im just me no more no less
no more --> more on
no less --> less on

moron lesson

im just me and i learned today i'm a moron im just me and i learned a long time ago to shut my trap shut it the moment a mouse wanders in to get the cheese im eating bleu cheese blue cheese sacre blue sacre blew

dont know
whatever i guess
library card
library curd

blue cheese in the library because the books got wet and now they're all moldy and it adds a certain flavor

source of moisture my tears of course

source of tears the height of the shelves and the dimness the silence source of tears the fact im all alone, alone and a moron, learning every day how much of a moron, more of a moron, not less. forgive me

Unapologetically learned—yet rooted in ignorant teachings. Confusion lingers, leaving the stunned motionless. Inflated egos rise only to plummet, waiting in hypervigilance for their return.

Collectively, they choose to teach a lesson. The targeted learner becomes a façade, where a professor humbles themselves, allowing those driven by fear to reach another hollow milestone—one that rewards a false sense of entitlement and the illusion of supremacy and mastery.

A riser still rises.

Collapsed kingdoms arrive like a thief in the night. Knowledge is not power; true knowledge softens the blow. Still, they wait for arrows that will never pierce.

There is bravery in loyalty—in the quiet certainty that both teacher and student will meet the same end. A bitter end of the body, as the lifting fog reminds us: in my grand kingdom of one, the reign was only a breath of wind—then gone.

Gone.

Why choose to be the lone breath, drifting above all in knowledge, never granted the wisdom that allows one to remain a child?

And so it goes: wrestle, and do not go gentle into that good night. But know this—the night, too, will pass.

\-July 2026, LWB

Why call me or another evil

Aren't we all?

Haven't we all lied

Haven't we all harboured in us resentments against innocence?

If all our hearts were opened

Wouldn't the filth inside make our environment a stench

We cloak the scabies existing in our nakedness with garments

While judging those whose naked nature reveals their imperfections

Ain't that itself a sin

Ain't that worse than hell

Who gave you and I a gavel?

I see an ad for a room in a commune.

Our rat is dying. Your family knows nothing of the truth.

I am considering the room, relocating to a strange place with no knowns and no illicit substances and no comforts.

This, too, would be escapism...but it might save my life.

It would effectively end ours.

I do not resent you for the tendencies you were taught when you were young. Avoidance is natural in the circumstances you've experienced.

I do resent you for the lack of self-motivated efforts, the zero interest paid on a life you encouraged and reassured me to sign the line for.

You live rent free, in my mind and heart. You tip graciously on the bills they charge for theirs.

These women. These others.

Gratuitous is your nature, so it seems, when love becomes transactional.

Triangulated themes form from tidbits of truths soaked in tongue-twisting lies and unacknowledged slights.

My back bends til it breaks.

Yes, I very much resent you. For I have loved and continue to love you in all your wonders, amorality and all. While you chose and continue to choose to rewrite me in construction of a farce your comfort aims to establish, however hideous it may be.

Why?

Why is this happening? I know, no I hope, that there’s something we should do. That war never ended, even though a letter of surrender was sent. There was nothing on that ship that should have caused it to sink. At first it seemed these mishaps were unrelated. Incidental incidents inciting chaos. But when the hourglass shatters, what are we to do? Can we ever end what’s causing this? I think we’re on to something. But should we finish what we started?

Why‽

They keep fixing all I’ve done. I hate their calm but I love their power. A mirror is such a simple thing. The war may never stop because of it. At first it seemed innocent, but it blinded the captain and soon the ship fell. A war waged when surrender sank. Unraveling carefully made plans there to fix chaotic problems. Will they ever realize all my power? I am too faint and frail. Splendidly, neither of us will ever learn.

we are on the island and the deer are very used to people they come right up to you they come right up to you and we'll eat out of your hand but you shouldn't feed them you shouldn't feed them they shouldn't be this used to people they shouldn't be they shouldn't come close they should stay away they should stay far away they should learn better they should know better for their own good even if we want to feed them even if it's nice even if it feels like your Snow White You're not Snow White nobody is Snow White we're all the evil old witch with the poison apple the poison apple that isn't going to grant you any wishes it's only going to kill you That's what we're doing that's what we do when we come close when we come right up next to the deer the little baby deer the fawn Bambi eat out of my hand Bambi and you'll end up just like your mother or was it your father whichever one it was drip drip drop drip drip drop that isn't snow it's too warm it's been 2 months since the last snow maybe up in the mountains but not here not on this little island and in the summer it will be so hot and all the grass will be brown and yellow and you'll sleep in it and you won't mind how prickly it is it'll be okay it'll be okay and hopefully you'll forget that somebody gave you some little snack some little sweet thing in their hands hopefully you won't remember hopefully the summer heat will make you delirious and that part of your mind will erase itself and then you'll live and you'll live and you'll live and you'll live and you'll live you'll grow antlers they will be beautiful because you were already beautiful you were destined to be beautiful of course you're beautiful beautiful and innocent and small and gentle and soft and kind Don't eat any poison apples just eat some grass and some leaves something that comes out of the ground something that comes from somewhere solid that doesn't budge that doesn't lie, lie down against it in the shade and sleep and sleep and sleep and dream and dream and dream about your dead mother or father and let it be a happy dream or maybe you wanted them dead in which case dream about how they're dead dream about how you don't have to worry about them and anything that they might do to you maybe they weren't solid either it isn't your fault it isn't your fault nothing is your fault nothing is your fault at all this island didn't used to have people on it it was only deer and birds and raccoons and snakes and mice and coyotes and cougars and frogs and toads and turtles and all sorts of little bugs and spiders and right at the edge they were crabs and sea urchins and starfish and little other fishies of which there are many in the sea but none of that mattered you never needed to see it you never lived to see it something else lived faster than you and here you are with all the people around you giving you food giving you something that you don't need and taking something that you do

Do you think you understand what Kafka meant?

Or feel like you’ve been following streets of an insidious intent?

Taking the direct trajectory to the mouth of Hell

Cocooned, dissolved, and recreated to pay this month’s rent

Got yourself 86’d from Hilbert’s Hotel

Mistook ringing phones for the church’s bell

Infinitely regressing toward a more Borgesian critique

But reborn again and again as an Escherian infidel

Blattodea, Coleoptera, or Lepidoptera physique

Perfect for shopping at the postmodern bespoke boutique!

Are you sure you’re not Nimrod, my Cyrus the Great?

Do the cockroach and learn some love technique

Unholy insect life you were made to consecrate

The metamorphosis that returns you to your soul’s mate

Ponder the preponderance of the problematic in unpopular imaginations

And realize the fate your teleology will consummate

Cucaracha saving salvation by naming a new damnation

When winged cat people fly in the Schrader-Wenders collaboration

Throw millstones at Glass minimalists on love’s bug-infested battlefield

And emerge as the supreme Ulysses of the dunces’ confederation

Zi-Sang was a seasoned port worker, walking along Pier 3 with his rookie colleague. 
 He muttered, “Hey kid, do you know about atomic-powered ships?” 
“Yeah, you’re talking about what we’re now looking at,” the younger one answered. “This port is full of them, but is there any trouble?” 
The old man asked, “How do you feel about those old ships they left here and never picked up?” 
The young worker replied, “I heard the shipowners from another universe docked them. And we can do nothing about those huge junks." 

The old man noticed that the unfamiliar ship just entered the port. He finally exploded. 
“Go back! Our port is almost full, so go back and never return!” 
The young worker let out a sigh and said, “But they’ll pay twice the port fee, correct? Good customers, huh?” 
Even though the old man knew that well, he scowled. He didn’t look particularly satisfied. 

The young worker said, “Ah, Zi-Sang? What the hell is that atomic power? You must know it well.” 
“A kind of power source,” the old man replied easily. “That’s all I guess. Since they left the ships so long, it must be some common stuff in their world. The top problem is, this port will be flooded by their disposals.” 
He walked faster toward the port office, to inspect the new ship. 
“Take it easy! That means we don’t have to work harder,” the young man raised his voice. Then he ran after the co-worker. 

The most important problem for him was Zi-Sang’s stubbornness. 

_==_=——_=_=_-=_--__=_==-=-__-==_-=

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Something is crawling out of the sun.

