Hitting Rock Bottom Still Puts Me on Top (and Other Detective Delusions)

[Inkognito]

Confession #001

I’m currently being held hostage by Aaven and Isaac, two fictional men of my own creation.

They live in a novella I allegedly wrote, and yet they now occupy 86% of my brain activity, 100% of my moral decay, and at least three open tabs on my phone at any given moment.

Coincidentally, they’re also starring in several pieces of internal fanfiction that I feel morally, spiritually, and narratively obligated to write before doing anything remotely responsible.

Like continuing my actual stories.

Or sleeping.

Or consuming nutrients that aren’t shaped like a dinosaur.

Is this a symptom? Unclear.

Is this a diagnosis? Also unclear.

Is this self-inflicted Stockholm Syndrome? Don't tell myself I said that.

 

I know it’s wrong.

I also know I’ll be doing it again tonight.

 

Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

No further questions.

 

— Detective Inkognito Cheeto

Emotionally compromised. Romantically entangled. Narratively unstable. Legally inadmissible.

[Inkognito]

Confession #002

My central A/C quit a month ago. Full dramatic exit.

No warning. No “it’s not you, it’s me.”

Just poof. Dead.

HVAC Tech #1: “The whole thing needs to be replaced.”

Translation: $$$.

So, I do what any broke bitch would do.

I summon a second opinion.

HVAC Tech #2: “Yeah, it’s busted. But I can fix it for slightly less $$$. You’ll just have to wait a month for the part.”

Me: “I’ll take the Discount Despair Package for $$, please.”

Also me: Buys a portable A/C unit.

And for a while? It was good.

It hummed. It cooled. It whispered sweet nothings to me in the dead of night.

It made me believe in love again.

But now? It, too, is dead.

Won’t turn on. Won’t blink. Won’t anything.

It's August. The peak of hell.

I live in Satan’s Armpit (Florida) and now have a full-body heat rash and possibly visions.

I’m not saying I’m in a Final Destination sequel, but if a ceiling fan decapitates me, I expect full royalties.

 

— Detective Inkognito Cheeto

Currently evaporating. Zero chill left.

[Jeff Burton]

Bro 😂 you can’t win for losing sometimes.

[Inkognito]

On 8/19/2025 at 10:50 PM, Jeff Burton said:

Bro 😂 you can’t win for losing sometimes.

Story of my life, bro. 😭

[drsawzall]

From a man with a window air con in the 2nd fl bedroom, blessed that the first floor stays cool even on the hottest days with out any bargaining with satan...Experience has let me to ensure my sleeping remains cool as a new air con, still in the box awaits the day.

This from a man with an unopened box of TP, 96 blessed rolls waiting for the day Covid crashes the economy...oh wait...I digress...i

t's August in central Massachusetts and last night the temps dropped to 52 degrees by morning as I headed out to preambulate the neighborhood at 5AM...oh...and that blury, fuzzy black thing down by the blueberry bushes..it's only a 300 lb black bear, thank goodness a male  with no cub following...

JT and Rufus, the amazing mongrel,  tell me I'd best finish the story they told me in time for the Creature Feature... fingers crossed...

[Inkognito]

Confession #003: The Serial Starter Murders

I regret to inform you that I am once again the primary suspect in a heinous literary crime.

The charge: First-degree Premeditated Plot Multiplication.
The victim: My free time, my dignity, and the concept of narrative closure.
The murder weapon: Whatever keyboard was closest when the intrusive thoughts won.

There once was a time long ago, in other online writing communities, when I was a lean, mean, flash-fiction machine.

A narrative minimalist.

A short story ninja.

In, out, emotional damage delivered, no strings attached.

Then I joined GA.

Now, I’ve contracted a rare and debilitating affliction known only as Chronic Multi-Chapter Delusion Disorder. Symptoms include:

• Hallucinations of literary productivity.
• Delusions of grandeur regarding my attention span.
• Chronic inability to not keep adding to my ongoing projects before I finish one.
• Pathological optimism that this time will be different.

At last count, I have five active writing projects.

So naturally, like the completely mature, reasonable, and responsible adult I 100% absolutely am not:

I started a sixth.

To my long-suffering readers: I promise no stories are being permanently orphaned. They’re just in narrative witness protection, living under assumed plotlines.

I will finish everything. Pinky promise. Cross my heart and hope to... well, not die before I finish at least one of these stories.

The timeline? Soon.

Maybe.

