The Woman from Every Country

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 56

My brother took me out for ice cream at Handel’s, which should have been a simple event. We were standing there trying to compromise on flavors while still pretending to care about our figures when a woman interrupted us in visible distress.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I just have to ask. Are you part East Asian?”

My brother said no and told her where we were from.

This did not resolve the matter.

She had been studying his hands, which, she informed us, were exactly like her son’s hands. Her son, she explained, was half East Asian. Not similar hands. Not vaguely familiar hands. Exact hands. She kept staring at them with the kind of fascination usually reserved for religious relics or forensic evidence. At one point I almost wanted to ask if she happened to have a photo of her son’s hands for comparison.

Then she looked at me and announced, with equal certainty, that we were definitely mixed.

In fairness, she was not entirely wrong. We are mixed. We come from a long, complicated recipe. But I still did not expect my brother’s hands to become the central issue while ordering ice cream.

By the time we walked out, my brother had reached his usual conclusion.

“Every time I go out with you,” he said, “something weird happens.”

This is unfair. I do not attract weirdos. I merely seem to trigger unresolved recognition episodes in the general public.

But it did not start at Handel’s.

It started much earlier, back in the homeland, when I went to the mall with my cousin, my grandmother, and my little brother. At some point I began to notice a disturbance nearby. A group of people had formed at a cautious distance and appeared to be debating my identity.

“Is it her?” someone asked.

“She looks younger,” another replied.

“No,” a third voice insisted. “I think it’s her.”

They had apparently decided I was a famous actress from a telenovela. No one approached with enough confidence to fully commit, but no one was willing to let it go either. They followed me around the mall in a state of anxious consensus. That was the first time I realized my face did not always belong exclusively to me.

The pattern continued.

An elderly Armenian couple once approached me and began speaking Armenian with such conviction that I briefly wondered whether I had somehow forgotten an entire branch of my ancestry. When I apologized and explained that I did not speak Armenian, they did not react with surprise. They reacted with disappointment.

Then suspicion.

Then offense.

I explained again that I was not Armenian. This only made things worse. They looked at me as if I were not ignorant, but disloyal. I was then given what I can only describe as the Armenian evil eye, followed by a sentence in Armenian that may have been a curse, a reprimand, or a genealogical correction. I could not tell. What I understood very clearly was that they were not happy with me.

Then there were the two older men at a bar who approached me with the excitement of people who believed they had just witnessed a minor resurrection. One of them insisted I looked exactly like a rock star’s ex-wife. His friend confirmed it immediately. They were both so thrilled that I briefly felt I owed them an autograph. I did not know the woman at all, so I could not defend myself. so I simply accepted that, for a few minutes, I had apparently become someone’s nostalgic return to youth.

This sort of thing happens more often than it should.

A Pakistani man once told me I looked exactly like the women from a certain village in his country, specifically the light-skinned ones from a particular area. He said this with such certainty that I did not even bother resisting. I just told him I had heard versions of that before, because I had. Different people from different countries have confidently informed me that I look exactly like women from places I have never been.

In California, people have approached me out of nowhere to ask whether I am Russian, Armenian, or from some place they have already decided I belong to. One Russian person told me I actually looked like I was from Kazakhstan.

Years later, my DNA results informed me that the elderly Armenians had not been entirely improvising. Armenian ancestry appeared on the screen, and I briefly felt as though I owed two strangers an apology and Maury an envelope reveal.

Apparently, my face changes jurisdiction depending on sleep, lighting, and how much sun I’ve had.

At this point, I have been recognized by people from multiple countries, several generations, at least one telenovela panic event, and a woman conducting ethnographic analysis on my brother’s hands in an ice cream shop. I’ve concluded that I’m a geographic shapeshifter.

I only hope I never end up in a lineup, because I am fairly certain someone will point at me with absolute confidence and say it was me.

What Happened to Santa?

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 55

When I was five, my older brother was standing by the window wishing out loud for some specific toy. I told him to stop asking Santa for things because Santa didn’t exist.

My mother overheard us and corrected me immediately.

“Santa does exist,” she said. “He’s just as poor as we are.”

At the time, this explanation made perfect sense to me. It accounted for the discrepancy between demand and fulfillment without requiring a total collapse of belief. For years, I accepted it as fact. But as I got older, the statement began to raise additional questions. Was Santa actually poor, or merely under-resourced? Had he retired? Had the elves unionized and brought the whole operation to a halt with impossible demands? Or had Santa simply been priced out of the North Pole altogether, forced to relocate to the South Pole after rent became unsustainable, only to forget to file a proper address-forwarding request?

I decided to investigate.

What I found was not magical.