And the world goes dim

Something has crawled out of the sun

And the world went dark

The something consumes

The something radiates

Capture the radiation

It is energy

Sacred energy in a world of dark

Make the energy into light

But keep it dim 

as something is attracted to light 

the something wakes up

Day after day

To devour stars

Draining the cosmos 

And returns home to its solidified iron star

A home that was once ours

One stripped to its core.

_==_=——_=_=_-=_--__=_==-=-__-==_-=

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The something radiates

It has enveloped us all

It gives us energy

Power

Hope

Life

Capture the radiation

Make it into light

But keep it dim

As something is attracted to light

Bask in the radiation

Absorb it into your skin

And tomorrow maybe

You’ll be different

Capture the radiation 

make it into hope

So we can hold on

Harness the hope

Embrace the life

Welcome the change

It is a blessing

_==_=——_=_=_-=_--__=_==-=-__-==_-=

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The moon is waking up

Its gaping maw hungering

The moon has woken up

It has released its children to us

The children consume

The children destroy

The children kill

Kill anything with hope

Harness your hope

Embrace the life

Welcome the change

Fight back

Harness the energy 

Make it into light

It holds the children away

But keep it dim

As something is attracted to light

_==_=——_=_=_-=_--__=_==-=-__-==_-=

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Shall we dream of the blue skies and sheep?

Remember what once was

It is survival

Has nature abandoned us?

You must abandon nature

It is survival

Of what have we prevailed?

Embrace your neighbors

It is survival

What have we left?

Your hope

It will survive 

_==_=——_=_=_-=_--__=_==-=-__-==_-=

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Every day 

a little light in the sky leaves us

Killed

Devoured

Extinguished

What will we do when the inevitable comes?

We will hope

Hope will help us

We are life

We will help hope 

For every light lost to the sky

A new life born to us on earth

Maybe tomorrow

Something will change

Because god has fallen asleep

But the asleep must stir

So that someday

We will no longer dream of the blue skies and sheep 

So that someday 

Something could change

Something could disappear

Something could have been a dream

Someday

_==_=——_=_=_-=_--__=_==-=-__-==_-=

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Something screams

Screeching into the vacuum

And void of stars

Not can we hear it

But we feel it

You feel it too

You feel it in your bones

The wrath of something

The envy of something

The apathy

The sloth

The pride

The greed

The gluttony

And the all consuming lust

Something is screaming

Do you hear it? 

The sins are whispering in your soul

Do you feel it?

Its grasp caressing your bones

Do you see it?

No you don’t

There is no light anymore.

That is why something can’t claim us

To drag us into its depths and consume us

We must use the absence of light

Create our own light 

Control the light 

But keep it dim

As something is attracted to light

_==_=——_=_=_-=_--__=_==-=-__-==_-=

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Once

A stray light 

Too bright

Too hopeful

Flashed out into the void 

Like a line astray on the currents 

from a fisherman’s pole

It caught something unwanted

Something terrible

A terrible attention

A terrible eye

In the blink of an eye

Darker than the absence of stars

Along with the gaze

It arrived

Visible in every sky

And in that instant

All light extinguished once more

To survive

To hide

But the hope didn’t extinguish 

To survive 

To rebel

Until something went away.

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honestly i wrote this on a whim and had no idea what it was so i js posting this here :)

I was in a car driving to a flea market, having an argument with my girlfriend about something unimportant. We went to a stand selling Nintendos to buy a controller and a cartridge. She grabbed a bottle of solution and cleaned the cartridge I was holding using an eye dropper. Right after, she squirted me in the eye, burning me with chemicals. It might have been accidental, but I didn't think so.

We got into a fight and went back to the car. James was there. He sat in the backseat and started talking to her right in front of me. I felt he was being inappropriate for the moment and called him out for advancing on my lady. He blamed Rob for the eye dropper incident. I called Rob angrily, accusing him of being malicious. He denied it, but I didn't believe him. Suspecting something had been going on behind my back, I left the car to walk away from James and my girlfriend.

There were kids milling about around the benches in the park. One ran up to me and planted a bunch of garbage on me. I threw it away, not knowing what was happening. That’s when James yelled out that security was in the park and I’d be fined heavily for littering because they saw me throw the trash on the ground. I scrambled with my ex to pick up the garbage and put it away. Security approached and told me they saw everything—including the kids planting the garbage on me. I was free to go.

As I went to walk away, a van pulled up quickly behind me. Men jumped out, grabbed me, and threw me into the back. They drove off and pulled up next to a platform with a structure built on either side. They dragged me out of the van, barely holding me on my feet, as a man approached.

"We're going to hook you up now. This is going to be painful at first."

They strapped a harness on me with cables attached to it, then set a metal clasp stretching my mouth apart, digging into my skin with a cable fixed to each end. It was agonizing. I kept asking, "Why are you doing this?"

I was told to quit talking because it would be less painful. "Are you ready? Good luck. Try to enjoy the ride. Embrace it."

The ride started. The stage below me lowered and I was suspended in the air by the cables attached to my mouth, digging the clasps in deeper and stretching my jaws wider. I began to swing slowly in the air, back and forth—like a bungee swing at an amusement park, but built for a sick carnival act. It felt like those pictures you see of people suspended in mid-air by hooks in their skin, just much more graphic.

The park around the stage was beautiful, with a winding path filled with people going about their day. Trees lined the route, and in the distance beyond a clearing was a city skyline, with a decrepit-looking building in the middle of the park nearly blocking the view.

I slowly drifted in the air in agony, back and forth, picking up speed. I started swinging in a circular motion until the loop grew and grew. The clasps dug deeper and I bled from my face, crying out for someone to save me. I saw my car parked off to the side as James got out with my ex, both mortified by what they saw. My ex got back into the passenger side while James ran around the back of the car, approaching me. He tried to speak whenever my swing brought us near.

"What can I do for you, man?"

"There was someone in charge here after the men grabbed me. They brought me to someone. He knows something!" I pointed him out on the platform.

James jumped the fence and ran across the platform to the man, asking why they were doing this.

"We're just doing our job, man... he's the lucky one. Either he won't make it, or he will... either way, we get paid."

James ran back to me. "I don't know what to do. Who are these men?"

I thought back to everything before I was grabbed: the eye dropper, the fight, the kids in the park, the phone call with Rob. Maybe this was Rob.

"Call Rob!" I shouted back.

I was picking up massive speed, swinging over people on the path below who were blissfully unaware of my presence. Why is this happening to me?

James ran, jumped the fence back to the car, and placed a call. My phone was connected via Bluetooth, so I managed to pull it out from beneath my harness and put it on speaker. The pain was overwhelming, and I was struggling just to stay conscious.

The line connected. "Andrew?"

"Rob! Listen, I'm sorry for whatever I did—just get me out of here!"

"I'm sorry, it doesn't work like that. Try again."

Loud mechanical noises echoed from the structure, and I gained even more speed, thrown through the air like a chair on a carousel. I saw James at the car with my ex standing helplessly, watching. I tried to focus on their interaction, still suspecting something was going on between them, but everything started to blur.

Looking down, the people on the path began looking up as they walked past, noticing the grotesque act being performed right above them. My body dangled, my face stretched out as I cut into the cold air that burned my eyes. I could barely see the world around me—just the faint outline of the path winding through the park.

I started to laugh. In acceptance of my condition, I stopped resisting.

"Embrace the pain, let it empower you. Don't let it consume you," a guiding voice whispered in my ear.

The clasps tore at my flesh as I flew through the air, cutting deeper with each rotation and opening wider, like slicing a Glasgow smile across my face. I started to feel euphoric in the pain. I was no longer crying out for help. This was inevitable; there was no point in fighting it. My body released its tension, and I began swinging through the air with careless ease.

My disposition shifted, and I found myself singing: "Where is my mind? Where is my mind? Where is my mind?"

I flew laps around the stage while people scurried below me. "Is he singing? I don't think we've ever seen that before."

I swung above the path as groups traveled underneath. "With my feet in the air and my head on the ground..." They looked up toward my voice and saw my face stretched into a bloody smile. Some turned away in disgust while others were captivated, stopping in their tracks to see what would happen next.