Possibly.

In this lifetime.

… Probably this decade…

Look, time is a construct, okay?

In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy this buffet of half-baked brilliance.

 

— Detective Inkognito Cheeto

Emotionally caffeinated. Artistically overwhelmed. Legally inadvisable.

[Jeff Burton]

3 hours ago, Inkognito said:

Confession #003: The Serial Starter Murders

I regret to inform you that I am once again the primary suspect in a heinous literary crime.

The charge: First-degree Premeditated Plot Multiplication.
The victim: My free time, my dignity, and the concept of narrative closure.
The murder weapon: Whatever keyboard was closest when the intrusive thoughts won.

There once was a time long ago, in other online writing communities, when I was a lean, mean, flash-fiction machine.

A narrative minimalist.

A short story ninja.

In, out, emotional damage delivered, no strings attached.

Then I joined GA.

Now, I’ve contracted a rare and debilitating affliction known only as Chronic Multi-Chapter Delusion Disorder. Symptoms include:

• Hallucinations of literary productivity.
• Delusions of grandeur regarding my attention span.
• Chronic inability to not keep adding to my ongoing projects before I finish one.
• Pathological optimism that this time will be different.

At last count, I have five active writing projects.

So naturally, like the completely mature, reasonable, and responsible adult I 100% absolutely am not:

I started a sixth.

To my long-suffering readers: I promise no stories are being permanently orphaned. They’re just in narrative witness protection, living under assumed plotlines.

I will finish everything. Pinky promise. Cross my heart and hope to... well, not die before I finish at least one of these stories.

The timeline? Soon.

Maybe.

Possibly.

In this lifetime.

… Probably this decade…

Look, time is a construct, okay?

In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy this buffet of half-baked brilliance.

 

— Detective Inkognito Cheeto

Emotionally caffeinated. Artistically overwhelmed. Legally inadvisable.

We need a support group for this because I’m at 10 or 11 right now. This has to stop.

[Topher Lydon]

11 hours ago, Jeff Burton said:

We need a support group for this because I’m at 10 or 11 right now. This has to stop.

Hello My name is Chris, and I have M.C.D.D. syndrome... I too have been held hostage by characters demanding their time... and due amount of paper allotment... and I need help. LOL

[Ticklishboy30]

On 8/30/2025 at 9:36 PM, Jeff Burton said:

We need a support group for this because I’m at 10 or 11 right now. This has to stop.

I'm with you and @Inkognito on the unfinished stories. LOL

I suggest a group tickle massage session for motivation. Yeah... Motivation... that's my only reason for the suggestion... Now, I've gotta go take a walk along my ocean front property in Arizona. 

Hehe 😛 

[Ticklishboy30]

On 8/15/2025 at 5:04 PM, Inkognito said:

Confession #001

I’m currently being held hostage by Aaven and Isaac, two fictional men of my own creation.

They live in a novella I allegedly wrote, and yet they now occupy 86% of my brain activity, 100% of my moral decay, and at least three open tabs on my phone at any given moment.

Coincidentally, they’re also starring in several pieces of internal fanfiction that I feel morally, spiritually, and narratively obligated to write before doing anything remotely responsible.

Like continuing my actual stories.

Or sleeping.

Or consuming nutrients that aren’t shaped like a dinosaur.

Is this a symptom? Unclear.

Is this a diagnosis? Also unclear.

Is this self-inflicted Stockholm Syndrome? Don't tell myself I said that.

 

I know it’s wrong.

I also know I’ll be doing it again tonight.

 

Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

No further questions.

 

— Detective Inkognito Cheeto

Emotionally compromised. Romantically entangled. Narratively unstable. Legally inadmissible.

I love it when I'm captured by my characters. Hehe 😛 

[Ticklishboy30]

On 8/31/2025 at 9:17 AM, Topher Lydon said:

Hello My name is Chris, and I have M.C.D.D. syndrome... I too have been held hostage by characters demanding their time... and due amount of paper allotment... and I need help. LOL

@Topher Lydon, you can join the tickle massage session too. 

Hehe 😛 

[chris191070]

9 minutes ago, Ticklishboy30 said:

@Topher Lydon, you can join the tickle massage session too. 

Hehe 😛 

Sounds like fun, can I join in 😄

[Ticklishboy30]

43 minutes ago, chris191070 said:

Sounds like fun, can I join in 😄

Totally! Maybe with some help, I can find your tickle spots, Daddy Chris. 

