unknown, so it's behind you, where you can't see it.
That's a complete inversion of the Western metaphor. We talk about "looking forward to the future" and "putting the past behind us." They do the opposite.
If your fundamental spatial metaphor for time is reversed, your entire relationship to planning, ambition, and progress shifts. You're not striding into the future; you're backing into it. That's about as far from Silicon Valley's "move fast and break things" as you can get.
I love that. Backing into the future. It's almost a posture of humility. You can't see where you're going, so you move carefully.
Which is, honestly, a more accurate representation of reality than the confident march forward.
We've got Bhutan, Laos, Vanuatu, Costa Rica, Sardinia, Mongolia, the Andean highlands. What about Africa? We haven't touched that continent at all.
A significant omission. I'd point to Malawi. It's often called the "warm heart of Africa," and while that's a tourism slogan, there's something to it. The pace of life in Malawi is notably unhurried. It's one of the poorest countries in the world, so again, we have to be careful about romanticizing what might simply be a lack of options. But there's a genuine cultural warmth and a sense that relationships take priority over schedules.
The "Malawi time" phenomenon?
Meetings start when everyone has arrived. Conversations don't have an implicit end time. If you're walking somewhere and you encounter a friend, you stop and talk. The idea that you'd say "sorry, I'm late for something" and rush past would be considered rude. The relationship is the thing. The schedule serves the relationships, not the other way around.
That's the thread connecting all of these places, isn't it? In a laid-back culture, the schedule serves the relationships. In a frenetic culture, relationships serve the schedule.
That's probably the single most important insight in this whole discussion. You've just compressed the entire thing into one sentence.
I have my moments.
The anthropologist Edward T. Hall made a related distinction between monochronic and polychronic cultures. Monochronic cultures do one thing at a time, value punctuality, treat time as a commodity — that's Northern Europe, North America, parts of East Asia. Polychronic cultures do many things at once, prioritize relationships over schedules, treat time as fluid — that's much of Latin America, the Middle East, Africa, South Asia.
The world economy is built around monochronic assumptions. So the polychronic cultures are constantly being told they're doing time wrong.
While simultaneously being the places the monochronic people flee to when they burn out.
There's an irony there. The global North imposes its time discipline everywhere, and then pays to escape it.
It's not a new pattern. Colonialism did this too — impose the clock, impose the calendar, impose the work discipline, and then romanticize the "timeless" quality of the colonized culture.
Where does that leave our traveler? The prompt is genuine — someone who feels the weight of the frenetic world and wants the extreme antidote. What's the actual recommendation?
I think it depends on what flavor of antidote you need. Let me propose a framework. There are roughly three categories of laid-back cultures.
Category one: the spiritual or philosophical slowness. These are places where the pace is slow because the dominant worldview doesn't prioritize material accumulation or linear progress. Bhutan is the archetype. Laos fits here too. Parts of Bali, outside the tourist zones, where the Hindu-Buddhist calendar structures daily life around ceremonies and offerings. These are places where slowness is ideologically grounded.
Category two: the geographic or climatic slowness. These are places where the environment imposes the pace. The Mongolian steppe, the Andean highlands, the Sahara, the Amazon basin. Extreme heat, extreme cold, extreme altitude, vast distances — nature sets the tempo, and humans adapt.
Category three: the social-relational slowness. These are places where the pace is slow because relationships are the highest value, and relationships take time. Malawi, Vanuatu, much of the Caribbean, parts of the American South, rural Ireland.
Rural Ireland is an interesting one to include, actually. The prompt came from someone originally from Ireland, so that's worth noting — there's a specific cultural baseline there. The Irish pub culture, the way conversations meander, the resistance to being rushed. It's a different flavor from the tropical versions, but it's real.
And it's worth noting that Ireland has undergone rapid economic transformation — the Celtic Tiger, the tech boom — so the laid-back quality is now in tension with a modern economy. But it persists in the social fabric. The pub is still a place where time is supposed to expand.
If someone is planning a trip — the prompt asks "where age must visit," meaning this is a significant, probably once-off journey — which of these categories delivers the strongest antidote?
If you want the most extreme contrast to the frenetic modern world, I'd argue for Bhutan. It's not just slow; it's programmatically slow. The government has a policy of "high value, low impact" tourism. You can't just show up and wander around. You have to pay the daily fee, you have to have a guide, you have to follow certain routes. It's curated slowness, which sounds like a contradiction but actually works.
The slowness is mandatory. You're not allowed to rush.
And that's different from a place where you could rush if you wanted to but people just don't. In Bhutan, the infrastructure itself — the mountain roads, the limited flights, the regulated tourism — means you physically cannot move fast. The country makes the decision for you.
Which for some people is exactly what they need. They can't trust themselves to slow down, so they need a place that removes the option.
That's not a weakness. That's self-knowledge. If you know you'll check your email at the beach, go somewhere without cell service.
The counterargument for Vanuatu or Laos would be that they're less curated, less expensive, and the slowness is more organic. Bhutan's slowness is partly a policy choice; Vanuatu's is just how life works.