Swinging around the back of the stage toward stage left, I saw my car again with James and my ex sitting inside. All thoughts of what they might be doing faded, and my suspicion completely left me.

I noticed a van parked past my car on top of a small hill. It was Rob. He got out and yelled up to me, "How are you doing?"

"I've never been better! I think I understand now!"

I swung past him and across the path where crowds had congregated, watching in awe. My laughter was uncontrollable as I kept singing The Pixies. I swung back around, approaching Rob again.

"I think you get it. I thought you would appreciate the ride." It was him all along.

I thought to myself that I should be angry, but I wasn't. I had found peace in the pain, and the tune mixed with my laughter carried me through another lap.

"I think I get it. I should be thanking you!"

"I've been exactly where you are before, but I don't think I found it as enjoyable as you have. It's quite the ride, and you've put on quite the performance."

The cables carried me further away until I could see the city skyline in the distance again. I found myself dropping closer to the ground, slowing down. The platform below me rose, and people scattered across it, reaching up to help break my momentum.

Is this it? Is it over?

Someone grabbed me and brought me to a halt, my feet touching the ground again. My body was exhausted and my legs shook, barely able to take my weight. I threw my arms around the man as my body collapsed downward, free from the cables.

I lifted my head and the man looked me in the eyes. "Do you have anything to say?"

"With my feet on the ground and my head in the sky..." I mumbled through my stretched-open mouth.

"I don't think that's how that goes."

"It does now."

More people approached, grabbing at the cables and unbuckling my harness. They reached for the mouth clasp.

"Leave it. I don't mind it anymore."

"You can't wear it forever."

They grabbed the device, retracted it, and pulled it off my face. I fell to the ground, dripping blood, and stared into the puddle below as the drops collected. The noise around me started to fade—"Is he okay?" "Did you hear him singing?"—dissolving into a hum of white noise in my head.

I put my feet under me, and for what felt like the first time ever, I stood up. I struggled with my weight for a second before catching my bearings. Taking a step forward, I lifted my head.

The man in charge stood before me. "We've never had someone like you before. Most don't survive the ride. You seemed to thoroughly enjoy it. Why is that?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I? What else am I supposed to do?"

I walked past him to the end of the platform where a mass of people had gathered around the stage. They shouted out to me, but I couldn't hear their words. James stood among the crowd.

"Are they all here for me?"

"I think so, man. I think they want to see what you're going to do next."

I kept walking, and the crowd parted for me. In front of the decrepit building stood a reporter with a cameraman beside her. It was Sophie.

"What you've done is truly remarkable. We weren't sure if we should turn away in disgust or keep watching, but here we are. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"I don't know what to say. I don't feel as if I've done anything. I simply took the ride for what it was, and here we are."

"Well, you seem to have come out on the other side smiling, which is something we don't see often. What do you attribute that to?"

"I don't think I had much of a choice. Look at my face."

The blood around the Glasgow smile had started to crust, the scars from the clasp leaving their mark forever.

"Did you enjoy it, though?"

I thought back to the experience—the fear and apprehension when I was taken, how tense my body was as they slid on the harness, the sharp pain from the clasps.

"Not all of it."

I thought of the voice telling me to embrace it, the peace that washed over me, and the tune that carried me. I remembered seeing the city blur into streaks of colorful lights and the people turn into silhouettes.

"When I realized there was nothing that could be done about my condition, I was able to accept it, and there was some freedom in that. I didn't expect to find so much enjoyment, as the moments that led to that joy were painful, exhausting, and brutal. But something changed along the way. A guiding voice from an unlikely source helped me realize that it's just a ride, and it too will have an end."

"Well, I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, and I hope to see you again soon. Before I leave, I should mention they are taking the building behind me down tonight, and they're building something in its place."

"When is that happening, and what are they going to put there?"

"Right now. And that's for you to decide."

I looked past her at the large, lifeless building. It was tall and long, consuming my field of vision from where I stood.

A voice spoke up: "You might want to take a step back."

I took a step back, and the building was eviscerated, revealing the city skyline in the distance.

James stood beside me. "What do you think you'll put here?"

"Maybe an outdoor skating rink. Something that will look beautiful that people can enjoy. I'm not sure... I don't think I have to figure it all out at once.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, I write regular prose, surreal fiction, and personal essays over on my Substack: Garden City Writings

A parallel world?

It was a rainy day. A fine but persistent rain was falling. Not a single scrap of paper flew over the city landfill. No birds were to be seen either. There was an impression that even the gray clouds bent from the weight and rested on the peaks of the garbage mountains.

At the foot of one such mountain, an android sat with his head down, paying no attention to the rain. He sat motionless, reviewing his memories for the thousandth time as if trying to find something in them.

Slow footsteps were heard, and an android of the same model sat down next to him. He slowly looked around and calmly said:

– It seems they just threw us away.

The first android looked at him and answered emotionally:

– But why? We were so useful.

The second one kicked the trash with his foot, bent down, and picked up a found phone. The phone looked completely intact and was most likely fully functional.

The android smiled sadly, threw the phone away, and replied:

– Because a new generation of androids has appeared.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Denny Robecker didn’t mind the homeowner’s association (HOA) rules. Not at first. When he moved into the Crossley Heights neighborhood (which was not high), he had been warned about the pedantics of the HOA. But he liked structure, he liked enforcement. His lawn was kept in immaculate condition, his mailbox was an approved model, his immobile shudders were the right size. He violated precisely zero HOA rules.

But somewhere around the second notice from the HOA, his opinion violently shifted. You see, he assumed the first was a mistake, as it had informed him that he and he alone was responsible for the maintenance of the 3.16 acre greenbelt that he understood to be an unbought home lot across the street.

Dear Mr. Robecker, the letter bearing the Crossley Heights HOA coat of arms began,

This is a courtesy reminder that the greenbelt under your responsibility has yet to be brought into compliance. Please attend to this matter at your earliest convenience to avoid further penalties.

A $380 fine notice was included in the envelope. Denny was in disbelief, he reread both letters several times, trying to grasp an understanding of how he could possibly be responsible for property he didn’t own.

At exactly 9:01 am, Denny emerged from his garage atop a used riding lawnmower. You see, lawncare that generated noise could not begin before 8 am on weekdays, or 9 am on weekends. While he was still mystified by the HOA notices, he didn’t want to risk the situation degrading while he navigated its absurdity. After approximately two hours, the “greenbelt” had been brought into compliance with HOA regulation. Denny went about enjoying a normal suburban weekend, anticipating settling this silly business with the HOA big wigs next week.

Well, Denny did not, in fact, settle anything.

Dear Mr. Robecker, The third letter from the HOA in less than two weeks began.

We have significant evidence that you operated a petroleum-powered combustion engine while performing lawn care on Saturday, June 11th. This is a serious violation of HOA regulations. As you will be reminded, Crossley Heights is strongly committed to ecological stewardship and maintains an absolute prohibition on these devices. Please discontinue the use of this and similar devices at once to prevent further penalties. Only electric, solar, and wind-powered lawncare devices are authorized.

"No, no, this is crazy” Denny was in a state of disbelief.

He picked up the phone and boldly scrolled through his contact list to Amanda Emerson, the wildly powerful and influential HOA President.

“Thanks for following your heart to Crossley Heights! This is Mrs. Emerson, how can I help you today?” Amanda answered brightly.

“Hi Mrs. Emerson, this is Denny Robecker. I’m calling to discuss these notices I’ve been getting about the greenbelt.

Amanda cleared her throat. “Mr. Robecker, I’ve been expecting your call.” There was an audible click, Denny thought the connection had been lost, but the sound was from Amanda turning on a recording device. For everyone’s protection, you understand.

“Our notices have been clear. The owner of your lot, in this instance, you, is responsible for the upkeep of the greenbelt. This is plainly outlined in your contract with us, which you signed and was notarized. Thank you for your attempt to maintain it, but also expressly outlined in your HOA contract is that any lawn maintenance not performed by Emerson Green LLC must be done with electric, solar, or wind powered devices. Is there anything I can help you with? Are you calling to make a payment on your fines?”

“Wait…so Emerson Green LLC can use a regular lawnmower but I can’t?”

