dark night of the butthole

Well, the tenuous structure that has been holding my life together is falling apart, which means I’m supposed to be taking actionable steps1. Instead, I’m inert, paralyzed with fear. This is perhaps very relatable, but it’s simultaneously harrowing to witness from the outside. “Do something! Do anything!” Due to a series of very unfortunate events, I don’t have cell service right now—a weird threepeat that I’m trying to accept is perhaps not the emergency it feels like it is. I’m supposed to be isolated right now; my main task ahead of me, maybe, is to keep my shit from leaking out on others. No witnesses, please. At times like these, I try to sync up with the Ratatouille on my head2 for instruction. As a kid, I prayed, in the old-fashioned way, eventually accepting that God did not talk to me specifically. I think this is the direct route I took to becoming a bit of a daydreamer3 instead, and maybe you don’t realize that daydreaming—the little conversations you constantly have with…

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