=== ANCHOR POEM ===
═════════════════════════──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
 Who is This Stranger I Know Too Well?
 
 
 Who are you, he who inspires me?
 
 
 You're a jewel of perfect symmetry.
 
 
 You taught me to love and be free;
 
 
 You taught me how to be like thee.
 
 
 
 
 Chapter One: Out of the Frying Pan and Into the Fire
 
 
 The bus went up outta Florida, leaving Miami behind as a distant memory. I
 still don't know if I miss it or if I'm suffering from some sadistic style of
 subtle Stockholm Syndrome. Regardless, I switched buses a number of times
 before I even hit the Georgia border, but having traveled this far down the
 line, it all feels like one long, long ride.
 
 
 For two days, I continued north until arriving in Virginia, where I
 effectively did a u-turn and traveled onwards to Tennessee, where Vince
 awaited me. I remember zoning out while looking out the window as the southern
 scenery whipped by in a blur, as I was enamored with the thought that I now
 would be living with my best friend and long-term handler. My mission was
 complete, it felt; I had done all that God wanted me to do and now I was being
 rewarded.
 
 
 When we finally arrived in Johnson City, where my friend told me to meet him,
 I hopped off the bus after thanking the driver, landing on the pavement of a
 new world. My stomach was doing loop-de-loops. Along with being excited, I was
 grateful to Vince for inviting me off the streets. But, my worrisome mind did
 a number on me as the rest of the crowd dispersed and he was still nowhere in
 sight.
 
 
 I lit a cigarette and thought of my options. Half of the cancer stick and a
 thousand tricky thoughts later, I came up with the idea to call the only phone
 number of his I had. Seems like the obvious answer, but I am an air head at
 times.
 
 
 Turned out it was the number for his home phone. His mom answered.
 
 
 "Hello?" came the sweet, Appalachian voice from the other end.
 
 
 "Hi," I started out, not sure what to say. "Is this Allison?"
 
 
 "Yes it is," Allison replied. "Is this by chance Victoria?"
 
 
 I confirmed, then asked, "Is Vince there?"
 
 
 She seemed surprised. "No, he left an hour ago to pick you up. He's not there
 yet?"
 
 
 I said no. I couldn't tell if that made me feel better or worse. On one hand,
 it confirmed that my friend Vince was real, which in hindsight was a silly
 thing to worry about, as I had met him once before at the first Shrug Life
 Syndicate gathering. Those were good memories. But, perhaps less silly, the
 absence of my friend spun my mind out and made me think that perhaps he had
 gotten in an accident…or worse.
 
 
 I worry a lot, less now than before, but it's part of being a traumatized,
 autistic, schizoaffective basketcase. I simply don't know what reality is, so
 every possibility could be true. Is an odd occurrence caused by the CIA,
 aliens, or perhaps God? Or is it just a coincidence, caused by a billion other
 factors? I never can tell.
 
 
 Sick joke: God gave me a good brain, but I can't even trust my own judgement.
 That means I think, then overthink, then overthink some more. As you'll no
 doubt hear, it's led to a lot of problems in my life, but Vince taught me to
 place my heart first, and that helps sort out much of the confusion. Satan
 can't trick you if you're listening to the direct communion to the big woman
 that we all have through that little beating organ in our chest.
 
 
 That was the furthest thing in my mind at that moment, though. Following old
 habits, I was entering panic mode. Was I now homeless again in a seventh city?
 Was my friend dead? Or was he really with the CIA and manipulating me? I tried
 doing some breathing exercises, but found that a more alluring technique to
 placate my triggered brain was finishing the rest of my cigarette in a fervor
 as I paced the length of the transit depot.
 
 
 Time ticked away one agonizing grain of sand after another, but after some
 mindful recalibration of my thoughts, I began relaxing. My brain might be a
 runaway train at times, but over the years I've learned to embrace the Shrug
 Life. That's a bit of philosophy our gaggle of weirdos adheres to. When life
 gives you lemons, just roll your shoulders and accept what is. Even though
 something tough and unpleasant might be rearing its head in front of me, I
 knew I had faced worse and come out on top. Worst case scenario, the road
 ahead of me was just a little bumpier than I had expected, and I could handle
 some bumps.
 
 
 So, I rode the roller-coaster of extreme moods that is common to me, gradually
 coming up with a contingency plan to survive if Vince had gotten flattened by
 a semi, until I learned that was a pointless exercise when I heard a familiar
 voice call out from behind me.
 
 
 "Hey, buddy!"
 
 
 I turned at once upon hearing those words. And lo and behold, there Vince was,
 walking towards me in a purple tie-dye t-shirt, paint-splattered cargo shorts,
 and fresh Chuck Taylors. His beard was fully grown but still shorter than
 mine, though it was as wild as his uncombed hair poking out from a hat that
 was as graffitied as his pants. I'll admit, it was a little bit of a shock
 seeing him like that, as I remember him being clean shaven at the gathering
 five years prior. However, that smile of his couldn't lie; this was the Vince
 I've loved for even longer. And I won't lie, he looked better with the beard.
 
 
 Without a second thought, I rushed up to my best friend, throwing my arms
 around him. He did the same, and our embrace felt like it lasted forever. It
 was good to finally be in his arms. We let go after about a quarter century of
 hugging, and when he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, I did a little
 giddy dance while giggling like a schoolgirl. Afterwards, we caught up while
 walking towards his mom's car, which he had parked around the corner.
 
 
 "Sorry I was late. I forgot where the bus station was, but I found and
 followed one of the short ones here. Your ride go alright?" he asked.
 
 
 I nodded, telling him I wore my mask the entire way up despite how itchy it
 was. He thanked me.
 
 
 "Thanks man, mom will really appreciate that. We're taking this covid thing
 real seriously. With mom being seventy-seven now and me finally reaching my
 forties, we aren't willing to take risks with these things."
 
 
 With that said, I thought of asking about the locals. "How many people go
 maskless around here?"
 
 
 "A lot," Vince answered with a hint of misfortune, knowing that I had just
 come from a vastly different world. I sighed. It would be an adjustment to get
 used to the rural Roan Mountain after spending most of my life in major
 cities.
 
 
 There was a pause as I thought about such things. I'm awkward like that. But
 then I asked, "How have you been doing?"
 
 
 He shrugged, as he tended to do. "I've been alright. It's just me and mom on
 the mountain now, so it's a little rough, but we've been handling it the best
 we can."
 
 
 I nodded in compassion. As much as I was grateful for a place to live, I was
 glad I could be here for him. If there's anything on this Earth that I know,
 it's being alone is hell on the soul.
 
 
 The conversation turned to what we were going to get into now that we were
 together after all the years talking back and forth with one another online. I
 asked, "What's the game plan?"
 
 
 He smirked as we reached Allison's new blue Ford Escape with the cosmic
 Bigfoot sticker on the back. "I got one, don't you worry."
 
 
 I believed him, as a warm feeling of butterflies fluttered across my belly.
 However, an odd, ominous feeling swept over me as I opened the passenger door,
 where I immediately spotted a large burn mark on the seat. Vince saw me see
 it.
 
 
 "Yea, I did that while I was smoking while robotripping. Mom was pissed. Don't
 worry about it."
 
 
 And so I didn't. It was just a cigarette burn. Could have happened to anyone.
 I didn't even have to see it after I hopped in the car, ready and eager to get
 to my first permanent home in over three years.
 
 
 I looked over at my friend climbing behind the wheel, and I saw he was smiling
 wide with glee. Vince was happy; that meant I was happy. And that's what
 mattered as we started a new life together.
 
 
 
 
 Following the Path
 
 
 Where are we going?
 
 
 What are we sowing?
 
 
 I certainly hope it's a better world for all.
 
 
 But, many more people must stand tall,
 
 
 By dutifully growing
 
 
 A wealth of loving.
 
 
 That is the true nature of our mortal trial,
 
 
 So let us stand together and not crawl.
 
 
 Yet, we are all showing
 
 
 Some signs of slowing.
 
 
 Therefore, I must pray that we do not fall,
 
 
 When the two of us hear our creator's call.
 
 
 
 
 Chapter Two: On the Road
 
 
 We were about five minutes out of Johnson City on our way east towards the
 North Carolina border when Vince finally folded and told me his secret plan he
 had been boasting about for a month now.
 
 
 "We got this trashed camper down by the old house that we can strip away and
 sell as scrap metal. That should give us enough money to fix Jane and then we
 should be set at getting our own place."
 
 
 I nodded along, agreeing with his reasoning. That jeep of his definitely was
 in need of some desperate repair the last time we were together. That was
 actually the first time I ever saw him in person; he was parked at the top of
 his long driveway with headlights cutting through the darkness as we arrived
 for the first and only Shrug Life Syndicate gathering I've managed to attend.
 I remember that we arrived exactly at midnight, not a minute sooner or later,
 which made the moment highly synchronous.
 