And Vanuatu is also more accessible in terms of visa requirements and cost, though getting there is a journey. But I'd say the "extreme antidote" the prompt is asking for probably leans toward the curated version. If you're making a pilgrimage specifically to reset your relationship to time, go to the place that's made slowness its national project.
I think there's also a case for Mongolia, and not just because it's my alleged homeland. The steppe is the opposite of the curated experience. It's vast and indifferent. There's no program, no itinerary that holds up. You're at the mercy of weather, distance, and the hospitality of herders. That kind of slowness is humbling in a way that a guided tour in Bhutan isn't.
That's a fair distinction. Bhutan offers a structured encounter with slowness. Mongolia offers an unstructured one. Different travelers will need different things.
What about the Nordic countries? They keep showing up in happiness rankings, and they're not exactly frenetic.
The Nordic countries are interesting because they're relaxed in outcome but not necessarily in process. Finns report high life satisfaction, but Finnish culture is punctual, efficient, and not particularly warm in the interpersonal sense. The relaxation comes from security — you're not stressed about healthcare or education or unemployment because the state has your back. But the daily pace isn't slow in the way we've been discussing. It's just low-anxiety.
It's the wrong kind of laid-back for this prompt. The security kind, not the philosophical kind.
If you want to learn a different relationship to time, Helsinki won't teach you that. Luang Prabang will.
Let's talk about the practical side. The prompt asks where to visit. If someone is actually booking flights, what should they know?
For Bhutan, the practicals: you fly into Paro, likely via Bangkok or Delhi. The daily sustainable development fee is currently a hundred dollars per day for most visitors, though this has been fluctuating — it was two hundred fifty before and may change again. You need a visa arranged through a licensed tour operator. You can't go independent. The best seasons are spring — March to May — and autumn — September to November. The high passes close in winter.
What does a day actually look like there?
Your guide meets you after breakfast. You might hike to a monastery — Tiger's Nest is the famous one, clinging to a cliff at three thousand meters. But there are dozens of others that are less visited. Lunch is leisurely. Afternoons might involve visiting a dzong — the fortress-monasteries that serve as administrative centers — or walking through a village. Evenings are quiet. The hotels are comfortable but not lavish. You sleep early because the mountains go dark and there's not much else to do.
That's the thing about these places — the slowness is partly a function of limited options. When there's no nightlife, no shopping district, no constant stream of events, your nervous system downshifts by default.
That's a feature, not a bug, for the person seeking the antidote. You want the limited options. You want the boredom, initially, because boredom is the withdrawal symptom from constant stimulation. You have to go through it to get to the other side.
The detox model of travel.
It's not wrong. If you've been mainlining notifications and news cycles for years, a week of silence isn't going to fix it. You need enough time for your baseline to reset.
How long is enough?
I'd say three weeks minimum in a place like Bhutan or Laos to really feel the shift. The first week you're still carrying the pace of home. You're mentally checking for Wi-Fi, you're restless, you're comparing everything. The second week you start to settle. By the third week, you've adapted to the local rhythm. You stop noticing the slowness because you're inside it.
That's a luxury of time that most people don't have. Three weeks is a significant chunk.
But the prompt says "where age must visit" — implying this is a major, perhaps once-in-a-lifetime journey. If you're going to do it, do it properly. Don't fly to Bhutan for five days. You'll spend half that time in transit and the other half jetlagged. The slowness won't take.
What about Laos? What's the practical picture there?
Laos is more accessible budget-wise but also more independent. You can fly into Luang Prabang from Bangkok or Hanoi. No mandatory guide, no daily fee. Accommodation ranges from hostels to very nice boutique hotels. The pace in Luang Prabang is naturally slow — morning alms-giving, waterfalls, river trips, temples. You can rent a bicycle and just drift. It's less structured than Bhutan, which is either a benefit or a drawback depending on what you need.
I'd say the person who needs Bhutan is someone who will otherwise fill the unstructured time with their phone. The structure protects them from themselves.
That's probably right. The curated slowness is for people who've forgotten how to be slow and need to be re-taught. The unstructured slowness is for people who still have the muscle memory.
Harder to reach. Flights via Australia or Fiji. Once you're there, the outer islands are where the pace is most distinct. Tanna, Espiritu Santo, Pentecost. The infrastructure is basic. This is not a luxury experience. It's a genuine encounter with a different way of living. The appeal is the rawness — you're not being catered to, you're being allowed in.
Which can be uncomfortable in its own way. Not everyone wants their antidote to come with bucket showers and intermittent electricity.
And that's okay. The prompt doesn't need to be answered with the most extreme option. It needs to be answered with the option that actually works for the specific person. The goal is to reset your relationship to time, not to prove you can rough it.
Let's talk about what happens after. The prompt is about visiting these places — but presumably the goal is to bring something back. Otherwise it's just an expensive nap.
That's the real question, isn't it? Can you import a different relationship to time? Or does it only work in situ?