[Inkognito]

Confession #004

Citizens of GA, lend me your queer ears.

I, Detective Inkognito Cheeto of Scrollshire, do hereby proclaim that I have submitted a most noble scroll of nominations to His Adminliness, Graeme the Mildly Omniscient. Within this sacred parchment I listed names of literary worthies deemed deserving of Promoted Author status. @Adam Andrews Johnson @Celian @chris191070 @drsawzall  @Jack Poignet @Jeff Burton @Lee Wilson @Thirdly

 

 

Should you too feel the stirrings of knightly purpose, I urge thee: nominate those scribes who have stirred thy soul, quickened thy pulse, or at the very least remembered the difference between “they’re” and “their.”

 

Yours in memeliness and mild delusion,

Detective Inkognito Cheeto of Scrollshire

Keeper of Medieval Mischief, Celebrator of Queer Quillpower, First of Their Name

[Lee Wilson]

54 minutes ago, Inkognito said:

Confession #004

 

Citizens of GA, lend me your queer ears.

I, Detective Inkognito Cheeto of Scrollshire, do hereby proclaim that I have submitted a most noble scroll of nominations to His Adminliness, Graeme the Mildly Omniscient. Within this sacred parchment I listed names of literary worthies deemed deserving of Promoted Author status. @Adam Andrews Johnson @Celian @chris191070 @drsawzall  @Jack Poignet @Jeff Burton @Lee Wilson @Thirdly

 

 

Should you too feel the stirrings of knightly purpose, I urge thee: nominate those scribes who have stirred thy soul, quickened thy pulse, or at the very least remembered the difference between “they’re” and “their.”

 

Yours in memeliness and mild delusion,

Detective Inkognito Cheeto of Scrollshire

Keeper of Medieval Mischief, Celebrator of Queer Quillpower, First of Their Name

Much appreciated. FYI, it’s @chris191070’s editor who knows the difference between there, their, and they’re. His comments are laced with those mistakes. 😄😝😇

[Krista]

1 hour ago, Inkognito said:

Confession #004

 

Citizens of GA, lend me your queer ears.

I, Detective Inkognito Cheeto of Scrollshire, do hereby proclaim that I have submitted a most noble scroll of nominations to His Adminliness, Graeme the Mildly Omniscient. Within this sacred parchment I listed names of literary worthies deemed deserving of Promoted Author status. @Adam Andrews Johnson @Celian @chris191070 @drsawzall  @Jack Poignet @Jeff Burton @Lee Wilson @Thirdly

 

 

Should you too feel the stirrings of knightly purpose, I urge thee: nominate those scribes who have stirred thy soul, quickened thy pulse, or at the very least remembered the difference between “they’re” and “their.”

 

Yours in memeliness and mild delusion,

Detective Inkognito Cheeto of Scrollshire

Keeper of Medieval Mischief, Celebrator of Queer Quillpower, First of Their Name

Both lovely and hilarious.  Good job. 

[drsawzall]

I am deeply humbled at this nomination; if, however, certain agencies were to become aware of my non de plumeage, I might not mind getting my feathers ruffled...

 

Edited October 21, 2025 by drsawzall

[Lee Wilson]

21 minutes ago, drsawzall said:

I am deeply humbled at this nomination, if however certain agencies were to be come aware of my non de plumeage I might not mind getting my feathers ruffeled...

 

You and me both!

[Celian]

7 hours ago, drsawzall said:

I am deeply humbled at this nomination, if however certain agencies were to be come aware of my non de plumeage I might not mind getting my feathers ruffeled...

 

I fully agree 

❤️

[Jack Poignet]

I started writing/posting on here quite exactly one year ago… while I believe I have improved, I wouldn‘t exactly call myself an author just yet. But thanks a lot 🤗

[Adam Andrews Johnson]

Wowzers! Thank you so much for including me and my completely ridiculous books! So much looooove ❤️

[Thirdly]

Much appreciated. I don't think I'm consistently active enough to be considered.😅 I nominated @chris191070 and @Lee Wilson months ago for that very reason, though I have a couple of others (who aren't already promoted) that I would nominate, too, *cough* @Inkognito @BendtedWreath. 

[Topher Lydon]

23 hours ago, Adam Andrews Johnson said:

Wowzers! Thank you so much for including me and my completely ridiculous books! So much looooove ❤️

They are definitely worth the attention! 

