🛸 Episode 8: An Interdimensional Support Group Met in My Fridge and I Think I Might Be Their Mascot

 



It all began with a smoothie I forgot to finish during a 1 a.m. spiral of self-help videos, cracker crumbs, and loosely interpreted astrology. For three weeks, that smoothie sat in the fridge—fermenting, transforming, becoming. And then it spoke.

Not metaphorically. It literally whispered, “The collective unconscious is a dairy aisle, and I am its forgotten kale.”

Startled, I dropped a spoon and instinctively apologized to my fridge. That’s when I noticed the cheese drawer was...breathing. I opened it, because clearly I have no boundaries with mystical appliance activity anymore. Behind it wasn’t cheese, but a glowing portal to what appeared to be an interdimensional support group—folding chairs, herbal incense, even complimentary cucumber water.

In the center stood Carl, naturally, wearing a name tag that read “Keynote Speaker / Soul Whisperer.”

“Welcome,” he said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Take a seat next to Urglon. He’s working on boundary issues and a mild brie addiction.”

Urglon, a shimmering, gelatinous being with eyes like regretful comets, offered me a moist high-five. Around the room sat a variety of entities: a talking mushroom with a graduate degree in Emotional Archaeology, a sentient dust cloud who identified as a Virgo, and a half-melted popsicle named Cheryl in a committed relationship with time.

The support group theme of the night?
“Navigating Lactose, Light Bodies, and the Quantum Inner Child.”

Carl lit a candle that smelled like both trauma and spearmint.

“My childhood self keeps hacking my meditations,” confessed a being made entirely of glimmers. “Last week it made me astral-project to Chuck E. Cheese.”

“I keep becoming my mother during Mercury retrograde,” admitted another, whose aura was visibly cracking.

Urglon hiccuped a cube of shame and whimpered, “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that metaphorical cheesecake of codependency!”

Carl nodded wisely. “Remember, friends: lactose and unresolved soul contracts have similar side effects.”

The fermented smoothie—now sentient and named Craig—was journaling telepathically on a floating tofu square. Occasionally, he’d chime in with haunting quotes from Carl Jung:

“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are—and also to clean out your crisper drawer.”

Then it happened: The group voted me as their official mascot.

Apparently, I was the “relatable archetype.”
The human who keeps facing cosmic absurdity with half-baked logic, reheated trauma, and a strong inclination toward breakfast food metaphors.

Craig gurgled solemnly and said, “You are the liminal snack we needed. Not hot. Not cold. Just…thawed and confused.”

Carl placed a sash around my shoulders made from expired yogurt lids and hope. It read:
“Mascot of the Unchill Dimension.”

I tried to protest, but then the mushroom handed me a mirror made of existential dread and whispered, “Accept your reflection. It’s just the version of you who knows what they’re doing.”

That was enough.

We ended the meeting with a group chant:

“I am not my past expiration dates. I am the one who dares to open sealed emotional Tupperware.”

As the fridge hummed back to its original non-portal state, Carl handed me a mug that said “Boundary Baddie” and winked.

“I’ll see you next time,” he said, sipping celery tea. “The fridge was just the beginning.”

Later that night, I found Craig sleeping next to the mustard. His smoothie body pulsed softly, glowing with unconscious insights and possibly botulism.

And me? I now feel a warm cosmic connection every time I reach for a snack.

But just as I was starting to feel chill—really, cosmically chill—a box arrived on my doorstep. No return address. Just a mirror, a single folded note that said:

“Deal With It.”

Then a cold wind blew through my soul like an audit of my entire personality. Carl, sipping something smoky and unspecific, said:

“Ah, yes. Soul inventory season.”


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

That Time I Meditated Myself into a Cult Run by My Houseplants

Image
  They say inner peace is a journey. Mine started on a yoga mat made from old tax documents and ended with a Venus flytrap initiating me into a houseplant cult that communicates in Morse code. But let’s back up. It began—like most great spiritual misadventures do—with Carl. Carl, in case you missed Episode 1, is my cactus. Or more accurately, he was my cactus. Now he identifies as The Thorn Oracle, a self-proclaimed spiritual provocateur, emotional saboteur, and part-time enlightenment broker. That morning, I had dared to express mild irritation after stubbing my toe on the coffee table. Carl responded with the kind of pitying disdain usually reserved for people who clap when the plane lands. “You are toxic ,” he said, “and not in a sexy Britney Spears way. In a spiritually constipated way.” I was still hopping on one foot. “Carl,” I hissed, “I am bleeding.” “Exactly,” he said, with a photosynthetic flick of superiority. “Your ego is hemorrhaging. You need cleansing. Ritual. Relea...
Read more

The Day I Was Hypnotized by a Cactus

Image
 I was not expecting to be hypnotized by a cactus on a Tuesday. But as they say in therapy: expect the unexpected, especially when your houseplant starts quoting Nietzsche. It began innocently enough. I was sipping lukewarm oat milk from a mug shaped like an anxious dolphin when I noticed my cactus—formerly known as Carl, now self-identifying as "The Thorn Oracle"—was glowing. I blinked. It blinked back. Or rather, it twitched one of its tiny spines with the sort of menace typically reserved for middle managers or cats who have discovered their reflection. Then it spoke. “You are late,” it said. Its voice was deep, yet slightly wheezy, like James Earl Jones if he were allergic to himself. “I wasn’t aware I had an appointment,” I replied, which seemed logical until I realized I was arguing with a cactus, which by all definitions was not ideal. “You were scheduled for a psychological reset,” the cactus said. “Your inner chaos is leaking into the astral grid. Also, you lef...
Read more

🍄 Episode 6: Mushrooms Gave Me Relationship Advice and Now I Can’t Eat Risotto Without Crying

Image
  (Carl cooks something that tastes like truth, and now I'm emotionally al dente.) It started when Carl announced we’d been “emotionally malnourished since the last equinox.” I was halfway through an expired protein bar and not in the mood for his metaphysical grocery lists. “What’s that mean?” “It means,” he said, pulling a burlap sack from his canvas tote with dramatic flair, “we need to commune with mushrooms.” I blinked. The mushrooms blinked back. One of them looked like it had been divorced twice and carried the wisdom of failure in its cap. “We’re making risotto,” Carl said solemnly. “But the kind that stirs you back.” 🍚 Cooking With Existential Fungi Carl began prepping the risotto like it was a sacred rite. He dimmed the lights, lit three candles shaped like Carl Jung’s head, and played ambient whale calls remixed with affirmations in reverse. I swear I heard one say, “You are the unresolved climax of your parents’ dream journals.” Meanwhile, the mushrooms loung...
Read more