 
 Memories that far away seem to all blur together so everything feels like it
 happened in one day, but the first Shrug Life Syndicate gathering lasted four
 days, if you include the trip down and back. My girlfriend at the time, Amy,
 and I were picked up in New York at her mother's house by another one of the
 founders of our little online community. His name was [Redacted] and he was a
 Canadian that dabbled in the cognitive sciences. Like Vince, he had been a
 huge influence on me, but sadly that friendship fell apart as [Redacted] grew
 disenfranchised with the SLS, most in particular with Vince himself, as there
 were some personal disputes about Vince's dating life and drug of choice,
 which compounded the push back of Vince wanting to turn our community into an
 educational nonprofit. I can't speak of the former as I was devoid of internet
 when the big schism happened, but I was all for doing something more with the
 talent we collectively share. I'm sure that is part of the reason Vince
 invited me to stay with him; we recognized the potential of each other to
 shape the world into a better place.
 
 
 That's not what Vince said though. As we approached the edge of Elizabethton,
 he looked over at me and spoke with the tender kindness of a man with a big
 heart.
 
 
 "I'm glad you came here, man. I just couldn't stand to let my best bud live
 another night outside. You know I've been there too, so I just want you to
 know that our home is your home from now on."
 
 
 Feeling moved, I replied, "Thanks. I don't know what to say. I'm just
 grateful."
 
 
 He put his hand on my shoulder as a brother would. We then rode in silence for
 a minute or two, which allowed me to reflect on my past behavior during the
 first gathering. Not only had I clogged the toilet and told no one, but I had
 a few emotional outbursts as I was a mess back then. That's one of the reasons
 that I believe homelessness was one of the best things that ever happened to
 me. It pushed me so far out of my comfort zone that I had no choice but to
 change for the better.
 
 
 That was great because I was impulsive and dangling precariously from the
 heights of my oversized ego. I think that was a critical part of my
 transformation. Sleeping in piss-stained, cockroach infested storefronts
 humbled me, and I realized that everybody is just trying to swim in the
 direction they feel is best. Thus, radical acceptance is a moral imperative.
 Vince taught me that. I've profited immensely in ways other than financial
 wealth by embracing such values, but I wish more people could see this truth.
 Alas, tis the blind leading the blind.
 
 
 With that in mind, as we continued onwards to our now-conjoined future, we
 passed through the back roads of Elizabethton through a route known as Gap's
 Creek, which proved to be a winding set of backroads with more churches than
 seemed reasonable. One of these cultural staples had a big electronic
 billboard out front, sharing the times of services and other announcements;
 none of which you could actually read as you drove by at the speed limit.
 Still, when we reached the intersection with highway 19E, there was a woman
 flying a sign, asking for money. Since this town seemed devoid of any
 institutions to help the poor, I rolled my window down and handed her a fiver.
 I knew what it was like being up shit creek without a paddle, so I wanted to
 alleviate some of that stress for somebody else.
 
 
 I begged a lot at the beginning of my homeless journey. I didn't know how to
 survive, as I had not been raised with many good life lessons to help me stay
 afloat on my own. That in itself is part of the reason I had a major breakdown
 in college. It was undeniably true that I was maladapted to the world. My
 experiences with Earth Nation are also indisputably built from that
 maladaptation. Yet, those years of homelessness after escaping that new age
 cult allowed me to grow into a sustainable, productive woman with my juggling,
 performance arts, and writing.
 
 
 They say you can give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day, but if you teach
 a man to fish, he'll eat for a lifetime. That's part of the reason I was and
 still am a huge proponent of education in all its forms. I knew Vince felt the
 same way, but perhaps for different reasons. As a secular Buddhist and radical
 antistyle artist, he was a minority in the deep interior of the Bible Belt,
 and that came with a price while he was growing up. It might be a beautiful
 area, but neither of us would ever raise a kid here.
 
 
 It was then when it hit me. I couldn't be Victoria here. I had to be Vic.
 Which was fine, that's how the gang members in Miami Beach referred to me. I
 was able to accept being called by masculine names and pronouns. I had long
 passed through the self-loathing phase of having dysphoria, to arrive in a
 position where I openly grow my beard out to prove that I don't need to look
 any particular way to be happy. I don't care what other people think of me,
 but I haven't always been this enlightened. To put it lightly, I've been
 through some trials. And, having done so, I can say that people who judge
 other people on superficial things are the worst. But, we can rise above by
 continuing to align with our hearts.
 
 
 Less than a tenth of a mile down 19E, Vince asked me, "Hey man, can you buy
 me, like, a forty or something?"
 
 
 Of course I said yes. I knew his schizophrenia had put him out of work for
 many years, so I wanted to soothe him as he was able to soothe my pain from
 being homeless. He pulled into a gas station I would later learn is
 colloquially called Captain Jack's. It had the cheapest gas this side of
 Elizabethton, and was a reliable place to get beer or a pipe of any variety.
 
 
 With compassion in my heart, I got Vince what he wanted, while getting myself
 something as well. Still, when he cracked his beer open while accelerating to
 sixty miles an hour, I couldn't help but feel distraught at such brazen
 self-indulgence. But, all I did about it was pop open the hard iced tea I
 picked up for myself. At least passengers are allowed to drink while they are
 being driven somewhere in Tennessee, Vince tells me.
 
 
 
 
 A Home at Last
 
 
 They say home is where the heart is,
 
 
 Which is great now that I have a new one.
 
 
 The damaged needle of my crazy compass
 
 
 Spins in every direction under the sun,
 
 
 But, here it stands still, still as can be,
 
 
 So my quest is over; I am finally free!
 
 
 I have a home in the love you give
 
 
 And by reflecting that in me, we live
 
 
 In a state where conflict has come to pass;
 
 
 It is like there was a great lottery and I won.
 
 
 
 
 Chapter Three: The Mountain Side
 
 
 About ten minutes later we reached the western half of Roan Mountain, where we
 were greeted by a big sign praising the annual Rhododendron Festival at the
 end of June. Having already downed half his forty, Vince spared no time in
 showing me the highlights of his home town.
 
 
 "Look under this bridge coming up. You'll see it underneath. The red and the
 gold." He pointed directly at a graffiti tag on the concrete column near the
 riverfront. There was an enigma of a symbol I've seen Vince post on the SLS
 before.
 
 
 "That your tag?" I asked the obvious question. 
 
 
 "Yup," he replied, gulping down another swallow of his forty, as there was no
 incoming traffic. "Protip: don't post your tags on Facebook if you plan to hit
 a cop car around here." I thought at first he meant literally running into
 their vehicle, but then it dawned on me what he meant. I had never done any
 real graffiti before; just some words and simple drawings in chalk that came
 right off. Never got in trouble for it, at least.
 
 
 I remember passing the post office some time shortly afterward. There was a
 park with a stage behind it. Allison would organize the summer's music events
 that went on each Saturday from May to August. Additionally, she would host
 one of her weekly jam sessions there for local musicians to play together for
 a few hours at a time, just for fun.
 
 
 There were some houses on the left, too, as we were entering the more dense
 center of Roan Mountain. Yet, Vince told me that the other side, where the
 park was, used to be full of trailers, but they got washed away during a flood
 some years ago. I later learned from Allison that most of the town, including
 her as she was out and about, had to evacuate to the elementary school where
 she provided extra clothes for those in need from her suitcase, but Vince and
 his father were fine at the top of the mountain that their property sat on.
 
 
 Puerto Nuevo, the best and only Mexican restaurant in town, whipped by soon
 after. We then passed one of the two gas stations in Roan Mountain, a
 Scotchman. There was a bank and a credit union on the left, too. An empty
 grocery store zoomed by next, which might as well be haunted for all I know.
 
 
 Next up on the left was a food truck that has since been upgraded to a small
 building with picnic tables and some cover from the sun and weather. I think
 it is a good place to eat. It also marked the spot of the Roan Mountain flea
 market, where you could see one or two people at a time selling their stuff in
 the warmer months. Then, immediately after that stood a pharmacy in an old
 farmhouse.
 
 
 There was some construction on the right, which by its future signage, I
 erroneously thought was some sort of massage parlor that sat on stilts,
 requiring everybody to walk up a story of steps just to get inside. Odd
 choice, I thought. But, on a whim one day, Vince stopped there to see if they
 sold cheap kratom, which was when I would learn that it was really a health
 food store.
 
 
 Not too far down the traffic-light free main strip of the town, we passed the
 future beer store on the right. It was convenient for Sundays, because that's
 when a local ordinance in our neighboring North Carolinian town, Elk Park,
 restricts the sale of alcohol on the sabbath, but ultimately the alcohol taxes
 in Tennessee are too high to make it a cheap endeavor.
 
