The Day I Was Hypnotized by a Cactus
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 left the stove on.”
I spun around. The stove was off. I turned back. The cactus had donned a tiny monocle.
“Now,” it continued, “stare into my spines and let your mind unravel like a VHS tape in a microwave.”
I should have called someone. A therapist. A botanist. The guy who comes to read the meter. But I didn't. Because—like any rational adult faced with a hypnotic houseplant—I leaned in.
And promptly blacked out.
When I came to, I was standing in the middle of a supermarket dressed as Sigmund Freud. Not a Halloween costume version. No, this was a full wool suit, cigar, and a placard that read UNRESOLVED ISSUES FOR SALE: $5.99/lb.
No one seemed to notice. A toddler approached me with an empty juice box and said, “The pigeons know,” before rollerblading into a pyramid of canned peaches. Alarms went off, but only in my head.
I stumbled past the bakery (which smelled like regret and cinnamon) and into aisle seven, where my ex-high school guidance counselor was juggling bottles of almond milk and reciting pi to the 83rd digit.
“Where am I?” I whispered.
“In your subconscious,” said a jar of mayonnaise.
“But why are there sales on Freudian slips?” I asked, pointing to a rack of silky undergarments that whispered insecurities when touched.
“You're in The Inner Retail,” said the jar solemnly. “All your thoughts are products here. Some are on clearance. Others—like your sense of direction—are perpetually out of stock.”
It got weirder.
A self-help guru named Cosmic Dave—who looked suspiciously like my cactus in a Hawaiian shirt—invited me to a group session in the frozen foods aisle.
“We are here to deprogram your psychological bureaucracy,” Dave said, passing out popsicles labeled Repression. “Also, there’s cake.”
The cake was an illusion.
So was Dave. He vanished in a puff of gluten-free despair, leaving behind a sticky note that read: Trust no one. Especially yourself after 2 a.m.
I wandered for what felt like years or possibly thirty-eight minutes. Time moved like a drunk ballet dancer—graceful but dangerous.
Eventually, I found a small doorway behind the kombucha display marked EXIT (also, Enlightenment?)
I stepped through.
And found myself back in my kitchen.
Carl the cactus stood where I’d left him, still glowing faintly, sipping what I can only describe as metaphysical espresso.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?” I said, trying to brush astral glitter from my sleeve.
“Did you uncover the absurdity of your inner architecture?”
“I found mayonnaise that talked about my mother.”
He nodded sagely. “That’ll do.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I sipped my oat milk. He photosynthesized smugly.
“So… what now?” I asked.
“Now,” Carl said, “you write a blog post about this and pretend it’s fiction so no one sends you back to the Quiet Room.”
“But this is fiction,” I protested.
He raised a spine. “Is it? Or have you just normalized the hallucination?”
Touche, Carl.
So here I am. Blogging. As instructed by my sentient cactus therapist/spiritual prankster. Was it all a dream? A plant-induced psychotic break? A deeply buried metaphor for capitalism?
No one knows. Except maybe the mayonnaise.
All I can say is this: if your cactus ever asks you to stare into its spines, do it. Just don’t wear wool in the supermarket of your psyche. It itches like unresolved trauma.
And always, always double-check the cake.
Author’s Note:
If you think this story is ridiculous, that’s because it is. If you think it’s real, seek help. Or write your own blog. Either way, remember: fiction is just reality with better lighting and more talking condiments.
Comments
Post a Comment