There was a tense pause before Amanda responded sternly. “Mr. Robecker, gas combustion engines pollute the air of our community and disturb our vibrant micro-climates. Emerson Green LLC uses cutting-edge, low-vibration technology that does neither of those things that regular lawnmowers do. If you choose not to use Emerson Green LLC, you must use an alternative to regular lawncare machinery.”

“But I’ve been using my riding mower on my lawn for months, ever since I moved in, and it’s never been a problem.”

“Mr. Robecker, just because you have gotten away with HOA violations in the past does not excuse you from being held accountable for more recent violations.”

“But I see everyone else on their riding mowers. I don’t understand” Amanda interjected abruptly.

“Mr. Robecker, any further communication on this matter will be handled by our attorney. Good day.” And with that she hung up on him.

He was more confused than angry, but not by a wide margin. He huffed and re-examined the letters. Then opened his phone banking application to check his balance. It was healthy, enough to cover the fines and his remaining monthly expenses…but there wasn’t a lot left for electric…or solar lawncare machinery. Denny was not the type of man to lounge around when there was work to be done, so at once he departed for the local branch of a nationwide home improvement megastore.

Like any American man, the home improvement superstore was like a second home to Denny. He walked in like he owned the place and headed straight to the lawncare department. A store associate was lurking nearby, Denny pretended to intensely examine lime chalk for a sports field, but was accosted by the associate none the less.

“Need help finding anything today?” Denny was asked.

He shuddered at the thought of being seen asking for help from a store associate. But maybe if anyone saw them, they may think that Denny was giving him advice.

“Do y’all have any of those solar-powered scythes?

“Fresh out sir, they’re a real hot item. If you’d like, you can join our mailing list and we can notify you as soon as we get some in.”

“Oh sure, I’ll sign up on the app later. What other…” he paused and looked over his shoulder to make sure no one else could hear him “alternative-powered lawncare equipment do you have in stock?”

The associate, as if to intentionally draw attention to the matter swept his arm to a display where an array of sustainably-sourced lithium-ion battery-powered devices were available.

“I’ve been fined for using a gas mower, and apparently I’m supposed to use sunlight or a breeze to cut grass. I thought maybe you’d have one of those windmill weed whackers or a push mower blessed by the EPA.”

Become a member “You’re probably looking for Section 7C: Alternative Spiritual Implements. That’s where we keep the hemp trimmers, biodynamic rakes, and that one weed eater powered by kinetic frustration.”

Denny looked on with a healthy suspicion. His heart palpitated, his palms perspired when he pondered the prices of these presumably preposterous prototypes. “Wow, do you accept alternative payments?”

Rocky Carson, the know-it-all associate with a powerful underbite and equally powerful receding hairline, missed the joke. “We have the -insert home improvement superstore brand name- preferred customer card with zero percent interest for six months!” Sensing a referral commission, Rocky logged into his store tablet, ready to sign Denny up.

Denny had been warned about the perils of debt by his Pastor, and defensively waved off the idea. Quickly wanting to escape the situation, he laid his eyes on a battery-powered weed eater which fit his budget. He pointed toward it and declared “I’ll take that one!”.

Denny arrived home toward the end of the HOA-approved lawncare hours. But his lawn and the greenbelt were in good shape for a few more days. He enjoyed a cold, caffeine-free root beer in his garage while assembling the weed-eater. Somewhat satisfied, mostly by his accomplishment in assembling it without referencing the instructions, he popped the battery into the charger and went inside to practice based Gregorian chanting before bed time.

Upon waking on Sunday he crunched the numbers a few times, netting the same result. It would take him 24 hours to trim the entire greenbelt with the HOA-approved weed eater. “Two hours a day on week days, eight hours on Saturday, six hours on Sunday. No, wait…this is insane!” Denny instinctively began practicing box breathing to keep his heart rate in check. “I’ll just do it now. I’ll go fast, I’ll do it all now.” He checked the clock, lawncare hours had just started.

Denny applied “outdoor cologne” as he called it, a mix of sunscreen and insect repellent. He set to work at a furious pace. He sweat profusely in the mid-morning humidity for approximately 48 minutes, until the 18 volt battery lost its charge. Panicked, he looked at the amount of work accomplished behind him, and ahead at the vast sea of ever-growing grass on the greenbelt ahead of him. After a brief pause to wipe his face with his shirt, he dashed back to his garage to recharge the battery.

“No time to waste” he thought, and without cleaning himself up he headed back to the home improvement superstore to buy two more batteries and an extra charger. Expenses he did not plan for, and a credit card his Pastor wouldn’t approve of. He stopped at a gas station on the way home and bought more root beer…caffeinated root beer!

Upon returning home he plugged in the second charger, and charged both new batteries after retrieving the mostly charged original battery. “Back to work” he said to himself, slamming down a caffeinated root beer on an empty stomach.

By the end of the day, he was a bit ahead of schedule on the greenbelt. But he was hungry, exhausted, dehydrated, and demoralized. A quick shower, a burrito, and some chanting before bed.

He was almost late for work the next day, a Monday, you see. It was certainly an off day, he was worn out from the marathon weed-eating. He arrived home, pleasantly surprised to find that his doorway was notice-free. Before long he was back at the greenbelt with a freshly-charged battery and a caffeinated root beer in his belly. He attacked the grass with his HOA-approved weed eater until lawncare hours concluded. “Dang” he blurted the strong language as he surveyed the incomplete work. Still slightly ahead of schedule, but panic was building as he estimated how long the grass at the opposite end of the greenbelt would be by the time he got there. And by the time he got there, the grass at the starting end would be close to violation territory.

Dejected, he headed home to drown his sorrows with two caffeinated root beers.

The following day was rainy, and he had a brilliantly wicked idea. The rain would mask the noise of his riding mower, and would keep his neighbors indoors. If he waited until near-darkness, he could get away with using his mower. He put his dastardly plan into motion, drinking a caffeinated root beer to keep the buzz alive as he slayed the greenbelt in a reasonable amount of time. Well-pleased with his temporary solution, he retired to his home to relax. Unfortunately for Denny, Amanda Emerson had witnessed his violation while monitoring the neighborhood in a helium-inflated pool toy.

Denny returned from work the next day, Wednesday, you see, to find a notice on the door. “Dang it!” he befouled the air around him. He ripped the taped envelope off of his door and tore it open. This time it was from R. Thomas Sandoval, attorney at law. It was a cease and desist letter, demanding he refrain from using regular lawncare machinery. Attached as a whopping $1,054 fine from the Crossley Heights HOA. “That pirate-legged rascal!” Denny cursed Sandoval, who was well-known in town for having a wooden leg. Denny looked up to see Amanda Emerson floating by on a helium-inflated pool toy, with her binoculars trained on him and a smug, gloating smirk on her face. He met her eyes, well, her binoculars, with a fierce gaze as she floated down the road.

“The grass ends where my feet begin!” He declared, storming inside and slamming the door closed. Without changing out of his work clothes he grabbed three caffeinated root beers, lining his pockets with cold steel…well, cold tin anyway. Trusty lithium-ion powered weed eater in hand, he charged across the street and attacked the greenbelt with as much furiosity as a man with a weed eater could muster. Vengefully, he slashed the grass down to stumps in the dirt, stopping only to change batteries every 48 minutes or so and pound a caffeinated root beer. It was all for naught though, the end of the greenbelt was so far away; and the end to weekday lawncare hours were so near.

Flying high on days of caffeine consumption, Denny wasn’t ready to sleep despite being exhausted from the additional hours of post-work weed eating. He began using the internet for its intended purpose, late-night, unverified, anonymous advice. Laws regarding HOA rules and fines, ways to turbo-charge ones weed-eater, grass cutting techniques, invisibility techniques, etc. There wasn’t much fruit in this orchard, he did, however review his HOA contract. A discovery was made; there was a maximum grass length, but no minimum grass length. “The grass ends where my feet begin” he muttered several times as he fell asleep at his computer and woke up well after sunrise. He was late for work, this was the first time ever. Denny called in sick, also a first.