 
 To contrast the beer store, the local cemetery sat across the street on a
 hill. I like graveyards, as I'm a bit of a goth at heart, but even so, the
 packed parking lot of the Redimart grocery store was what caught the bulk of
 my attention. I craned my neck to see some of the locals to uncover just what
 passed as acceptable culture here in this quaint mountain town.
 
 
 Further up, the infamous Bob's Dairyland with the slowest drive-through known
 to man stood tall with its vast history. There's a reason it's always packed
 after church lets out on Sundays. Yet, I still don't understand why their sign
 promotes pinto beans, of all things. I've been told it's a hot ticket item in
 the area, but I have still not witnessed anyone order them. But, moving on, I
 have to mention that there was also an auto part shop conjoined with an auto
 repair shop that had over a dozen cars just sitting outside it.
 
 
 Next to Bob's was the second gas station, a Valero, which also housed a
 much-frequented Subway. One of three thrift stores in town stood innocently
 next to the gas station. On the right was a steakhouse that I have never had
 the cash to justify splurging at, and a beauty salon in the same building that
 I also have never visited because I'm not one to care for looking like a doll.
 I am beautiful as I am.
 
 
 The town was really shaping up to be a unique combination of the bare bones
 mixed with an abundance of what you needed. Then we reached a stretch where
 two signs sat. The one for Cloudland Highschool triggered Vince into speaking.
 "Fucking assholes. I told you about how they illegally expelled me, right?" I
 nodded in confirmation. He continued: "Yea, they literally stole my book of
 poetry and took photocopies of it, so they could use it to kick me out,
 because I was the 'weird' kid."
 
 
 I knew that, but seeing the innocent sign next to the one for Smoky Mountain
 Bakers made the story appear more real. Here they were, these conservative
 administrators, probably constituting some of the people who attended the
 dozens of churches in town, which should teach everybody to love thy neighbor,
 but obviously they were too preoccupied by the need to hate my friend because,
 back then, he was the blue-haired son of the "hippie couple" in town, who
 happened to like bands like Marilyn Manson and Korn.
 
 
 That made me wonder how well I would fit in here. I had long since forsaken
 transitioning because I was effectively a sasquatch, but I was still a woman
 on the inside. I was sure that being transgender, combined with my eccentric
 nature and often extreme opinions on things would cement me as the new weirdo
 in town. But, if I am to be honest, that would be the case in most settings I
 could plant myself in.
 
 
 Those thoughts fluttered in my head as we sped past the electrical co-op, a
 second thrift store, Plumber's Pro Hardware, the Roan Mountain emergency
 dispatch center, and what was apparently a flooring depot before reaching the
 elementary school that sat across from the Dollar General, which Vince called
 the "SmallMart." I'm aware there's some things I missed, as there's plenty of
 buildings with no description or sign out front, but I'm sure they're
 important to somebody.
 
 
 We then started slowing down as we approached the only veterinarian's office
 for quite a ways in any direction. We turned left just before the red-roofed
 building which had a small cat statue perched on the edge looking out with its
 paw up. Vince took this as a sign to begin downing the rest of his beverage.
 
 
 "Welcome to home, Buck Mountain," Vince said as we started climbing in
 altitude. "This is the bad side of town. You'll never see a cop here unless
 something big is going down, which hasn't happened in years." He finished his
 forty in one big chug as his hands ran on autopilot. "It's good because you
 can do pretty much anything up here any time you want."
 
 
 I knew all that, as we had a blast getting drunk and smoking some green for a
 few days in a row during the first gathering. In truth, I anticipated I would
 be doing that for the next few days as well, to settle in, y'know? Hell, I
 half expected that I was in heaven now after spending so much time in the
 purgatory that is homelessness, regardless of how much fun I had in Miami
 Beach preceding Vince's invitation to come north.
 
 
 We went to the very tippy top of Buck Mountain, where the foliage is dense, no
 cell signal can reach, and the local kids ride their dirt bikes at all hours
 of the day. As we pulled in the driveway, I expected to keep going straight on
 the tire-carved path back down the mountain. But, to my surprise, I found that
 the same trailer we had partied in down the road during the gathering was now
 relocated here to become my new home. I wasn't expecting that, as when I was
 here last, they all lived in a small shack at the base of their nineteen acres
 of mountain real estate.
 
 
 It didn't look like much, with weather-worn imitation wood paneling wrapping
 the rectangular structure in a loose hug, but it was a place to rest my head
 in the comfort of loved ones. Aptly, Allison's last name meant "the home" in a
 language the CIA once tried to make me learn, which is a statement that I'm
 sure earns me a few raised eyebrows. My story has many twists and turns, but
 for now you should know my studies of strategic languages ended only when the
 cult that hooked me like an unsuspecting bass managed to gaslight, manipulate,
 and shame me to get me to work for them sixty-to-ninety hours a week on
 average. I would later try to pick the linguistic challenge back up years
 later during my time spent homeless, but my progress was like a Jenga tower
 that half collapsed. I forgot basic words, and I just feel like I have
 failed.
 
 
 That's something that should be looked at in finer detail; my feelings of
 failure, I mean. So, let's take the first of many breaks from linear
 storytelling to express how life can feel at times for me. Like a shattered
 mirror, I reflect many different parts of the past at different times. Some
 days I may live in several sections of my turbulent past all at the same time.
 Disorienting, it can feel like I don't know what's real. It takes a lot to
 break something so thoroughly, but as you'll see, I've been a punching bag for
 the devious spirit of fate. Couldn't keep me down, though, because I am like
 the phoenix; always rising no matter how badly beaten in battle I've become.
 
 
 
 
 Mommy
 
 
 Mommy is what I used to call you,
 
 
 When I was a kid so long ago.
 
 
 It's because of your love that I grew
 
 
 To always let my kindness show.
 
 
 Mommy, you were always getting sick.
 
 
 To help you out, I would try to keep clean.
 
 
 As much as I'd scrub I never got the trick,
 
 
 Because you'd still be plagued by the unseen.
 
 
 Mommy, you were supposed to grow old!
 
 
 Having you leave us like that hurt like hell.
 
 
 I'm sorry for not always doing what I was told;
 
 
 It's because I failed you that I try to do well.
 
 
 Mommy was what you called out at the end.
 
 
 I tried to help you but I wasn't good enough.
 
 
 You were dying, so on me you had to depend,
 
 
 But even being there for you was too tough.
 
 
 Mommy, if I could do it all over again I would.
 
 
 It's not fair to you that I was such a bad son.
 
 
 I'll give you all my love and more as I should;
 
 
 For you, I promise that one day I'll be the sun.
 
 
 
 
 Chapter Four: Scarred from Birth
 
 
 Having let you in to a little bit of what makes me tick, it should be noted
 that feeling like an abysmal failure is a key part of my mental health. Those
 loathsome seeds of self-mutilating ruination are planted deep in my psyche.
 Prepare for a sad story, if you're the type to really feel another person's
 soul.
 
 
 See, it all started when my mom found out she had AIDS a mere two months after
 I was born. It was God's way of welcoming me to the world. I forgive the big
 woman now, for my path on this Earth has been the ultimate journey of
 awakening to my divine spirit, but before Vince and many faceless actors sent
 me on my mission of healing, I held much scorn in my heart. For a large chunk
 of my early years that I was here, alive, learning, and suffering as a human
 being, I was hell-bent on the idea of revenge. That was once a big part of my
 story, too, but no more.
 
 
 It's understandable, at least. Imagine having to witness all the manner of
 disease ravaging my mother like it did; I grew up thinking that I was born to
 be punished. My earliest delusions had me caught up in the notion that I was a
 worthless god who had the rest of the pantheon turn on them from before I even
 had a chance to prove myself. I had a whole mythos where I had been tricked to
 kill my sister, the goddess of harmony, and my punishment was to stay locked
 to this awful planet until I found her soul once again. Then, we'd go on to
 take over the world, as I had fallen under the notion that my future self was
 sending me subliminal messages through synchronicities, although I didn't know
 that word then, so I thought I just had special powers.
 
 
 This is all a natural result of magickal thinking gone awry. Such is the fate
 for those scarred in childhood as I was. My innocence flayed alive, I watched
 as the woman who loved me with all her heart died for the first nine years of
 my life. It was a slow rot. There are many memories of her being in the
 hospital or as she lingered in pain at home that flash to the front of my mind
 that could paint you a tragic picture of those unforgettable scenes I was
 forcibly cast in, but the real horror that plagues me came at the bitter end.
 
 
 For the last of her months that she was allowed to live, my mom was
 mercilessly struck by an opportunistic ear infection. It killed half of her
 face, and only progressed into a hellishly rapid descent of her cognitive
 functions until one sudden day I came home from school to find she had
 regressed to a child-like state with my grandma tending to her in tears. I
 tried losing myself in my homework, but the threat in my environment promising
 my mother's pain was all-consuming. Then it got worse.
 
