Microsdosing the void for fun and profit - Blaugust the Thirteenth
They told me to sweet-talk a Scandinavian government, like I was seducing a glacier. How do you flirt with a towering, humorless automaton made of bureaucracy and ice?
Inside me there are two rebels: one scribbling manifestos, the other hurling molotovs. I’ve already lost an arm in the riot. Guess which one I sided with.
When your email requires a dramatis personae, you’re no longer managing a project—you’re stage-managing a slow-motion tragedy.
Only one of my new eyeglasses arrived—the weird, funky pair. Outwardly I’m annoyed. Inwardly I’m wondering who in the supply chain ratted me out.
If I give myself over to the machine, it’ll either smooth the path or grind me down into a polished, smiling cog—and I won’t care which.
I can inspire with my voice, but the void’s constant screaming drowns me out. Sometimes a few surgical knife-cuts speak louder than speeches.
Accessibility doesn’t arrive on a silver platter—it’s dragged into existence by a small, furious cadre screaming equity into the void until the world flinches.
I’m an Oxford comma loyalist… but only for ellipses. The bear eats… shoots… and leaves… reality in shreds.
It’s not a lapse when you stop caring about their expectations—it’s liberation with bad PR.
Server error: 410 — Gone. I’ve gone air-gapped, off the grid, into the wind. You won’t find me. That’s the point.