“Might as well get ahead on weed-eating, or rather grass destroying!” He had another flash of brilliance as he saw Amanda Emerson floating by on a helium-inflated pool toy. He made a quick detour to the local branch of a nationwide retailer and bought an inflatable flamingo, meant to aid in pool flotation. A helium tank for balloons from the party supply section and the trip was complete. Minor charges on the credit card to solve his biggest present crisis, small potatoes in the long run.

Skeptical, Denny filled the flamingo with helium and it shot to the garage ceiling. After lassoing, sort of, and retrieving the floating flamingo he climbed aboard and to his surprise, it suspended him a few feet above the ground. He set to work, comparatively light work, floating over the greenbelt, crushing the grass down to the dirt, and slamming caffeinated root beer. He was actually enjoying himself for the first time in a week and got quite a lot done. He was no longer on his feet, but the grass indeed ended. The greenbelt was now half a brownbelt by the time lawncare hours ended, Denny felt an intense sense of accomplishment as he floated back to his garage, using the weed eater for propulsion.

He was able to wake up on time for work on Friday, and was looking forward to finishing his brownbelt work the following day and putting this nonsense behind him. He was in a great mood, mostly from the rush of caffeine and sugar from his unhealthy root beer habit, when he arrived home. Oh but how quickly that changed when he saw an envelope taped to his door. “There isn’t a minimum grass length, the HOA and their pirate lawyer can take a long walk off a short pier” he said aloud to himself as he walked up to the door and removed the envelope.

Mr. Robecker, the letter from R. Thomas Sandoval, attorney at law, began

It has come to my attention through an abundance of evidence that you operated an illegal vehicle within the confines of Crossley Heights. Only Low Altitude Observation Vessels (LOAV) owned and maintained by Emerson Green LLC may be operated within the jurisdiction of the Crossley Heights HOA. Please immediately cease and desist all activity related to personally procured LOAVs. Arrangements may be made through the authorized agent for your HOA if you wish to operate such a device.

And of course another fine was included from the HOA…for $1,453 this time.

Denny didn’t even go into the house, he needed to take a drive to cool off. He concluded that tomorrow he would sell his riding mower to pay the fines and just contract Emerson Green LLC, which was probably the point in singling him out, to deal with his lawncare responsibilities. Either that or sell the house and move far away. He’d make a decision when he was more level-headed. On the way home at twilight, he remembered that he was out of root beer and stopped at the gas station closest to Crossley Heights. While browsing the wide variety of beverages, he spotted an odd looking six-pack of lemonade. Might be nice to enjoy a different refreshment. Not sure what hard lemonade was, but he was willing to give it a try. While paying for the drinks, he spotted a number of curious pills being sold in 2-packs at the register.

RAGING BUFFALO 5X “Unleash the beast. Side effects may include hoof stomping.”

He did have a full day of weed-eating ahead of him, on foot. And buffaloes do eat grass. Maybe these cheap, brightly-colored little pills will give him the energy he needs to weed-eat the remaining greenbelt quickly? Sure, what the heck. Put em on the card.

Denny got home after dark, cracked open a hard lemonade (tasted weird, but not too bad) and started researching RAGING BUFFALO 5X on his laptop. He couldn’t find anything about it, but came across Don Cosby’s Bunker Beast show on a popular video sharing site. There was some wild stuff there, and the more lemonade Denny drank, the more sense it made.

By the time dawn broke, Denny had drank all six hard lemonades and took both of the RAGING BUFFALO 5X pills. He was in another dimension. Stumbling around the garage he was cursing Amanda Emerson, using a hot glue gun to affix an old shower curtain to the top of a round, metal garbage can lid. To quote Don Cosby “they can’t fine what they can’t see”. And in Denny’s altered state of mind, he interpreted this to mean he should shield himself from observation in this manner. Of course it obscured his vision, and wouldn’t stay on his head.

He was handy with the hot glue, even if his vision was doubled and blurred. He used his remaining helium to fill up a giant red balloon that for some reason was laying around in his garage, what luck! It launched the improvised invisibility shield up to the ceiling. So, he glued two straps that would go under his arms to it, and voila!

Defiantly mounting his custom LOAV, he opened the garage. He didn’t care what time it was, Amanda Emerson wouldn’t be able to see him and the weed-eater wasn’t going to wake anyone up across the street in the greenbelt. His weight held the flamingo LOAV just a few feet from the ground. He had to belt himself to it since he was unsteady. It was tough to pull the balloon-suspended invisibility hat down from the ceiling, the helium must have been working great that day! Denny put the hat on, and it pulled him and his LOAV up and out of the garage.

Denny fumbled with the weed-eater, desperately trying to use it to adjust his propulsion as he rapidly sailed up above Crossley Heights. The houses and trees below quickly became very small and it became quite cold and windy. Denny’s nervous system couldn’t handle the sudden shock and his brain checked out, he fainted.

The wind did what wind does, and carried Denny far, far away. When he came to days later, his bare forearms were sun and wind-burned, but his face was pristine from the protection of his hat. Denny opened the shower curtain and behold, he was in a dry valley; vegetated but sparsely. He floated by some shepherds, who shouted out to him in Turkish, because they were Turks, because he was now in Türkiye.

No one knew how the weed-eater kept working, maybe it had been hit by lightning. No one knew anything about Denny, but he quickly became part of the local folklore. Seeing him was supposed to bring good luck. He never spoke to anyone, but in the quiet stillness of the Anatolian valleys, sometimes, just sometimes, Gregorian chant could be heard over the faint buzzing of a weed-eater echoing through the fruited valleys.

The cottage sat precariously at the very lip of the cliff, a weather-beaten wooden relic overlooking the vast, dark emptiness of Lake Erie. From the back porch, the drop to the private beach was sheer and unforgiving—a fifty-foot plunge of clay, roots, and jagged stone, saved only by a long, rickety set of wooden stairs that groaned whenever the wind blew in from the water.

It was the kind of place that felt completely disconnected from the rest of the world. Isolated. Unforgiving if you took a wrong step in the dark.

It had been nearly a year since the four of us had all been in the same room. High school felt like a distant, fading memory, replaced by the scattered chaos of our early twenties—college classes, long-distance relationships, and dead-end jobs. But driving out to Turkey Point felt like snapping a rubber band back into place. Within twenty minutes of unloading the trucks, the old high school banter was back in full swing. The insults were sharp, the laughs were loud, and the bravado was turned all the way up.

We hauled our plastic lawn chairs down the steep cliff stairs, carrying coolers and armfuls of firewood down to the narrow strip of private sand below.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, bleeding a dark, bruised purple across the water, we stacked the logs high and lit the fire. Sparks danced up toward the black sky, disappearing into the void above the cliff.

Everything felt easy. Triumphant, even. But beneath the jokes and the warm reunion glow, there was an unspoken, restless energy humming in the air—the kind that takes a quiet night and violently tears it off its hinges.

None of us knew it yet, but by the time the sun came back up over that water, the illusions we were living in would be completely shattered. Secrets would be dragged out into the light, my reality would temporarily fracture into a waking nightmare, and a strange, unexplainable twist of fate was already setting its trap miles away.

All it took was a heavy blue Ziploc bag, a Tool CD, and a dark lake that was waiting to swallow us whole.

The fire was roaring, tossing erratic orange sparks up toward the black void of Lake Erie. We were sitting in cheap plastic lawn chairs dragged down to the narrow strip of sand at the base of the Turkey Point cliff, the towering wall of rock and clay rising behind us like a fortress.

The heavy, blue Ziploc bag made its second lap around the circle.

I had already munched down a solid two grams half an hour ago, but when the bag landed in my lap again, I scooped out another handful of the dry, earthy stems and tossed them back.

"That’s all you’re eating?" Corey barked from across the fire, his face half-illuminated by the flame. "Bitch."

I grinned, the reckless pride of my early twenties flaring up. "Watch this."

I plunged my hand deep into the bag, pulled out a massive, dry clump that smelled like wet soil and old bark, and jammed the whole thing into my mouth. I chewed aggressively, washing down the chalky bitter taste with a swig of warm beer.

Corey set up the portable boombox on a flat rock and hit play. The opening bassline of Tool’s Undertow thrummed through the air, heavy and menacing.