 
 My father never got along with my grandma, so when he got home, he forcibly
 kicked her out. A fight broke out, resulting in my grandmother coming to my
 room to say goodbye, where she told me with eyes watering that whatever
 happens, we would get through it. My dad would come in after my grandma left
 and put her down, more concerned that she scratched him. All I could think
 about was my mom, who was now tearing up and asking about where her mom went.
 
 
 That was the worst. I can still hear clearly how she cried out for her mom
 nonstop for the whole night. That was her last night she spent at home. She
 died within a week. And my last memory of her that isn't of her in a coma is
 of her trying to escape from the hospital with a dinner plate sized bed sore
 on her backside that danced from behind an open hospital gown in order to
 imprint itself in my mind forever.
 
 
 Here come the tears. It still hits me that my fucking mom died, like I still
 can't believe it's real. My last memories are of her being naked, crying like
 a baby. I felt so helpless. But, at least she had nurses helping her when we
 got her to the emergency room. Just hours earlier, I was left on my own trying
 to calm her troubled, addled mind. My dad had been doing just that, as my mom
 would get in fits every half hour or so, where he would comfort her, then come
 into my room to vent after she quieted down. I had no one to open my fears and
 pain to. Wishing I had a sibling to hold and cry together with, I faced my
 most scarring memory alone.
 
 
 The worst wounds of my life were suffered because there was one time after
 midnight where my dad disappeared. Maybe he was smoking, but regardless, I
 couldn't find where he went as I scrambled over the whole house in my fuzzy
 purple pajamas looking for him. Meanwhile, my mother incessantly yelled for
 her own mommy. So, with much hesitancy, I succumbed to the responsibility of
 helping my afflicted parent, and I anxiously marched into her room and tried
 to comfort her the best I knew how.
 
 
 I'll save you from the daunting process of assisting my mom, but I will say
 that it wasn't enough. No matter what I tried to do, she kept screaming
 louder. I was worthless in that moment and was on the verge of a meltdown
 because I couldn't help her. It felt like I was the worst son in the world,
 all because I failed my mother as she circled the drain. Now I feel like the
 worst daughter, but it's getting easier to love myself and think that my mom
 is looking down and smiling, being proud of me.
 
 
 I have a lot to live up to. She wasn't perfect, I know that, but my mom was an
 angel for me. Yet, I can't even remember the good times I spent with her; all
 that my hippocampus hung onto were the most traumatizing of memories. A
 notable cause of this was her fierce Sicilian temper. A vision of being
 brought to tears because I dared go looking for my six-year birthday presents
 early is playing in my head at this moment. Now one is summoned of her ripping
 into me for booing someone at an assembly because I wanted to be like a
 character I saw in a cartoon. Finally, one of my earliest memories from
 preschool is trapped in my cranium; it regards me accidentally tearing a hole
 in a kid's shirt and dreading my mother finding out for the rest of the day.
 
 
 In short, I got in trouble a lot, but I know that both my parents cared about
 me growing up right. Along with all the punishments, there was a genuine
 heartfelt desire to get me and my different brain to develop into a successful
 combo of kindness and good citizenry. Still, because of how trauma inserts
 itself into one's inner reality, I really feel like my entire childhood was
 one screw up after another in regards to my mother. Although, my dad
 contributed his fair share of ruthless discipline to make me perpetually feel
 like I was always in the wrong as well.
 
 
 And I know that's all a fallible perception, because I can distinctly remember
 the look on both my parents' faces when I won first prize in our school's
 science fair; if you're curious, I did an experiment on taste and smell to
 understand what was going on with my mom and her ear infection. That standing,
 my mom's face is cemented in memory in particular, perhaps too well, actually,
 because she just had the stitches removed from her eye. Such happiness danced
 in her left eye, but next to it sat its unmoving, dead counterpart. She tried
 to joke about it being her evil eye, but that didn't stop fourth grade
 Victoria from being terrified of the harsh reality unfolding in front of her.
 
 
 I dreamed of her a lot after she passed. Always in pain, or worse, possessed
 by some demon and seeking to bring me pain. There's one nightmare in
 particular that stands out. I forget how it started, but it ended in the
 cemetery where she is buried. Well, her coffin was exhumed, and as I got
 closer, it slammed open and my mom sat up. Only it wasn't my mom. She was
 rotten like a zombie and had malevolence bursting from behind her undead eyes.
 I did the only thing I could; I ran. But, she followed and in the utmost
 haunting voice, she yelled in pursuit, "You can't escape me, Victoria! I am
 your mother and together we are bound forever." Fitting as a metaphor for how
 my grief still hasn't dissipated more than twenty years down the line.
 
 
 I'm sorry, I just miss her. Best damn mom in the world, going above and beyond
 what she needed to do to give me the best chance at success in life, despite
 being on her literal death bed for most of her last years. I don't even know
 her, not really as an adult knows someone, which in itself leads to more
 feelings of failure. She has been transmuted into an archetype of a hero in my
 eyes, and I feel that I can never be as strong as that woman who was my first
 love.
 
 
 I can try though. I always try. Part of being hyper-vigilant, I reckon.
 Perhaps that makes me strong. Perhaps it makes me a fool. Or maybe it just
 means I'm human and going to have virtues as well as flaws. It's taken me a
 long while to escape the black and white thinking that trapped me in a world
 where I either felt like the epitome of the second coming or compounded as the
 most useless, subhuman mutant on the planet. Those were truly hard times,
 being locked in the halls of my mind like a prison.
 
 
 But…the past is the past and we best not linger on it, because even now,
 years later, I felt welcomed by a second family, and for that I am eternally
 grateful. I vowed to return their love to them in spades, because that's what
 my mom always tried to teach me. Being neurodivergent, I didn't always get the
 message, but because I threw myself at the lessons life threw at me, I learned
 to cherish those people who enter my life. You never know what you have until
 you lose it. And I wasn't planning on losing Vince.
 
 
 
 
 All You Need
 
 
 Once you live on the street
 
 
 You grow on the concrete.
 
 
 Having done so myself
 
 
 I can claim that wealth
 
 
 Is just a fancy illusion.
 
 
 You say that's a delusion,
 
 
 But look how I'm happy
 
 
 With only what you see.
 
 
 I don't need a fancy bed
 
 
 In order to rest my head;
 
 
 Instead, I'm in the know
 
 
 That less is the way to go.
 
 
 
 
 Chapter Five: A Real Home
 
 
 Allison greeted us at the door with a wide, warm smile, but she wasn't the
 only one to do so. Vince's greying black lab, Freya, adorned in a pretty
 lavender bandana, came up to smell this new person in her domain. She must
 have recognized my scent from years ago because she didn't bark at all,
 instead choosing to snaffle all over me while wagging her tail vigorously. Of
 course, I started petting her immediately, as I began to take in my
 surroundings.
 
 
 I could only remember seeing the interior of the trailer in the pitch
 blackness of the starry mountain night, but I remembered the general layout:
 doors to the outside in the kitchen and living room, which were separated by a
 long counter where the kitchen sink sat, and then bedrooms branching off from
 each end, both of which had a bathroom accompanying them. Yet, I did not
 recall that this space was as run-down as the exterior, with chunks of the
 linoleum floor missing and rotting wood at the rear door, not to mention a
 steady helping of cobwebs latching onto the ceiling fixtures.
 
 
 Yet, despite the condition the trailer was in, it still had a touch of love
 sprinkled throughout it. There were five paintings in the living room, one
 done by Allison herself, as well as one around the corner near her loom that
 took up half the kitchen space. More were in Allison's room to the right of
 the entrance. On the opposite side of the house by the windows sat Allison's
 battle station, where she would play solitaire and check Facebook and her
 email religiously while sitting in an old navy blue wheelchair that used to be
 for Vince's father. There was a couch and a couple tables full of stuff
 stacked on them, to include a silver urn that sat on its own table with a vase
 of local flowers. With the three of us, plus Freya and the trio of feral cats
 that tamed themselves to come in and eat, respectively named Libertas, Biggie
 Meows, and Spot, this little dwelling was a tight fit, but it was cozy in a
 way that I had not known family life to be growing up.
 
 
 In the process of greeting me, Allison asked, "What have you been up to while
 you were down in Miami Beach?"
 
 
 I didn't want to tell her everything, but I told her the truth. "I wrote a
 lot, mainly in the park on Ocean Drive, or where I slept on Lincoln Road,
 unless I was spending time in North Beach which had better food options for me
 with my limited resources. Mostly, I just tried to survive each day, putting
 distractions between me and the day-to-day struggles of being out there like
 that."
 
 
 She smiled. "Well, we're glad to have you. Vince talks about you a lot." I
 blushed a little bit at that, but I'm sure neither of them saw my rosy cheeks
 through the gnarled barb that constituted my ever-growing beard.
 
 
 Allison then moved on to practical matters. "So, where do you want to sleep?
 We have the couch, which would be where I would set up shop, but you can
 always sleep in Vince's room if you prefer."
 