I'm skeptical that it transfers cleanly. You come back from three weeks in Bhutan and within forty-eight hours you're refreshing your inbox at eleven p.The gravitational pull of the home environment is incredibly strong.
The research on this is mixed but mostly pessimistic. Context matters enormously for behavior. You can't just transplant a practice — you have to restructure the environment that cues the behavior.
The trip is a respite, not a cure.
It can be more than a respite if you're deliberate about it. The people I know who've made lasting changes after these kinds of trips did two things. One, they made specific, small commitments — not "I'll be more present" but "I won't look at my phone before nine a." Two, they changed their physical environment — different notification settings, different furniture arrangement, different morning routines. They built a little Bhutan at home.
The micro-Bhutan. A corner of the apartment where time moves differently.
It sounds absurd, but yes. Environmental cues are powerful. If you can create a space that signals "this is the slow zone," your behavior will follow.
The trip isn't the solution; it's the inspiration. You go to see what's possible, then you come back and build a smaller version.
That's probably the most honest way to answer the prompt. Go to Bhutan, or Laos, or Vanuatu, or the Mongolian steppe. Let it show you what a different pace feels like. Pay attention to what specifically shifts — is it the absence of notifications? The presence of natural rhythms? The way conversations aren't rushed? The lack of consumer choice? Then bring back the pieces you can actually implement.
That's more practical than I expected from you.
I contain multitudes.
What about the places we haven't mentioned? I feel like Japan has a version of this that's different from what we've discussed.
Japan is complicated. On the surface, it's one of the most fast-paced, high-pressure societies on earth — Tokyo is the definition of sensory overload. But there's a deep countercurrent. The tea ceremony is a practice of radical slowness. The concept of "ma" — negative space, the pause between things — is central to Japanese aesthetics. Forest bathing, or shinrin-yoku, is prescribed by doctors. The onsen culture is about soaking without purpose.
Japan contains its own antidote within itself.
And the rural parts — Shikoku, the Kii Peninsula, Tohoku — operate on a completely different rhythm from the cities. The Shikoku pilgrimage, visiting eighty-eight temples over weeks or months, is about as slow as travel gets.
It's not a laid-back culture in the way we've been discussing. It's a high-tension culture with deliberate pressure-release valves.
The slowness is ritualized rather than ambient. It's something you do, not something you are.
Which might actually be more useful for the returning traveler. The Japanese model says: you can live in a high-speed society and still build slow practices. You don't have to abandon modernity; you just need to carve out spaces.
That's a more realistic model for most people than "move to a monastery in Bhutan.
Although I suspect a few listeners are now pricing flights to Paro.
I wouldn't discourage them. The trip is worth it. Just go in with clear eyes about what it can and can't do.
We should probably try to summarize. If someone says "give me the list — where should I actually go?" — what's the answer?
Number one: Bhutan, for the curated, programmatic slowness. The extreme antidote. Number two: Laos, specifically Luang Prabang and the Mekong region, for a gentler, more organic version. Number three: Vanuatu's outer islands, for the most radical departure from clock time. Number four: Mongolia's steppe, for the geographic version — slowness imposed by landscape. Number five: Costa Rica, for the most accessible entry point that still delivers a genuine shift.
If they want Europe?
Sardinia's interior, not the coast. The Blue Zone villages where people live past a hundred by not rushing. Or the Azores — isolated, green, misty, operating on island time without the Caribbean heat.
The Azores are underrated in these conversations. They're Europe but they're not really Europe. They're this volcanic archipelago in the middle of the Atlantic, and the pace is set by cows and hydrangeas.
That's the Azores in one sentence. Cows and hydrangeas.
What's the single most important thing for someone planning this kind of trip to understand?
That the slowness will feel uncomfortable at first. You'll be bored. You'll be restless. You'll reach for your phone. That's not a sign that something's wrong — it's a sign that the detox is working. Stay with it. The boredom is the doorway.
Don't try to optimize the slowness. Don't make a spreadsheet of relaxing activities. The point is to stop optimizing.
The irony of the Type-A person planning the perfect relaxation itinerary is one of the great tragicomedies of modern travel.
"I've scheduled my spontaneity for two to four p.
"Then we have unstructured wandering from four to four-thirty, followed by a fifteen-minute block of being present.
So don't do that. Go to one of these places, stay long enough for your nervous system to downshift, and let the days unfold without a plan.
When you come back, build your micro-Bhutan. Change one thing about your environment that cues slowness. That's how the trip becomes more than a memory.
That's a good place to land.
And now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In eighteen thirteen, a Russian naval expedition to Sakhalin recorded anomalous radio emissions from the constellation Cassiopeia — a phenomenon that would not be formally identified as radio astronomy until more than a century later, making "Sakhalin" the etymological root of the Russian term for static interference, "sakhalinskii shum.
A radio astronomy discovery in eighteen thirteen. Before radio existed.
I have several questions and I'm choosing not to ask any of them.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer, Hilbert Flumingtop, for the fact and the production. You can find every episode at myweirdprompts.com or wherever you get your podcasts. If you enjoyed this, leave us a review — it helps.
Until next time.