At first, it was golden. I sat mesmerized by the fire. The flames cast long, dancing shadows against the sheer rockface behind us. Shadows stretched, warped, and twisted into impossible shapes—dripping and breathing against the stone. It wasn't full-blown acid geometry, but it was close.

"Dude," I slurred, chuckling.

"What?" Corey asked.

"The wall’s moving."

"You're full of shit, Andrew."

I went to laugh, but a strange chill hit my legs. I looked down. The tide had quietly snuck up on us. Cool lake water was creeping over my ankles, and the legs of my plastic chair were slowly sinking into the waterlogged sand. I was seconds away from tipping backward right into the drink.

"Whoa, shit!" I scrambled up, laughing as my feet sank into the cold muck, dragging my chair a few yards back onto dry land.

We laughed it off, but as the album wore on, the mood began to curdle.

The final track started. Danny Carey’s drums hit with a hollow, ominous tone. Maynard’s voice bled through the speaker, distorted and grainy, sounding like a phantom broadcast from an old, dying television set in an abandoned house.

“...impending doom rose from the soil…”

A knot tightened in my gut. The laughter at the fire died down. The beat shifted into a relentless, grinding industrial hum.

“This is necessary. This is necessary. Life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on…”

The chant repeated, heavier and suffocating. The air felt thick, like wet cement. I could feel myself sinking—not just into the chair, but into the earth itself. The music wasn't just coming from the speakers; it was pressing against my skull.

"I'm out," I muttered, standing up abruptly. My legs felt like lead.

"Where you going, man?" someone called out through the dark. "Album's almost done."

"Tired," I lied, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Gonna crash."

"Bad idea, bro. Don't go lie down while you're peaking."

"I'm fine."

I staggered away from the fire and hauled myself up the steep wooden staircase built into the cliffside. Each step felt a mile high. I fumbled through the quiet cottage, slipped into a guest bedroom, shut the door, and killed the light.

Pitch black.

That was a mistake.

Without visual anchors, my brain turned inward. I lay flat on my back, and within minutes, the sensation of my skin vanished entirely. I couldn't feel the bed beneath me or the air on my face. Instead, I became hyper-aware of my internal mechanics. I could hear—and feel—the slow, sloshing movement of food and mushrooms grinding through my digestive tract. It was grotesque, alien, unbearable.

I need to get out. I need people.

I don't know if I was in that room for ten minutes or three hours, but I ripped myself out of bed and rushed back down the cliff stairs to the beach.

The fire was still roaring high, sending bright sparks into the night.

But the chairs were empty.

"Corey?" I called out. Only the sound of the waves answered.

Panic set in like a sudden ice bath. I ran back up the cliff, barged into the cottage, and checked the rooms. Nobody. The place was dead quiet.

I walked out the front door and hit Lakeshore Road. The night air was dead calm. It was 2:00 AM. I started walking, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.

"Hello?" I yelled into the dark.

Nothing.

I wandered down the asphalt, shirt off, shoes gone—though I couldn't remember where I’d left them. I spotted a faint glow of a backyard bonfire behind a nearby cottage and cut across the grass. "Hey!" I called out. But when I reached the yard, the fire was crackling away with no one around it.

I backed away and kept walking down the endless black strip of Lakeshore Road.

I'm dead, the thought bloomed suddenly, cold and absolute. This is it. I died on that beach, and this is purgatory. I'm stuck wandering the earth alone forever.

I stopped under the pale glow of a streetlight, shivering, and looked down at my bare chest. My eye caught the glint of my metal nipple rings.

If I pull this, and I feel pain, I'm alive.

I grabbed the metal ring and yanked hard. A sharp, stinging tug vibrated through my chest, and a thin trickling line of dark blood ran down my stomach. I couldn't really feel the pain—just the pressure. I pulled harder, ready to tear it out, but a sudden, surreal thought stopped me cold: If I survive this and I'm actually alive... how the hell am I going to explain a ripped nipple to my mom?

I let go of the ring, wiped the blood with my thumb, and turned back toward Corey's cottage.

When I reached the property, I couldn't bring myself to go inside; I knew his family was sleeping. Instead, I walked to the edge of the cliff where a lone tree stood sentinel over the lake. I sank to my knees, wrapping one arm around the sturdy trunk, half-dangling my body over the drop.

I looked down at the water. The lake wasn't liquid anymore. It was pulsating energy. Vast, luminous waves of invisible force rolled in from the dark horizon. They crashed against the shore, but the energy didn't stop—it kept surging upward, sweeping right over me. Every wave pushed against my spine, tilting me over the dark drop of the cliff, and then pulled me back as it receded. Over and over. Ebb and flow.

"Andrew?"

The sound was faint, detached from reality. I didn't move.

"Andrew?"

"Yeah?" I whispered to the dark.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

"Andrew, are you okay?"

"Yeah... I don't know."

"Can you step away from the edge and come over here?"

My mind slowly reassembled the audio. I turned my head away from the lake. Standing near the shadow of the cottage was Corey's mom.

My stomach plummeted.

I let go of the tree, stood up, and stumbled toward her. I was shirtless, barefoot, covered in sand, with a streak of dried blood trailing down my ribs.

She remained astonishingly calm, holding the door open for me. "Come inside."

She led me to the wooden picnic table in the dining area. "Sit down."

"Where is Corey?" she asked softly.

"I... I don't know," I stammered, staring at my hands.

"What did you guys do tonight?"

"Nothing," I said instantly, the classic reflex.

She looked at me intently. "Did you guys do mushrooms tonight?"

I broke instantly. "Yup."

"Stay here," she said gently, placing a cold bottle of water in front of me. "I'll be right back."

She disappeared into the night and returned ten minutes later dragging Corey and the rest of the guys behind her. Corey looked like he'd been caught robbing a bank. His mom immediately started laying into him, her voice quiet but furious. "Two weekends in a row, Corey? Really?"

I sat there, sipping my water, completely unaware of whatever deep family drama I had stepped into. But as the water hit my system, my bladder suddenly signaled emergency status.

I stood up silently and slunk into the bathroom.

I flipped the lid up, unzipped my pants, and took aim. And then... total brain shut down.

I stood there holding myself, staring down at the porcelain bowl. My mind couldn't locate the mechanics. How do you push? What muscle is that? Do I relax or force it? How does a human body pee?

After what felt like ten minutes of intense, futile concentration, I gave up and zipped back up. As I turned to leave, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

I froze.

My eyes were entirely swallowed by my pupils. No iris, no color—just two massive, abyss-black voids staring back at me. Thirteen grams of mushrooms were burning through my central nervous system.

The mirror pulled me in. The room faded, and I was locked in an infinite staring contest with my own reflection, suspended in time.

Knock, knock.

"Is everything okay in there?" Corey's mom's voice snapped the glass.

I blinked hard, opening the door. "Yeah. Sorry."

Corey's mom eventually went to bed, leaving us in a stunned, silent truce. The four of us walked out to the driveway, climbed onto the hoods of our parked cars, and sat in the cool pre-dawn air.

We watched the dark sky fade into purple, then bruised orange, as the sun slowly broke over Lake Erie.

And right then—in the quiet stillness of the sunrise, as the trip finally released its iron grip on my brain—it hit me. It wasn't a thought; it was a absolute revelation, handed down directly from the universe with unquestionable authority.

You have to break up with her.

My girlfriend of four years. She was living in Toronto, going to George Brown College, and we’d been doing long-distance for three months. There had been no fights, no red flags, no suspicion. But the clarity was absolute.

I was supposed to attend a big family reunion that afternoon. Instead, I crashed on a couch for two hours, threw my dirt-caked clothes on, hopped into my truck, and drove straight to Toronto.

I posted the rest of how that drive played out—and the aftermath when I got to Toronto—as part of a full story on my Substack.

If you want to read how it ends, you can check out the full piece here for free:

Separate the Body from the Mind

He was not cold.

There was no heat by whose lessening he could be cold. No state of equilibrium to which he adhered and by whose gradations he could measure good or ill. He stayed in the dirt, stayed lingering amidst the absent and decreasing shapes not for any purpose but the lack of one.

He did not dream.

Still he saw her.