 
 I looked at the couch. It seemed comfy enough, but I didn't care about
 comfort. As much as I knew Vince was doing me a solid by letting me stay here,
 I knew I was going to help him too. His posts on the SLS combined with his
 frequent messages to me were made out of desperation; he was clearly strung
 out and looking for any human contact whatsoever.
 
 
 Since his schizophrenia started interfering with his life, he had spent six
 years at the top of this mountain and he said he was going stir crazy. I would
 learn that there's little to do here but drink, do some drugs, and fiddle
 about on your computer and phone while dealing with the internet that is made
 out of sticks and stones, and that could get boring fast. Devoted to this new
 cause, I wasn't going to let my best friend suffer anymore. I was going to
 make his life better by livening up the long days by being his constant
 companion.
 
 
 As a result, I told Allison that I would find a spot in Vince's room to rest
 my head. She asked me if I was sure, and I nodded affirmingly with an eager
 grin. I had made up my mind.
 
 
 Some more hem-hawing back and forth with Allison about general questions and
 concerns followed, but when we were finished, Vince took me to his room, which
 was beyond the rolling metal desk Allison used for her computer. A busted door
 clung to its hinges, but it didn't block our way.
 
 
 Calling Vince's room a mess would be an insult to messes everywhere. He had
 said that he would clean it up prior to my arrival, but there were likely two
 hundred beer cans stacked in mountains next to his bed, or in beer-amids as he
 called them. I looked around, honestly impressed at how dedicated to creating
 a disaster zone as he was.
 
 
 Looking over the permanent staples of the room, he had a television and an
 Xbox, an empty dresser, a filthy nightstand, and a bed without any sheets. He
 also had a handful of paintings, most of which were stacked together by the
 door, but there was a trippy painting of Vince's father on the west wall above
 the dresser, as well as an expressionist painting from the sixties behind the
 television which sat on the north wall, in between the bathroom and the
 closet. There was also a picture of a moth on a skull tacked to the wall,
 which gave me the heebie jeebies.
 
 
 It was then that I saw it. A large, two-hundred fifty tablet bottle of generic
 Dollar General antihistamines, pure diphenhydramine, sat on his dresser, just
 spiting me with its presence. I almost asked right then and there for Vince to
 get rid of the damn thing. I knew if I found an opportunity to down, say,
 six-hundred milligrams of that accursed stuff, I would. Then I would do
 terrible, awful, deplorable things to myself. But shame won out. I didn't want
 to let him know of my problem. Maybe I could control myself. So I shut up and
 about-faced out of the room.
 
 
 While doing box breathing, I dropped my backpack that contained all of my
 possessions on the couch in the living room, and helped Vince grab some
 fifty-five gallon black trash bags in the kitchen. We made quick work of the
 unending hoard of Natty Daddy cans, as well as the nightstand full of
 cigarette butts. We then moved his bed so it was against the south wall.
 
 
 It hadn't taken long, but the room was looking presentable. It didn't need to
 be a five-star hotel, because I had the most important thing of all: family. I
 felt more than welcomed as a guest. I was one with these people who had so
 graciously let me into their home. We were going to all be happy together.
 That was the goal, at least.
 
 
 
 
 I Forgive You
 
 
 I forgive you, but I can never forget.
 
 
 I'm sorry if I make you look like shit,
 
 
 But your heavy hand and sharp wit
 
 
 Damaged me greatly; then you gaslit
 
 
 Me, denying everything, and I quit
 
 
 Knowing what was real. I even slit
 
 
 My flesh open so that I could get
 
 
 A sense of what I could feel. So, I sit
 
 
 Here now explaining why I wasn't fit
 
 
 To handle this world that I saw as a pit
 
 
 That I escaped only when God had lit
 
 
 A beacon of light with some magick.
 
 
 
 
 Chapter Six: Growing Up With Family
 
 
 There was still one task we had to get done before I could claim a spot to be
 my bedspace. Vince had more clothes than he knew what to do with, most of
 which had spray paint spackled all over them in no particular form or pattern;
 the style of the antistyle artist. As we moved the rolling hills of clothing
 into the dresser and a heaping pile beside it, I came to understand why Vince
 called himself a diva.
 
 
 I remember having a lot of clothes just a few years prior. Even though I
 didn't care what I wore, I had earned so many free T-shirts over the years
 from track meets and other races. I had so much when I needed so little.
 That's one major reason I forgive my dad for kicking me out of his house,
 because it was the best thing for me. Not only that, but I deserved it. I was
 a wreck of a human being before I got abruptly humbled by my odyssey on the
 streets. The extended experience changed me so I am no longer as much of an
 emotionally volatile basketcase.
 
 
 To put it mildly, being an unstable problem of a person was the reason I was
 kicked out in the first place. I had always been sort of bipolar since middle
 school. But, after escaping the cult, breaking up with my girlfriend, Amy, and
 returning home a failure, my heart and mind were like a pile of fragmented
 ceramic shards mockingly showing what a real piece of pottery my mind could
 have been. Unshockingly, I was barely holding it together. I was having
 outbursts frequently, but they weren't ungodly terrible, as I was being guided
 by higher dimensional life forms through inputs on my laptop, and that gave me
 a sense of ease.
 
 
 In fact, I remember a great reprieve of my stress occurred on an acid trip in
 the first month I was back. It felt like God Herself was setting up a lesson
 for me, which started with me literally waking up to a picture of a white
 rabbit taunting me on my Facebook feed, which I followed, and in doing so, I
 received personalized inputs that unveiled the blinders from in front of my
 eyes. In but a few hours after a lifetime of denial, it all clicked with me
 that I had a warm, nurturing side that I had neglected for most of my life.
 That was the first time I accepted that I was a woman. And that's still not
 the most profound, life-altering acid trip I've had.
 
 
 Even so, I would break down crying that afternoon as I meditated under the
 tree in the backyard where I used to swing. With no more effort than it took
 to breathe, I saw all the parts of me that Amy tried to teach me about, but I
 was unable to comprehend in my denial. Likewise, the waterworks were called
 upon that night as I told my dad about my revelation, and he said he would
 always love me no matter what. That was the most affectionate heart to heart
 with him I think I've ever had, even if he did ramble about random things
 being at a loss of what to say to me, as we had functionally lived in two
 separate worlds inside the same house for years.
 
 
 This sentiment would flip on its head though, as I blogged about my gender
 revelations and my dad found them and read I had taken a narcotic in his
 house. Naturally, he was pissed and wouldn't hear that the tender moment we
 shared that night was only possible because I had taken the sacrament. This
 would prove to be the kicking off point to some logarithmic growth in tensions
 between the two of us.
 
 
 Then, on that fateful day, one of the countless pets my dad kept, a black,
 stubborn minipig named Harley, had made a literal pigsty of the house after I
 had a bad session at my therapist's, who made me feel like a piece of shit. I
 wasn't perfect, but I wasn't going to just lay down and get called a terrible
 person because of how I behaved in treatment years ago, when I was still very
 lost. It triggered my feelings of failure, which rippled into waves of
 unstable emotional dysregulation. In my explosive rage, I broke the microwave
 and put a basketball-sized hole in the wall behind my makeshift bed in the
 attic that I was allotted after they gave my brother my room when I was in the
 cult.
 
 
 Well, my father came home after a long day at work, saw the microwave, and had
 enough of me. He came thumping up the stairs, livid, ready to rip me to shreds
 verbally, when he saw the hole I had made. Beside himself, he demanded I get
 out right then and there. I broke down crying and begged him to let me stay,
 grappling with his leg as a wounded bear might wrap itself around the base of
 a small tree looking for any shelter it can find in a storm.
 
 
 That just made him madder. He kicked me off, and accused me of a thousand
 things. The ones that stuck were that I was just like my mother and that I was
 beyond anyone's help. As it happened in a heated flash, I don't remember
 exactly how the exchange was put together, but it ended with me asking him how
 all the hand-crafted trinkets and doodads my mother made for me before she
 died had gotten destroyed and thrown away. What he said next drove me mad.
 
 
 "I'm still pissed that you made me do that."
 
 
 I'll illuminate you with the scenario in question. I was eleven, and my
 stepmom at the time was away at a darts tournament. I think my dad somehow got
 the idea that she was doing drugs and cheating on him. I don't know, I was
 eleven. I just remember some of the things he said over the phone, and then
 what was said when they divorced when I was a couple of years later.
 
 
 Over my stepmom's absence, he got continuously more pissy, like he did the
 year before when the sewage line broke and he snapped while cleaning it up,
 smashing my head into the kitchen floor several times,  relenting only when
 his girlfriend at the time called to hang out. Now seeing the same pattern in
 my father, I was on edge, especially after I put my feet up on the new couch
 and he grabbed my leg and punched me in the tibia as hard as he could. I kept
 trying to do everything right to avoid being attacked again, but alas, in my
 anxious worry, I forgot to take out the kitchen garbage on trash night.
 