Good luck, you have my vote for what it's worth.

[Jeff Burton]

Well that’s the kick in the ass I think I needed. Seriously though if I logged in and saw that change I’d probably have a stroke lol.  But seriously thanks for the nomination.

[Inkognito]

Disclaimer: This is the spiraling confession no one asked for.

I put it under a spoiler because it covers a wide range of tracks from Trauma's Greatest Hits.

Only proceed if you're prepared to learn my life story and laugh at my scars with me.

Seriously guys, it's a lot.

You've been warned.

 

Confession #005: Anxiety's a Bitch (& So Am I)
 

Spoiler

Ahh, anxiety.

Or as I like to call it, the gift that keeps on screaming.

Everybody has anxiety. It’s a universal experience, like jury duty or deleting a social media post immediately after posting it.

So I’m not saying I’m special.

But I am saying I have it and it manifests in some stupidly specific ways that even I, with all my hard-earned self-awareness, struggle to untangle.

For example, whenever I get story comments or reviews, my brain goes, “Oh look! Validation! Gratitude! Positive human connection!”

And then immediately follows it up with, “Great, now let’s never look at it. Ever."

It makes me look like an asshole.

Which sucks, because I don’t want to be an asshole. I like comments. I like the people leaving them. I’m not scared of negative feedback. And I’m not insecure about my writing.

But for some reason, I still can’t bring myself to read or respond sometimes. 

And that’s the frustrating part.

I know what the behavior is.

I know how it looks.

I even know it’s irrational.

But I have absolutely no idea why it happens.

Which brings me to the part where the anxiety manifests into performance art.

When I’m feeling especially anxious and guilty, like when I’ve been ignoring story feedback but I see the people who left it are currently active on GA, I deflect.

Instead of reading or replying, I’ll write a new funny story. Or post something completely deranged in the forum. Just something loud and ridiculous enough to drown out the guilt-shame-horn section playing inside my head.

And it works.

Until, of course, five minutes later when I realize, “Oh no. They’re going to see me doing literally anything else except replying. Now I look like a bigger asshole. AGAIN.”

Rinse and repeat.

Me: So yeah, I recognize the problem. I just... can’t figure out why it’s a problem. And without that, I can’t fix it.

Tiny Therapist On My Shoulder: I see. Well, admitting you have a problem is the first step to solving it.

Me: Sure. But what if I never get past the first step?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Hm. That is a problem. So how are you planning to move forward?

Me: That’s why I’m talking to you. I thought you would tell me how.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Oh, right. Right. Well, I think you’ve done a great job recognizing and naming your problem.

Me: Yeah, thanks, I literally just said that. I need the next step. How do I get there?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Oh, I have no idea.

Me: ... What do you mean, “no idea?” What am I even paying you for?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: You’re not paying me.

Me: ... Right. Good point.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: You get what you don’t pay for.

Me: You don’t say.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Oh, I do say. Honestly though, you’re one of the lucky ones.

Me: Yeah? How’s that?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: You’ve got me to talk to. At least you’re not one of those people who talks to themselves.

They’ve really got problems.

***

[SpongeBob Narrator Voice]

1 Hour Later...

Me: ... Actually, I think I might have figured it out. Why I freeze up when people leave thoughtful comments, especially on something heavy like Dirty Laundry.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Oh? Please, go on.

Me: It’s not fear. Or insecurity. Or even guilt.

I think it’s just... legitimate sincerity. I don’t know what to do with it.

Like, I’m good at writing emotional stuff. But the second someone says, “That meant a lot to me, thank you,” in a totally sincere, kind, vulnerable way?

I panic.

I shitpost.

I scroll the GA activity feed until I come across a pun involving someone named Peter.

And I say to myself, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, I need in on this.”

Next thing I know, I’m quoting a comment from Chapter 32 of a story I absolutely have not read, dropping three puns and a GIF, before vanishing into the night like the shitposting Batman I am.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Squints That’s... oddly specific.

Me: Coughs awkwardly

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: So, what I’m hearing is... you’re emotionally fluent, but only when you're talking, or writing, at people. Not when they talk back.

Me: Rude

Me: Also yes.

Me: Okay, so I’m allergic to sincerity. Cool. Great. Love that for me.

But like… is that enough to move on to Step Three? Or do I need to dig deeper? Do I need to figure out why I break out in hives when someone says something heartfelt?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: I don’t know. Do you?