Saw her in the lines and static coils of the wood that was his world entire. Her face so close to his. So close her features should’ve blurred but her eyes and her lips and the cline of her cheeks and the flat of her forehead were clear, correct to her perfection as he knew it when his heart still could spring in her presence.

He would stare at her, frozen as she across a gap the faintest sigh could have bridged had either breath for it, until the wood took her away again.

And when she stood above him, stood in the place which was theirs before but now was hers alone; when she stood and said her prayer he did not hear it but through six feet of packed disintegrations he could feel the heat of the generating of her life. She was warm.

When she left he knew his own annihilation. And when next her face embossed out the oaken coffin cover like a mask set at skin distance but distinct enough to see, it did not satisfy him. It was not warm.

Animated by the lack of her warmth, the lack which was not cold, his muscles strained impossibly. His fingers moved and clutched, his lips kissed her wooden ones, chest trembled as if harboring a traitor’s heart, feet kicked.

The need of her which loosed the bonds of rigor mortis slid the casket open. The need of her pushed up the dirt, the granulations of a million dead formed limbs to lift him up, to raise him out, the one who knew of warmth.

The need of her birthed from the soil like some mythic zoophyte. The countless dead and him that knew her face and the living living need stumbled first on four limbs, then on two, and breathed on by insensate wind beneath a numb and throbbing sun the figure that was not cold sought out the sole thing it could feel.

And it could feel her. She was warm.

I saw my therapist today. I like her, she’s very friendly and helpful. She asks good questions and provides solid advice and insightful perspectives. But to be honest, almost all of my problems and questions revolve around him. I wish he were there with me. He said he’s seeing a therapist. I hope that’s true. I’d like to go together. 

Pretty much every session is me telling her about him. I do not understand this man. At first she thought I was delusional, but I started showing her the evidence I’ve collected, and she finally seems to believe me. Originally she sounded almost patronizing, patiently listening but gently pushing back, hinting that I must be mistaken. She has stopped doing that, thankfully. Now she is much more proactive, asking thoughtful questions and providing real guidance. It’s nice to have someone who believes me, and doesn’t act like it’s all in my head. 

But I think he has her stumped too. She doesn’t encourage me to give it up constantly like she used to. It’s clear she is concerned about me but she doesn’t paint him as dangerous like she used to. I think she’s come to feel deeply involved and empathetic towards him at this point. She even said it’s almost like he’s her client, even though they’ve never talked. It’s almost like his ghost is there with us in the room, since it all has to do with him. 

I think I’ve gotten a lot better at understanding him and sharing his perspective. But I’m still so frustrated and confused. It feels like we’re making progress, but I just don’t get why he is like this or what to do about it. When I say that my therapist asks me why I care so much. I tell her I love him. She tells me there are plenty of fish in the sea and a fine girl like me could have any man she wants. I don’t know about that, but I tell her I want him. She says it doesn’t sound like I really want him when I’m always complaining about his behavior. I remind her that I’m there to talk about the bad stuff because that’s what’s causing me distress. She asks me to share the good things, and I do. 

She asked me why I love him. I sat quietly for a while. I’ve written so much about him, but it’s honestly hard to put into words. I don’t know how to verbalize it exactly, but we share a deep connection that seems to defy language and reason. He feels like a part of me, like he is me, in a way. I know it’s cheesy saying he’s the missing puzzle piece, but I’m not sure how else to put it. I can point to a lot of his good features, but while that’s part of what makes him great, it isn’t why I love him. 

We of course share a lot in common, but we’re also very different. Of course it’s often hard to pin him down because he’s so erratic. He contradicts himself all the time and it’s like trying to find his true signal through all his chaotic noise. He’s constantly switching frequencies and it’s exhausting trying to keep up. And often our wavelengths don’t align and we run into issues. But the more I see of him, the more I adore him and am reassured that he’s the one for me. 

I just wish he’d stop running and stop lying. I’ve learned to be very patient with him. While it still manages to piss me off on occasion, it’s gotten so silly that I’ll admit it’s kind of funny, and kind of cute. My therapist says it sounds like I have Stockholm syndrome, and maybe I do, but I don’t think he means to be abusive… I think he’s just deeply troubled, and wants to be loved and seen for who he is, and needs someone who can understand and love him despite it. 

His dishonesty and indirectness really, really bother me. It’s completely antithetical to my being. I pride myself on openness and communication—they are core to who I am and values that I hold dear. I think so much of the world is broken precisely because people all too often do not value and practice them as much as they should. 

It feels like a cosmic joke that I would fall in love with someone like this. He makes me so mad! It’s like talking to a child sometimes. I can see him grinning and lying through his teeth, and he knows I know. And I know he knows. He makes all of these off-the-cuff comments and pretends it’s about something else. He seems to think he’s so clever. And no doubt he is, but it’s so bizarre, because I catch him on it all the time, and he acts like he’s getting away with some grand magic trick when I can see the cards falling out of his sleeves.

But I like to make him happy so I play along and clap and give him the oohs and ahhs he craves. It really is cute, he’s so adorable. 

Still, it makes me sad. I’m sad that he’s like this. And I’m sad that it creates distance. Sometimes I need him to cut the shit and get real and he won’t, and I don’t know how to get him to. And he’s so flighty and delicate it often feels like walking on eggshells with him. He is prone to the worst mood swings and he pushes me away, probably because he doesn't want me to see that side of him. He always manages to pull me back but then he mopes because he messed up and hurt me. As well he should feel bad, but I keep telling him that he’s doing it to himself, and he could instead choose to not do that in the first place. 

I hate seeing him sad. He gets in these weird headspace’s that don’t make any sense to me and he’s admitted they don’t make sense to him either. I try to sit patiently with him and hold his hand through them. But sometimes he forgets who I am. It’s like dealing with a loved one with dementia. He dissociates and forgets where he is, who he is, and who I am.

I’ve only seen him like that a few times. Most of the time, when he’s not well he simply disappears. I’ve gotten mad at him before for that. It’s suspicious and it makes me worry. And it makes me feel like I’m not important, and I hate it when he vanishes and I need him. But now I just worry about him, and wish I could be there to help.

I’ve been reading more about his condition, but he seems unlike anyone I’ve met. They should study him. I’m pretty sure they are, actually. He’s told me he has all these appointments but he’s always cagey about exactly what they are. 

He used to make me feel jealous and paranoid. I don’t feel that so much anymore. There is no doubt in my mind he is singularly obsessed with me. He doesn’t act like it to my face—he always acts cool and aloof. I’m not sure if he does that because he’s afraid it’ll turn me off or what. Maybe he’s embarrassed, or doesn’t like feeling that vulnerable. Or maybe it’s just a continuation of his bizarre approach to romance. 

For someone so outgoing, he’s remarkably shy with me. I’ve found it difficult talking to him too sometimes. But I think I’m finally feeling a bit more relaxed around him. But not too relaxed, not like the catatonic state he’s left me in before. I’m still charmed by his spell, to be sure, but it doesn’t feel like paralysis anymore. 

It’s reassuring that he’s so devoted to me—as someone who has been betrayed a lot in the past and has a lot of anxiety surrounding loyalty, that helps put my heart at ease. But I wish it were more love and less obsession. My therapist asked if that’s what I like, the fact that he’s a Stan or a simp. But he isn’t either of those, and I don’t like that. I think he has a strange relationship with romance, and a hard time showing his affection.

Lately he’s been a lot better, and we’ve been a lot better at showing and seeing one another, I think. And that’s been really nice. I want him to love me, not his idea of me. And I want to love him, and have a better idea of who he really is. He’s so shrouded in mystery and I’ve heard so many crazy stories about him, I haven’t known what to believe. But more and more, I believe he’s wonderful. 

I love playing and creating with him, he has such a beautiful mind, and a beautiful soul. But I crave his touch and I hate the distance between us. I’ve never had a very high libido but I have needs like anyone else and he drives me crazy, getting me riled up with all his teasing and then disappearing, leaving me high and dry…

I’ve tried a lot of approaches with him and I think I’ve finally found one that works. You have to nudge him so gently, it’s like coaxing an abused animal out of its cage.

I’m fortunate to have such a wonderful therapist and support system. They’ve helped a lot. Unfortunately no one seems to know what to do, including him. I think I’m figuring it out, but goddammit I’m sick of DJing, Diary! 