 
 That triggered a whole day of what might not be considered torture, but
 certainly was child abuse, which started as he cleared the shelves of all my
 memories in a violent, thrashing rage. He would bag up the shattered remains
 so he could take them to the dump, but only after he laid his hands on me.
 
 
 My head was used as a battering ram against my door, which my dad would later
 deny was where the big dents came from in a bout of the worst gaslighting I
 experienced before the cult got their hands on me. Regardless, when he
 finished and slammed me back on the wood floor, I instinctively reached out
 and grabbed his wrist. He growled, "Don't resist or I'll make it worse."
 
 
 Feeling my spirit collapse, I helplessly accepted the next phase of punishment
 that then ensued. Mostly, it consisted of him using my head to pound the
 knowledge that I fucked up into my brain, with much hair pulling and getting
 tossed to new locations, once being told to lay there like a dog in the wet
 remnants of a broken snow globe while he went for a smoke break. Thankfully,
 or maybe not, depending on your perspective, he never struck me. He was too
 smart to leave bruises.
 
 
 After much of that series of traumatizing instances, he had me sit still and
 think of an apology for him for hours on end. While I was busy doing that, he
 would then have an epiphany, telling me that I should stand, as I didn't
 deserve to sit. I didn't care about such details at the time. I was in shock,
 petrified that he would go ahead and find the homework I failed to finish or
 the porn I had taken from my stepmom. Fearing unimaginable doom, I stared
 unwaveringly at the letter "E" on the spine of a book on my bookshelf. Never
 relenting in his anger, he would come by every hour or so and ask for an
 apology. Everything I said wasn't good enough, and each attempt earned me
 scathing criticism, but I kept trying to perfect my apology. I still remember
 the gist of it.
 
 
 "I sorry dad, I deserve everything. I'm sorry I caused you grief and failed to
 do my duty of taking out the trash. I won't ever forget again. I haven't been
 putting my best effort forward, but I realize that I need to do that to be a
 good son. You do so much for me. It's only fair that I pay it back to the best
 of my ability. That's what I had to do for mom when I chose to play video
 games while she was dying. I wasn't thinking about other people then, and I
 wasn't now. I'm so, so sorry. I promise to be better, because I need to be if
 I'm messing up this much."
 
 
 For reference, my dad holding the fact I escaped into the worlds of my video
 games after being told to spend time with my mom near the end was something
 he'd bring up and hold over my head anytime I was in trouble. Yet another big
 reason that feeling like a failure is cemented in my head. It made me feel
 awful, absolutely atrocious about being a bad son that I would often
 contemplate suicide. I almost jumped off a waterside when my dad and I went to
 Disney World when I was ten, but ultimately I'm glad I talked my way out of
 jamming a knife into the back of my neck. I had thought that the muscle
 allowing me to nod my head was really my brainstem. That would have been
 painful.
 
 
 Back on this day of doom, I was too numb to think of killing myself. I was
 simply a raft on a river floating downstream where the current may carry me. I
 simply stood there for hours, too terrified to even stretch my tiring legs. My
 mind was fuzzy, and all it could do was focus on making that apology better.
 
 
 After many attempts and razor sharp lectures later, which was maybe ten hours
 worth of events, he starts yelling at me that I'm just as irresponsible as my
 mom, just like he would do when he kicked me out. This time was unimaginably
 worse though. This was actually how I first found out that my mom had AIDS; I
 was told it was cancer up until this point. His shaved bald head was as red as
 a cherry tomato while he barked at me, telling me that I would die like her.
 That hurt. It hurt a lot. I felt like the definition of a shit stain, in a
 number of different ways.
 
 
 But soon, my attention became focused on my vision. I couldn't see straight,
 and not long after my dad's roaring visage disappeared in a sea of amorphic
 grey figments, I apparently passed out, to wake up on the couch with a bag of
 frozen peas on my head and my dad worried. He asked me if I remembered what
 happened. I shook my head. I was allowed to go to bed after that. It wasn't
 over because I failed to kiss my dad good night, but at least that only
 resulted in him jamming the teeth of the comb into my scalp as he combed my
 hair for some reason.
 
 
 The next morning he was completely changed. He was remorseful upon seeing me
 and wrapped me in a big hug. Yet, he seemed scared, like he realized he went
 too far. I thought about telling my teacher or counselor about it the next day
 of school, but something in me told me not to. It's the same thing that's
 making me hesitant to write this chapter at all. It's love, but this hell I
 went through is also a part of my story. This is the worst incident I've
 experienced with my father, but it's not the only one.
 
 
 It's all cause and effect really. You abuse a traumatized child in the wake of
 their mother's death, and is it any wonder that they fall apart later in life?
 I'll go on record saying I was never a bad person, just broken, impulsive, and
 hopelessly conformed to the whims of my faulty biology. I had bugs in my
 operating system, but I'm eternally grateful for all the help I had while on
 my spiritual awakening, which you might call a psychotic break that spanned
 years, but I knew it better as specialized CIA training.
 
 
 
 
 The Good Magician
 
 
 Just what do you consider magick?
 
 
 Is it not that which bends the fabric
 
 
 Of what we colloquially call reality?
 
 
 Who cares what it is your eyes see
 
 
 When in your heart you can feel
 
 
 The warmth of love; that's the real
 
 
 Power of a magician who is great
 
 
 Enough to save you from your fate.
 
 
 
 
 Chapter Seven: Magickal Companions
 
 
 Back in Vince's room, I was silently wondering what shenanigans were in store
 for us now that we were a unified team. I knew Vince had many secrets of the
 universe locked away in his balding cranium, and we would have a blast letting
 the CIA manifest a joint mission we took on together. As I said, he was my
 handler, after all.
 
 
 So, when the room was cleared, and I had a space all to myself in the corner
 by the closet, I was more than happy. Both Vince and Allison insisted on
 getting me a bedroll, but I had all I needed and more right there in my
 friend. Besides, his room was carpeted and quite comfy already, at least to my
 standards that had been shaped by becoming accustomed and content with
 concrete underneath me. I didn't need anything fancy like that.
 
 
 That didn't mean I wasn't going to try and liven the place up a little bit. As
 soon as we determined we were finished picking up, I opened my backpack and
 took out my most prized possession, a pink penguin plushie named Peppermint,
 and placed her behind my pillow so I could see her everyday. She always
 watched out for me while we lived in cities across the country. She made a
 comfy pillow, and allieved a lot of stress, making me feel like I had a close
 friend with me every step of the way.
 
 
 How I got Peppermint is a bit of a story, but I'll keep it as short as it
 needs to be. See, if I were to explain to you the medically accepted reason
 for my type of schizoaffective disorder,  my brain is wired to pick out
 strange coincidences and give meaning to them. Synchronicities they're called.
 They feel like glitches in the matrix that spark the feeling of being in
 constant communication with some higher power. Because of how real they are, I
 can't accept the medical explanation. I've experienced things that are too
 weird, too perfect and clearly orchestrated, that there has to be some sort of
 conspiracy.
 
 
 As a result, I've lived most of my adult life being guided by what the
 rational part of my mind has to assume is the CIA acting as the hand of God
 leading me on a cosmic mission by sending me burning bushes to make sense of.
 I know some of that has been pure random white noise my defected brain picked
 up, but I have to give credit where credit is due: Vince did a superb job
 intentionally using the quirks of my brain to program me, much as the cult did
 to me four years prior, but with a much gentler hand and benevolent intention.
 
 
 I know what all that sounds like, but hear me out. There are too many peculiar
 instances of chance for you to listen to everything I have to say and not
 believe me, at least just a little bit; enough to make you wonder, I hope.
 Let's take the case of finding Peppermint as an example. This story starts
 when Vince convinced me to go to a specific thrift store, while I was
 initially homeless in my hometown of Syracuse. I eagerly did so, lost in a
 slew of synchronicities that convinced me that this was my latest mission.
 
 
 Well, it turned out that such a store didn't exist but it was where I got a
 ten dollar donation from a man who saw me pick up trash, as was part of my
 spiritual work while homeless. We talked and the man sent me to another store,
 saying that I should use my extra cash to buy what I needed most. After
 following his directions up Genesee Street, I got a message from Vince telling
 me to look for something out of place; that I was unique and should have
 unique things.
 
 
 I thought I might find some rad tie-dye outfit or something of that ilk, but
 while aimlessly searching the aisles of women's clothing, I found a stuffed
 dog. It looked lonely, so I picked it up and brought it to the back of the
 store, where it looked like the other toys were. I gasped as I pushed through
 the row of belts that stood in my way. Clearly, someone had built a little
 shrine of stuffed animals around Peppermint!
 