The workshop is still operating under its original production model. Nothing has been updated. There are no Mac computers, no scanners, no automated systems, and no meaningful accommodation for changes in market demand. Each December, the letters arrive by the thousands, and the elves receive them with a level of optimism that, at this point, can only be described as negligent.

Each elf is assigned a child’s request and sent to the warehouse to fulfill it.

This is where the collapse begins.

A modern letter contains items such as PS5, Nike shoes, iPhone, Labubu, and other terms that, to the average workshop elf, appear to be either gibberish or the names of unfamiliar demons. The elves run the orders anyway. They check the shelves. They search the bins. They climb the ladders. But nothing in inventory corresponds to anything the children are asking for.

The warehouse remains heavily stocked in wooden clogs, rag dolls, carved ducks, spinning tops, whistles, and other products from a bygone era when a child could still be devastated in a simpler way.

It is not that the elves are unwilling to adapt. It is that they were trained as carpenters, doll-makers, and woodworkers. They are artisans. You cannot take a fourth-generation wooden-horse craftsman and expect him to begin manufacturing gaming consoles in the fourth quarter.

Even if retraining were possible, it would require years, enormous capital investment, and a complete restructuring of the workshop’s capabilities. The North Pole would need engineers, microchips, plastics manufacturing, software development, international shipping agreements, and a legal team.

There is also the matter of intellectual property.

Santa cannot simply begin producing unauthorized versions of branded electronics, designer shoes, and copyrighted toys based on handwritten requests from minors. The legal exposure alone would be catastrophic. It is entirely possible the workshop has remained deliberately obsolete in order to avoid litigation.

Children experience this as neglect.

What they do not see is an aging seasonal operation, frozen in time, attempting to meet contemporary desire with carved ducks.

This is why so many letters go unanswered.

This is also why, from time to time, a child still receives an orange.

The Cuckoo Clan and the Geometry of the Burning Cross

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 4

Before the incident with the parents, there was the surgery.
She handed me her password book and, with the seriousness of someone preparing to die, explained that if she did not make it through the operation, I was to transfer the money from her bank account into mine, gather the important documents, and remove anything that might taint her legacy. It was one of the more intimate administrative duties anyone has ever assigned me. I told her not to worry. I would make sure to burn all of her Nazi memorabilia and clear her browser history of any weird porn searches.

She laughed extremely hard.

Notably, she did not deny any of it.

Later, I told her I wanted to meet her parents. She kept giving me excuses until finally admitting that they were racist.
I told her I had met plenty of racist people before and that they usually ended up liking me once they got to know me, which, I admit, is an awkward outcome for committed bigots, but not my concern.

Eventually, she agreed to let me meet them.
Then she canceled and said they had back pain.
I asked if it was from carrying the cross home from their KKK meeting.

Some people are too racist to meet.
Others are simply too fragile from the lifting.

The Collapse of the Wishing Industry

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 11

I met a homeless man who used to be rich. He was in fountain extraction. He used to make a killing collecting coins from water fountains, but the industry collapsed once humanity stopped believing in wishes.

He continued.

“Back in the day, a wish cost you something. You had to physically part with a coin △ △ △ a small sacrifice to the universe. Now that nobody carries change, we’ve essentially stopped paying our wish tax.”

He seemed really let down by the whole thing, but said he wasn’t the only one affected.

“Look at shooting stars,” he told me. “They went out of business too. When was the last time anyone actually looked up at the sky? Everyone’s too busy staring down at their phones.”

Saints, Scammers, and Area Codes

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 5

It started with a WhatsApp message from my uncle…

the uncle who never texts me unless he’s getting married.

He’s been married three times, so statistically, the odds weren’t terrible.

I actually missed the last wedding and told my mom over the phone,

“It’s fine. There will be other weddings.”

She told me not to ever say that in front of his wife.

But this time, instead of a fourth wedding invitation,

my uncle (or so I thought) was asking for $1,500.

The message started with:

“Dear my beloved.”

And instantly I knew...

that wasn’t my uncle.

That was the Nigerian Prince.

So I called one of my brothers to find out what was going on...

yes, the same one the sewer clown once praised

for achieving perfect balloon symmetry

when he volunteered to help inflate them.

A man with that kind of precision tends to know things.

The scammer had gone entrepreneurial,

sending different amounts to everyone in my uncle’s contacts:

some people got asked for $200, others for $500.

But me?

He went straight for $1,500.

Maybe it was the Beverly Hills area code still attached to my number…

a relic from the old days that apparently signals “try the higher tier.”

Or maybe he saw that video of me and my nephew

stuffing a piñata with 100 Grand bars and gold-foil chocolate coins

and assumed it was our secret stash.