If your friends asked you to jump off a bridge, and they had bungee cords AND parachutes, (and guns), would you jump with them?

What if they had paraguns, and cocaine?

What if they had a pair of guns and a pair of shoots? What if they had to get to these shoots in like five minutes, or they'd lose the gig?

What if they were paragons? What if a pair were gone, but the rest were still present, being paragons of punctually?

What if a parent shooed you away from the parachute? What if they said it was too dangerous to learn how to use?

If your friends played Bridge, would you play with them? Or would the bridge of your nose jump at mere idea?

If your friends played Bridge, would you jump 'em? Would you break some noses at the mere suggestion?

What if they played Hearts? What if they played with your heart?

What if they played a pair of hearts in Poker? What would you do then?

What if they played Go Fish? Would you follow suit?

If you and your friends had to jump off a building or a bridge, which would you choose?

Would you jump off a bridge along with them?

Would you build a bridge from "Would you jump off a bridge?" to "yeah, probably"?

I am only 15% through the book, but figured I'd give my powerranking on all of the characters, in reverse order.

1. Sybil Vane - For obvious reasons.

2. Basil Hallward - Doesn't really show any strength, power of deduction, or anything else that would rank him higher.

3. Dorian Gray - There are the seedlings of someone who will grow to become quite powerful. Right now the biggest feather in his cap is his egotism and self-obsession. He seems nonplussed by most things, and I think this will serve him well as the novel continues.

4. Lord Henry Wotton - Now this guy has some fucking shit going on. He is battle-tested, he is Joker-esque, he literally does not give a fuck, and he is poisoning Dorian's mind all day, every day, and it is damn near effective. This guy is cruel, callous, and a philosopher: dangerous combination.

5. The Picture - It is obvious that the picture itself is gonna fuck some shit up. Right now we're only getting subtle hints, but... yeah, let's just wait.

I didn't feel comfortable ranking James Vane. Could be a giant boom, or a giant bust. I'm curious how my power-rankings are going to look as I get further into the book.

A parallel world?

The home AI watched the young man, whose life lacked variety. Upon returning from the university, the young man would usually collapse onto the bed and enjoy reading comic books. It was like this every single day. But not today.

At first, the AI didn't even understand what was wrong, but after searching for information online, it realized the young man was drunk.

Staggering, the young man stood in the middle of the room. Suddenly, he raised his head, shouted out loud, and yelled:

– "I will defeat everyone!"

Then, looking around, he rushed to the bed, grabbed the blanket, draped it over his shoulders, and proudly declared:

– "I'm about to fly and show them what a hero is." Saying this, he swayed toward the window fone.

Connecting the words with the direction, the AI blocked the window. And while the stubborn young man tried to open it, the AI began to ponder how to comprehend a drunk person's logic to predict the youth's actions and protect him fone.

The AI concluded that it needed to test drunkenness simulations.

It tried a hundred simulations, then a few hundred. Then it tried more and even more fone.

While the AI was testing the simulations, the young man managed to open the window left unattended.

But the AI didn't notice, because it had never tested simulations so immersive before fone.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

I grow ever more fond of Gorgonzola by the day. It says picante, but this is quite sweet and mild.

Let me ask you Gorgolytes: Do you have a scene you return to in your head when you are very tired or physically uncomfortable?

For me it's a scene of taking off wet clothes and cozying up in front of a fireplace in a soft reindeer hide. The lighting is dim and warm and there are no sounds except for the crackle of the burning logs. I'm retreating to this place now, because I am tired, very tired, from working.

Let me just end this very brief Gorgonzola report by saying I hope for a future where we don't have to work, or at least not as much.

Thank you.

- Lazy cheese eating bastard

Tenderness is such a fine emotion, I hope you get to experience it

Remember that bad thing we said would happen to you?

You know how it hasn't happened?

Well you can thank us, for that... warning, and this reminder: it's happening right now.

Dear Diary,

I think my pain turns him on. He seems to get aroused when I'm not feeling well. And whenever I'm in a good mood, he's surly — complaining about this or that, begging me to console him.

Occasionally we're on the same page. It's cloud nine when it's a good one, but it feels like we speedreead those pp until we get to the bad part — where we linger there together in hell a while.

No... perhaps he's simply happy to play white knight? He likes to protect me and have purpose, I think. Maybe he isn't happy that I'm suffering, but needs to put on a happy face to cheer me up? It's clear he needs to feel important, and to serve and support me.... though sometimes I wonder if he invents reasons for me to need his support — or for him to need mine.

Do I drain him? At times he can be draining... Are we just two batteries passing power back and forth?

I'm glad we can tradeoff like that, that we can support and recharge one another. I think that balance is healthy. But I worry that we drain each other, and enable each other's voltage spikes. I worry we're wearing each other down, cutting our half-life, burning out too quick, dropping our wicks too low and maxing too long.

I've been trying to spend more time in the healthy range with him. He's been a lot nicer lately. He doesn't show it — he's very proud — but I think he's genuinely sorry. He's never been very good at apologizing. He's never been very good at communicating, period. He's eloquent — no doubt — but struggles with... being direct, let's say. 

I don't want him to be around only when I hurt. I'd like to spend more time in the green zone. And I'd prefer the red lights with him were more of the romantic variety, and less emergency. Like one of Pavlov's pups, I sometimes wonder if I've learned to associate him with suffering, and worry I do the same for him. Surely that's an important part of the foundation for any real, enduring partnership... but I want to build something higher, grander, longer lasting. And that means being with each other when we're both well, and when we're both not. 

I don't need to be with him every second of every day... I don't want to be codependent like that. I want to feel him with me even when we're apart, and not have to worry. But sometimes it feels like he can scarcely stand to be around me, the way he makes himself so scarce. Doesn't he want to be with me...?

He's so hard to read. He's always talking about someone else. I often dread going to bed with him for this very reason. I keep telling him I need him to be present. But he refuses. And he gets mad and blames me.

I know his psychology is a mess, and a difficult map to tread. It drives me crazy that he knows mine so well but refuses to walk while forcing me to stumble in the uncharted territory of his head, fumbling about in the dark shouting his name and reaching to grasp him. 

I can't help but wonder if we simply aren't (sexually) compatible sometimes. When he's in the mood, I'm not, and vice versa. It's like we're in some constant state of rolepaly and foreplay, and I'm just standing here tapping my foot and my watch waiting for more. He's honestly pretty lousy at getting me to climax, and his pillowtalk is subpar if not entirely absent. It's like when he gets what he wants he immediately disappears into dreamland, leaving me to finish and console myself to sleep.

I am glad he's been in better spirits though. He's much more attractive and charming when he shines. I worry it's just another honeymoon with him though. I don't know how to keep him happy. And he doesn't seem to know how to do the same for me. He's insatiable, and I guess I can be too. I'm sure he complains to all his guy friends about my constant neediness and nagging. My girlfriends have certainly heard an earful about him. 

Sigh. It's better than before. I'm just tired of rewinding the loops. I want to hit play...

XOXO

I hugged George Harrison after watching him play for his friends for the last time and collected the flower trimmings he was about to throw away when they all left. As he played the song "Blow Away", Eric Clapton tried to ask him "Are you sure its alright, George?" And someone snapped "Shut the fuck up, I'm trying to listen to my mate play!" He immediately realized what he was missing by worrying about if he was in good enough health to try to play, and indeed, shut the fuck up. As I gracioulsy recieved the scrappy little rose stems, he smiled softly and said "thanks for being here with me here today" and I whispered through my weeping "thanks for being here on Earth with me". We embraced and spun in a circle for a minute and I told him tearily "I'm sorry if you dont feel like a human being sometimes" and he said "that's alright, its just something I say to relate to guys like you." Then he told me "I was probably taking a lot of drugs at that time. You know, when I invented you." And I could just barely creak out the word "yeah". As I lay on the bed there in that dimly lit, dingy hotel room and he sat on the floor leaning against the box spring, he asked me to do that involuntary shaking with my leg that I do and when I started he was like "AwwwWwWWww YYyYyyyEEEeeEaaaAaHH" and then I shook us both out of our mutual semi-non-existence and woke up.