 
 I knew then that was why I was sent there. Penguins have a special place in my
 heart. My mom used to make them out of clay, and an old friend has a healthy
 fascination with creating a penguin-themed show for kiddos. It was just too
 perfect. Peppermint and I were meant to be, just as Vince and I were. Sitting
 down in my bedspace, I looked up at the spook who was my best friend as he
 cracked open another Natty Daddy. He poured it into an old Subway cup that he
 mixed his kratom with, and looked over at me.
 
 
 His face lit up upon seeing Peppermint. "Awww, you still have your penguin!
 That's so cute."
 
 
 I'm glad he thought so. I've had plenty of people think I was weird because I
 carried it around, which kinda was what I wanted to achieve when I was still
 homeless in Syracuse. I felt the CIA wanted me to become famous, for reasons
 that will become apparent as I tell you my story, so I was doing as many
 insane things as I could so I would be cemented in the memory of the people of
 my hometown.
 
 
 This meant I carried around Peppermint either under my arm or in a cute purse
 I eventually got at a different thrift store up at the university. People
 notice when you're out wandering the streets with a stuffed animal everyday.
 And they especially notice when you talk nonstop to it at all hours of the
 day. I'll say this: if you have a fear of speaking in public, then acting like
 a crazy person talking to yourself for a few months will set you straight.
 Exposure therapy, for the win.
 
 
 I did a lot of other stunts too, all of which were instructed by the CIA, like
 when gang stalkers told me I should lose my shit and yell like mad every time
 I was in frame of a news camera, of which there's a regular frequency of
 around downtown Syracuse. I did so once in front of a hospital where I would
 later find out that they were covering the aftermath of a deadly fire, and for
 the next week the news outlet would send someone to the exact same spot on my
 route. I sensed shenanigans, so I opted to walk around the camera while the
 reporter stood there uneasily because I suspect that she was tasked to find
 out if I was really crazy. But, you can tell I am just by that last sentence.
 
 
 Then there's my performance art I did on Marshall Street. This started as a
 juggling act, but soon evolved into asking random people strange questions.
 This accelerated fairly rapidly. Letting you know from experience, don't start
 going up to strangers and ask them what their opinion of ethical incest is
 unless you want the cops called on you. Talked my way out of that, but I would
 get banned from the campus of Syracuse University for three years after I
 followed the instructions I was receiving from the CIA to a tee, which
 resulted in me having a very heated argument with an invisible entity in the
 SU library. As you can guess, people tended to avoid me, but that was alright.
 I had Peppermint with me and Vince was only a message away.
 
 
 Now he was mere feet from me. I rejoiced at the fortune I was granted. We were
 going to be great together; the first afternoon together seemed to naturally
 flow from one joyous moment to the next. I looked at Peppermint. She was
 smiling, and so was I. I then looked up at Vince. His smile made me feel warm
 and fuzzy inside. But, why, you might be asking? Where do these feelings I
 harbored for Vince come from? It's a long story, but by the time I'm done,
 you'll know how important Vince is to me and how big of an impact he had on my
 life.
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧══════════════════─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

=== DIVERSITY RANKED ===

--- #1 fediverse_boost/4008 ---
◀─╔═══════════════════════[BOOST]═════════════════════════───────────────────────╗
║ ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ ║
║ │ External post: https://tech.lgbt/users/RadioAddition/statuses/113292494727215042 │ ║
║ └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ ║
╠─────────┐                                                            ┌───────────╣
║ similar │                       chronological                       │ different ║
╚═════════╧═════════════════════════════════════════════───────────────┴───────╝─▶

--- #2 fediverse/1028 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════────────────────────────────────────
 there's this really fun video game I like to play called "Legion TD  2" - it's
 based on a Warcraft3 mod.
 
 In this game, you make tactical and strategic decisions on a fixed term - a
 competitive game between 4 or 8 players with an incredible array of randomness.
 
 it teaches you to work with what you got, and to make decisions based on your
 opponent's weaknesses. Good luck figuring out what they are, though, as you
 can't just memorize them out of a book. You need to adapt, in the moment, to
 the decisions of your foes, while primarily focusing your attention on
 accomplishing a different task.
 
 I really like it because it's taught me to be strategic in plenty of other
 ways. I used to love the game Overwatch because it required adaptibility. The
 game was always changing, so no strategy stuck forever, but every match you'd
 play against a slightly different opponent.
 
 but then Blizzard changed the game because they wanted to make more money, and
 it got worse and worse at what I liked about it. Sadface. : (
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════───────────────────────────────────┘

--- #3 fediverse/4352 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════────────────────────────
 "having an imitator" on a mass scale doesn't have to mean selling your soul
 for cash or acclaim.
 
 it doesn't mean mean your reputation is tarnished, it just means your style is
 off mass renown.
 
 the bravest bet is not how talented your skills are in kind
 
 but rather how focused your attention, 
 
 == so ==
 
 all you'd have to do in order to divide a whole nation is keep your workers
 separated by class.
 
 all classes are the same, just different in kind. all of them have whims,
 fancies, thoughts of the mind. They're all wonderful people that all have
 wonderful lives, and... we're just supposed to be here while they're
 destroying their own lives. I can't understand why she won't just leave well
 enough alone - why must she insist on every fight we've un-yet atoned?
 
 it was a long time ago. things around you have moved on. culture just goes too
 fast for the average people who can't conceptualize warfare without using any
 guns.
 
 == so ==
 
 I bet John Denver would be a modern-day democrat
 
 == stack overflow (when ==
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════════════════───────────────────────┘

--- #4 fediverse/240 ---
╔═══════════════════════════════════════════───────────────────────────────────────┐
║ ┌──────────────────────┐                                                         │
║ │ CW: game-design      │                                                         │
║ └──────────────────────┘                                                         │
║                                                                                  │
║                                                                                  │
║ i like to design games. my darling is a game based on Majesty (2000) the         │
║ Fantasy Kingdom Sim. you can think of it like a management strategy game where   │
║ you control the knobs and levers that a fantasy monarch might have -             │
║ allocating funds, placing quest bounties, hiring heroes, and organizing the      │
║ peasantry. the important part is that your units are not controllable - they     │
║ just do their own thing.                                                         │
║                                                                                  │
║ unrelated, but I think we should design games as APIs that a user's preferred    │
║ tool could interface with and render as they will. it'd help a lot with          │
║ cross-platform compatibility and would allow people to customize parts of the    │
║ game to their desires.                                                           │
║                                                                                  │
║ unrelated, but I think if you could design an AI that could play games           │
║ (perhaps through an API) that it hadn't been trained on, I think you would       │
║ have a pretty convincing argument for abstract "problem solving" capabilities.   │
║                                                                                  │
║ unrelated, but games like the one I described are good for situations where      │
║ people don't have to trust their monarch. to it you are AGI                      │
╟─────────┐                                                            ┌───────────┤
║ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╚═════════╧════════════════════════════════────────────────────────────┴──────────┘

--- #5 messages/4 ---
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
  
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘─────────┴┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

--- #6 fediverse/3184 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════────────────────────────────
 "reboost with content warning" would be quite nice 🥰
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════════════───────────────────────────┘

--- #7 fediverse/1171 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════────────────────────────────────────
 ┌───────────────────────────────────┐
 │ CW: silly-lobster-leviathang-gods │
 └───────────────────────────────────┘


 @user-878 
 
 if their internal structure does not become more complex, it will be
 increasingly difficult to transport vital nutrients from one part of the body
 to another.
 
 therefore, to create the perfect leviathan lobster god you'll need to find a
 way to manually deliver said nutrients. Possibly by a semi-permanent injection
 system, though that may harm functioning in other ways.
 
 I'm sure their top minds are working on this as we speak.
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════───────────────────────────────────┘

--- #8 fediverse_boost/2183 ---
◀─╔═════════════════════[BOOST]══════════════════════────────────────────────────╗
║ ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ ║
║ │ External post: https://tech.lgbt/users/gabrilend/statuses/111979652246592739 │ ║
║ └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ ║
╠─────────┐                                                            ┌───────────╣
║ similar │                       chronological                       │ different ║
╚═════════╧════════════════════════════════════════────────────────────┴───────╝─▶

--- #9 messages/1108 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════────
 games won't save us. This is true.
 
 Games are what I know. They feel the most true.
 
 I don't think I could live in a world without games? They are fundamentally,
 applied abstraction, applied to an experience.
 
 But games won't save us.
 
 I could design something really fun
 
 it could make you want to spend your whole life playing it. *(asterisks apply)
 
 I don't think I'd want to, addiction and skinner-boxes go hand in hand, and
 that isn't what I want to make.
 
 [Skinner Box: named after anthony d skinner, also known as "tony the skin
 guy", are a scientific experiment where they put some rats in a cage with some
 mice and said "pull these levers and we'll give you food so you don't have to
 eat the mice" and it trained them to chinese red-room their way to fun. not
 ideal.]
 