Me: Ugh. Look, I get that I’m not paying you, but why are you even calling yourself a therapist?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Shrugs I don’t know. That’s just what you called me. This is your circus, and I am your clown.

Me: Sigh Fine. Guess we’re going down the rabbit hole of childhood trauma. This should be fun.

Me: So if I had to guess why I’m allergic to sincerity, I'd say maybe it’s because I spent a solid chunk of my formative years having to shut my emotions off.

My parents divorced when I was eight. After that, my mom became a full-time alcoholic. A very mean one. And I was the oldest of three.

My brother was still a baby. And since my mom was usually passed out from drinking, it became my job to get up in the mornings, change his diapers, feed him, get him dressed so she could sleep off her hangover.

And if he cried too long and she had to get up? She’d come into my room and drag me out of bed. “If I have to get up, then you have to get up.”

Other times, she’d be drunk and mad at the world and scream in my face, break my stuff, take out whatever rage she had on me.

I learned pretty quickly that reacting only made things worse. If I cried, or argued, or defended myself, she’d just escalate. So I started doing the only thing that didn’t make it worse.

I would stand motionless and put on a neutral expression. I guess the closest thing I could probably liken it to would be like a soldier in boot camp standing at attention while being yelled at by their drill sergeant.

And I did that for years.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: … Well. That was certainly a lot.

Me: Yeah. Sorry. Welcome to the trauma dump. I’ll validate your parking on the way out.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: No, no, you’re good. Just wasn’t expecting boot camp flashbacks at this hour.

Me: Yeah, well. It makes sense now, right? That sincerity feels threatening. That being emotionally seen makes me want to hide. Because when I was a kid, any emotional expression made things worse.

Me: And since I’m already halfway down the rabbit hole, might as well keep going.

So while I dealt with that at my mom’s house, every other week we were at my dad’s. He was definitely the better parent in that he didn’t scream at me or break my shit. But he was... jaded.

My mom was his third divorce, so at that point he was just over women in general. Anytime they argued, which was frequent, he’d go on rants afterward.

“You women,” he’d say. “You're all the same. You women are always the problem.”

And whenever my sister or I would cry, he would make fun of us and go on another rant about women being too emotional.

So for years, all I heard was you are a woman, and being a woman is a problem.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Yikes.

Me: Yeah. So anyway, when I became a teenager, I was convinced I was transgender. I shaved my head, dressed like a dude, called myself a different name online.

Fun fact: when I was 17, I ran one of the largest gay porn Tumblr blogs at the time.

I was living my best internet gay boy life.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: I… have no notes. Carry on.

Me: But by my early twenties, I realized I didn’t want to transition. Not because I suddenly loved being a woman.

Hell no.

I didn’t want to do the surgery, the hormones, the explaining. I didn’t want to go through all that. It wasn’t going to make life better, just make it a different kind of hard. 

So I stopped identifying as trans. I never came out in real life anyway. It was all online.

To this day, nobody in my real life knows. They just remember that phase where I looked like a lesbian. Which always annoyed the shit out of me, because I’m not attracted to women. I just hate being one.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: So you stopped identifying as trans… but you still hate being a woman?

Me: 100%. I’ve failed at it. I’m not soft. I’m not good at emotional support. I don’t absorb other people’s feelings like some kind of emotional ShamWow and cry on command. I will tell people very bluntly not to make me their shoulder to cry on.

It’s not because I don’t care. I care a lot.

I just don’t know what to do with it.

I use humor. I’ve always been funny. There was a time as a kid when I genuinely wanted to be a stand-up comedian.

But humor isn’t really seen as a feminine trait. It’s typically considered a guy thing. Stuff like sarcasm, dark jokes, and deflection. Because that's how men are taught to cope.

They're told not to cry. Not to be vulnerable. Not to talk about their feelings. So instead of showing emotion, they make jokes.

The problem for me, is that I was taught the same thing as them.

And now I have the wrong personality for my gender.

I’ve even been on dates in the past where I told the guy I was funny, and a lot of the time, the response was something like, “Women aren’t funny.”

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Sighs heavily

Me: Yeah. I know.

Honestly, I've always felt that being born female was a set up to lose either way.

I’ll never forget in 11th grade, my government teacher told the class, “We’ll never have a female president. Sorry ladies, but men don’t like women in charge.”

Then he turned to the boys and said, “Am I right, fellas?”

And every single one of them agreed. Enthusiastically. 

