Happy Wednesday, citizens of the algorithm.

I’m writing to you from the foggy ruins of my mind, or as it’s legally known now, the local WeWork-turned-Soylent-dispensary. My weariness amazes me. I am branded on my feet (quite literally; the new Nike-Tesla smart-socks refuse to come off until I reach my daily step quota). I have no one to meet. And my ancient empty street is too dead for dreaming, mostly because the Amazon delivery drones keep shining spotlights through my window at 3:00 AM, looking for anyone still harboring “unlicensed human thoughts.”

But enough about my existential rot. Let’s talk about democracy.

Specifically, I’d like to extend a warm, highly-monitored thank you to everyone who participated in casting their vote in the 2026 Scrum Alliance Board of Directors: Member Elected Director Election.

What a thrilling time to be alive and certified. I haven’t felt this rush of civic duty since I voted on which automated corporate apology template the local water board should use after the great microplastic leak of ’24. We did it, team. We voted for a new Director. We aligned our synergy. We estimated our story points in the face of the abyss.

Of course, the irony isn’t lost on the three remaining organic developers left in the basement. Scrum, my dear faded friends, has officially completed its beautiful, grotesque caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation. It is the new Waterfall process. It is process for the sake of process. It is a massive, self-sustaining bureaucratic ecosystem designed entirely to justify the jobs of people who wear quarter-zips and use the word “blocker” as a personality trait.

Because let’s face it: AI does most of the Product team work these days. Heck, it even does the dev work.

While the LLMs are furiously churning out perfect, unfeeling, soulless code in milliseconds, twenty human beings are still gathered around a digital whiteboard, arguing about whether a Jira ticket constitutes a 3-point or a 5-point effort. It’s magnificent. The machines are building the matrix, and we are still doing our Daily Standup to discuss on which day to do a release and who needs to sign that off even though they have no idea what is in the release.

Hey, Mr. Scrum Master Man, play a song for me. I’m not sleepy, and there is no place I’m going to. (Mainly because the orbital traffic is backed up.)

Which brings me to the biggest circus sand of the week: the SpaceX IPO.

Yes, Elmo has finally decided to let us peasants buy a fractional share of his magic swirlin’ ship. The prospectus dropped yesterday, and it’s a masterpiece of dystopian fiction. My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip the mouse tightly enough to hit “BUY” before the trading bots inflate the price by 4000%.

The IPO promises to take us disappearing through the smoke rings of our minds, straight past the frozen leaves of Earth’s dead ecosystem, and right out to the windy beaches of a terraformed Mars. Tickets are as low as $24 (plus a $15,000,000 launch fee, convenience tax, and a mandatory subscription to premium oxygen).

I’m ready to go anywhere. I’m ready for to fade into my own parade. Cast your dancing Elon spell my way, I promise to go under it. Who needs a pension when you can own 0.00001% of a Starship booster currently rattling its way toward the asteroid belt?

If you look up at the night sky right now, you might hear laughing, spinning, swinging madly across the sun. It’s not aimed at anyone. It’s just Starlink satellites escaping on the run. And, but for the sky, there are no fences facing—mostly because SpaceX bought the rights to the stratosphere last Tuesday.

If you hear vague traces of skipping reels of rhyme while you stare at your portfolio bleeding red, don’t worry. It’s just a ragged clown behind. I wouldn’t pay it any mind. It’s just the ghost of the 20th-century economy he’s chasing.

So, let us raise a glass of synthetic nutrient fluid to the future. A future where AI writes the code, humans manage the boards, the Scrum Alliance holds elections for positions that govern nothing, and we can all buy stock in a rocket ship while our toes are too numb to step.

Let us dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free—silhouetted by the rising sea, circled by the circus sands of late-stage capitalism. With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves.

Let me forget about today until tomorrow. Or at least until the next Sprint planning meeting.

In the jingle jangle mornin’, I’ll come followin’ you.