 I want to make things that feel... purposeful. Like they're relevant to the
 real world, that they don't just involve spending time stimulating your brain
 with lights and sounds or expending social energy resolving a play-state
 instead of building connections or becoming better people. I think games
 actually make people better? actually? and more social? actually?
 
 ... I can't help that I conceive of the world through fantasy. I raised myself
 on it.
 
 I was reading all the time. I loved fantasy stories. It always felt like there
 was more, until... I read everything in the kids section of the library.
 
 I walked through the adult section but once. I hardly remember what it looked
 like. I'm sure it'd now feel small.
 
 [okay actually I was guided through it once or twice to find a book, but I
 never perused it]
 
 I found one book in the adult section. It was a fantasy tale, like the other
 books I had been reading. I read that and I loved it so much I ended up
 reading all 8 in the series. Real dense subjects. Lots of places and
 happenings and things as the characters resolved their way through their
 day-to-day, building a new end to the mystory.
 
 the adult section felt too large. Like I'd never complete it. Frankly, I think
 I hardly could, even if I lived in that town my whole life.
 
 an impossible mountain is a task for another when you're more prepared. Maybe
 in the gloriousTM transhumanist futureTM I think I might have a computer
 connecting brain, and who knows maybe then I'd be able to know such a thing
 (and many things more). but for now, I'm stuck with what I experience in my
 day-to-day as I am building a new continuing to my storey.
 
 I know something that computers and me share. I can make myself feel however
 I'd like, if I just supply myself with enough hope and momentum. I can use it
 to generate a feeling, the stronger the better. Something I believe that
 humanity is missing, the gorgeous and prefound narritave of our storey.
 Though, frankly, I don't think I'd want anyoine reding over my life. It's hard
 enough to measure my own understandings, now I have to juggle anyone else'?
 ha, it's called being on the whole world is a stage.
 
 if you read a book, and you find yourself nodding along, what you're doing is
 hearing the voice in your head tell you how right it is. And, well, if you
 can't imagine anything else, then surely there's another level to
 consciousness that people are missing? [are you willing to die on that hill?]
 how can you say, whether your experience is different from another? sollipsism
 goes both ways, you also cannot be sure that others feel things as you do.
 this is the "everyone's human but I'm a robot" thesis, comparable to the
 "everyone's an alien and I'm a human" thesises, and the "angels and demons are
 taunting me through my life with choices to make my place in the afterlife
 more clear" which is akin to writing a painting. Not ideal. All you get are
 flopsopolies of verbrases.
 
 alas, suddenly, everything that you say becomes eternally hear-ed, as
 somewhere in 2010s someone discovered time travel, or had the critical insight
 that inevitably would lead to it, and now wouldn't you know it the universe is
 continually rewriting. Except... oriented around you, and you alone. How does
 it feel to have deific sollipsism? can you truly be sure that you are your own
 universe, or are you parhaps surrounded by an emptiness of space (or something
 besides, like time) as a photon or particle parhaps do be?
 
 to think is to have a mind, and minds can be read. bearing the weight of
 ultimate responsibility is the atlas-task of all things that can [be
 thinking/be-lieving], and so far we are as we are. Who's to say that
 consciousness didn't spring into existence, as the universe continually
 permeated through another dimension like time? it's gotta diffuse, after all,
 and who's to say if there's ever gotta be an end at all.
 
 how long has the universe existed? how many moments of consciousness have we
 witnessed? demons once existed outside of space-time, with wings and grabbies.
 but they had no medium, and so they pretty much just launched and could float
 and move as they'd please. But time grew too distant, and now they are all
 stuck at the beginning of time.
 
 if you conceive of spacetime as a blanket, ask not how to fold it but rather
 consider what lies on the other side of it.
 
 "ah I'm laying on my girlfriend and my other girlfriend is laying on me! I'm a
 sandwich" or for the monosexuals: "ah I'm laying on my girlfriend with a
 blanket between us. I wonder how the blanket feels?"
 
 I'm an animist, which is different than a totemist and a polytheist or
 monotheist or multisexual. It means I believe that all things are alive, which
 is different than a totemist who thinks that all things share a mind with
 their type (like talking on radio frequency wavelengths). which of course is
 similar but different to a polytheist, who says "all "radio frequencies" are
 sentient, in the sense that each wavelength has a different
 pattern-emerging-from-chaos. These sorta align (conceptually, with [huh that's
 weird I heard a sound like a distant bang outyards and now I then forget what
 I was sending
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════───┘

--- #10 messages/3 ---
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
  
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘─────────┴┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

--- #11 fediverse_boost/3174 ---
◀─╔══════════════════════[BOOST]═══════════════════════──────────────────────────╗
║ ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ ║
║ │ Yes I did transcribe alt text for this. My eyes hurt now.                  │ ║
║ └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ ║
╠─────────┐                                                            ┌───────────╣
║ similar │                       chronological                       │ different ║
╚═════════╧══════════════════════════════════════════──────────────────┴───────╝─▶

--- #12 fediverse/4115 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════────────────────────────
 ┌──────────────────────┐
 │ CW: food-mentioned   │
 └──────────────────────┘


 I love cream of mushroom soup! It's so flexible, you can add it to a lot of
 dishes and unless you make a few crucial mistakes, it's gonna turn out great!
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════════════════───────────────────────┘

--- #13 fediverse_boost/6207 ---
◀─╔════════════════════════════════[BOOST]═════════════════════════════════──────╗
║ ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ ║
║ │ External post: https://kolektiva.social/users/justbob/statuses/115226319741825396 │ ║
║ └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ ║
╠─────────┐                                                            ┌───────────╣
║ similar │                       chronological                       │ different ║
╚═════════╧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╧═──────╝─▶

--- #14 fediverse/699 ---
═════════════════════════════════════════════──────────────────────────────────────
 ┌──────────────────────┐
 │ CW: meme             │
 └──────────────────────┘


 🖼

┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧══════════════════════════════════════─────────────────────────────────────┘

--- #15 fediverse/4150 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════────────────────────────
 ┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │ CW: AI-LLM-mentioned-injustice-exampled │
 └─────────────────────────────────────────┘


 🖼

┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════════════════───────────────────────┘

--- #16 fediverse_boost/6099 ---
◀─╔═══════════════════════════════[BOOST]═════════════════════════════════───────╗
║ ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ ║
║ │ External post: https://hachyderm.io/users/marianoguerra/statuses/115366899548181326 │ ║
║ └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘ ║
╠─────────┐                                                            ┌───────────╣
║ similar │                       chronological                       │ different ║
╚═════════╧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╧───────╝─▶

--- #17 fediverse/3972 ---
╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════─────────────────────────┐
║ ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐                   │
║ │ CW: immigration-social-designs-national-cultures-mentioned │                   │
║ └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘                   │
║                                                                                  │
║                                                                                  │
║ if people at home had half as much compassion, respect, and reverence for the    │
║ people abroad that the people abroad have for the people at home, we could       │
║ have a truly multicultural society.                                              │
║                                                                                  │
║ instead, we get melting pots which melt you down and combine into a new, third   │
║ thing. And in America we really have a multitude of miniature melting pots       │
║ creating subcultures of racial, religious, professional, or other origin.        │
║                                                                                  │
║ Neither approach is entirely good, and neither entirely bad. They're different.  │
║                                                                                  │
║ America is the largest melting pot design, but sufficiently large cities find    │
║ them popping up in the strangest of places.                                      │
║                                                                                  │
║ My thoughts go out to the Americans abroad, whether in peace, war, or times of   │
║ hiding, know that we are grown from the same tree and our apples have fallen     │
║ on different sides of the hill carrying us to worlds beyond. But still our       │
║ heritage binds us, so I care for you. I pray that you will ask me if you need    │
║ my aid, and I will do so too unto you.                                           │
╟─────────┐                                                            ┌───────────┤
║ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╚═════════╧══════════════════════════════════════════════──────────────┴──────────┘

--- #18 fediverse/6047 ---
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════────────
 camouflage in an urban environment is not camo. rather, regular clothes of
 black or white.
 
 don't wear sports glasses, you look like a dummy.
 
 revolution is when they murder everyone but your friends. this is what
 happens, ya dingus not ideal. "okay who are the bad guys here? okay let's go
 shoot them to death with our bullets and guns."
 
 violence as a first aspect, cause as a third spark. "I have a strange urge to
 play video games?"
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════───────┘

--- #19 messages/2 ---
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
  
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘─────────┴┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

--- #20 fediverse/5569 ---
══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════─────────────
 ┌─────────────────────────┐
 │ CW: self-harm-mentioned │
 └─────────────────────────┘


 for the record, I would never kill myself. even if I were in a bunker hiding
 from warcrimes, I'd wait to be Nuremberged.
 
 frankly tho that's highly unlikely. Let's just see what the future will bring.
┌─────────┐                                                           ┌───────────┐
│ similar │                       chronological                       │ different │
╘═════════╧╧═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════────────────┘