That was a pivotal moment for me in understanding my inherit value and place in this world.

But I had other lessons too.

A few years later, in my first abusive relationship, I got into an argument with the guy and called him a bitch.

He said, "What did you call me?" 

Then he beat the fuck out of me.

When he was done, he grabbed me by my hair and said, "Now tell me, who's the bitch here?"

I am.

I'm the bitch.

I never called him a bitch again after that.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: ...

Me: Sorry. I said we were going down the rabbit hole. Now we’re out of childhood trauma and into adult trauma. I should’ve put up a warning sign.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: You said you never called him a bitch again. So... you stayed?

Me: Sighs very heavily Yeah. I was pregnant. That whole situation was a disaster for years.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Wow.

Me: Yep.

And when that finally ended, I met someone new. Fell in love. Thought it would be different.

And it was… until it wasn’t.

He had undiagnosed bipolar 1. He wasn’t abusive at first, but as the disorder got worse, he started getting dangerous. It peaked the day he picked me up by my throat with one hand.

But what really stung, was how he dismissed it later.

I tried to tell him how it made me feel. How helpless I felt. How sore my throat was for days. All in hopes that he would show some kind of remorse, or apologize, or just anything to show that maybe he wouldn't do it again.

But he just brushed it off.

"It wasn’t a big deal," he said.

But it was a big deal.

Because I’m a 5’2 bitch and he was a 6’3 man that was built like a damn forklift.

He could pick me up like I was nothing.

So, right before I broke up with him, I told him directly.

I said, you will never know what it’s like to be that helpless.

To be that overpowered.

To hope someone doesn’t kill you because there’s literally nothing you can do to stop them.

Me: This kind of stuff is why I was so incredibly happy and relieved when I gave birth to a boy.

He’ll never have to live with the misfortune of being female.

Lucky kid.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: ... I think this is above my pay grade.

Me: I thought I wasn’t paying you?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Exactly. I’m doing all this emotional labor pro bono. And by “pro bono,” I mean “inside your own head at 2AM.”

Me: Wow. Incredible work ethic for a hallucination.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: I try. So... shall we return to the anxiety? You know, that cute little reason we were here before this turned into a multi-part trauma documentary?

Me: Right. Anxiety. The original problem. The star of the show. The gift that keeps on screaming.

God, we really spiraled, didn’t we?

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Oh yeah. You opened a window and ended up repaving the foundation. This whole thing started with, “I feel weird replying to comments,” and now we’ve hit, “I fear sincerity because my entire life was a performance for survival.”

Me: Yeah, now that I say it out loud... I probably didn’t need to excavate this far just to figure out why I don’t reply to compliments.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Me and your future real therapist are already passing each other notes about this.

Me: Look, I didn’t mean to trauma-dump my entire autobiography just to explain my response paralysis. But I guess when you start pulling threads, the whole emotional sweater comes apart.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Oh no, this isn’t a sweater. This is one of those haunted clown scarves that never ends. You’ve been yanking it for two hours and now there’s a crowd.

Me: Amazing. So I came in for mild social anxiety and left with a dissertation on gender trauma and emotional repression.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: And somehow still no progress on reading those story comments.

Me: Bruh.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Bruh.

Me: Sighs again Okay. So maybe I haven't made progress on reading them yet. But at least I've made progress on why I sometimes struggle with responding to comments or story reviews.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: That… is an extremely long explanation for ghosting your own comment section.

Me: Yeah. Well. It’s either this or disappear forever and change my username to “NotAvailable404.”

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Honestly? On brand.

Me: Look. The point is, I’m working on it.

Maybe next time someone says something nice, I won’t shut down and open a shitpost portal to hell.

Maybe I’ll just… say thank you. Like a regular human.

Or I’ll say “thank you” and then immediately follow it up with a meme of a possum eating pizza in a bathtub.

The possumibilities are endless.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Well I, for one, am proud of you. Even if I am imaginary.

Me: Thanks. You’re doing great for a mental projection with no license and no healthcare coverage.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: I do accept payment in sarcastic monologues and unresolved trauma.

Me: Perfect. I’m rich.

Tiny Shoulder Therapist: Wanna go shitpost on the forum and make people laugh to celebrate?

Me: Absolutely. Let’s ride.

My anxiety may still be screaming. 

But at least now there's context.

– Detective Inkognito Cheeto

2nd class citizen. 1st class bitch. Your favorite comedian. And lifelong problem.