In the video, my mom had my nephew supervising me

because I can’t be trusted with candy.

He wasn’t guarding the treats... he was guarding me from myself.

Sugar is my drug of choice.

Anyway,

just because one Nigerian Prince has lied to me before

doesn’t mean all Nigerian Princes are the same.

So I needed clarity.

Why was my uncle using a Nigerian Prince to contact me?

But I don’t send four-figure donations without confirmation.

Turns out, his account had been hacked.

Still, I didn’t reply.

I wanted to verify it the old-fashioned way...

through a phone call, like a 1990s goddess with trust issues.

By the time my uncle realized what had happened, it was too late.

The scammer had already hit “send"

Only one person fell for it.

A church lady from my uncle’s friend circle...

the kind who bakes cookies for fundraisers

and still writes checks in cursive.

She didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t second-guess.

She just sent $200 to help someone she believed was in need.

Everyone else laughed and called her gullible.

But I kept thinking:

What if she was the only one who passed the test?

She didn’t need proof or backstory.

She didn’t ask for verification or screenshots.

She just gave.

That’s sainthood in its purest, unbranded form...

compassion without calculation.

It wasn’t logic; it was love.

The type of person we all wished we had as our emergency contact.

And if there’s an afterlife rewards program,

she’s probably been upgraded to the VIP Heaven Suite;

complimentary halo, early check-in, no waitlist.

Meanwhile, the rest of us sat there congratulating ourselves

for being too smart to fall for it.

But maybe that’s the real geometry of faith:

our cynicism keeps us safe,

but our kindness makes us holy.

Intermittent Clown Reinforcement

CASE SUMMARY

That morning, my sister-in-law was already in a bad mood, and honestly, I don’t blame her. My brother was about to put IT on TV again… because he has been obsessed with that sewer clown since forever… and she just looked at him and said:

“I’m so tired. I’m so tired of your brother always playing that evil clown.”

UNRELIABLE WITNESS STATEMENT (Morning, Kitchen)

Then she told me she had an awful nightmare.

She said she dreamed she got a call from my nephew’s school telling her that my brother had been kidnapped by IT.

She was really upset telling me this.

She doesn’t remember how the rest of the dream went…. just that it felt horrible.

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NARRATOR ADDENDUM (Possibly the Most Unreliable Person Here)

So of course, I did what any annoying sister would do: I filled in the missing parts myself.

And in my version, this was not a kidnapping.

This was Intermittent Clown Reinforcement.

I know this because I was there when the obsession started. We watched the original IT as kids, and it scared him so badly he couldn’t sleep for weeks, so he watched it again… kind of like when drunk people drink again because they think it’ll sober them up.

He seemed to think it would cancel the fear out.

It did not.

It made it worse.

And then he obsessed over it.

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POLICE OFFICE RECONSTRUCTION

The police called my sister-in-law in after they reviewed the security footage from my nephew’s school.

She came in panicking, expecting the worst.

The officer sat her down, opened a folder, and said, very seriously:

“Ma’am, we reviewed the footage.”

He paused, like he was about to deliver devastating news.

Then he added:

“We also encountered a communication issue.”

Apparently, the clown was talking, but the audio was unusable, and no one in the department was sober enough to interpret clown speech under pressure.

So they hired a mime to read the clown’s lips.

That, according to the officer, is when the case changed.

The mime reviewed the footage, pointed to the screen, and confirmed that my brother was not kidnapped.

He had approached the clown on his own. Enthusiastically.

And based on the mime’s interpretation, he may have also volunteered.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Transcript Excerpt

Sister-in-Law: “Can you arrest the clown at least? He was trespassing.”

Officer (very serious): “No, ma’am.”

Sister-in-Law (confused): “Why not?”

Officer (very serious): “He was an approved guest speaker.”

Sister-in-Law (confused): “Guest speaker for what?”

Officer (very serious): “Clown awareness and prevention.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

SUPPLEMENTAL INVESTIGATION

Because officers wanted to rule out a possible case of Intermittent Clown Reinforcement (or Stockholm syndrome), they brought in a private investigator who was completing court-ordered community service.

The department was not required to pay him, as his investigative work counted toward his hours.

His placement was reportedly connected to an unrelated case in Sydney, Australia involving drunk koalas and unauthorized zoo credit card charges at a local bar.

This is what he found.

Additional footage allegedly shows the subject:

assisting with balloon inflation

polishing part of the clown’s suit

standing near a folding table awaiting instructions

reacting positively to verbal praise

At one point, according to the report, he appeared to wait several hours for a single “good job.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

EXPERT COMMENTARY (Volunteer Psychology Student, credentials unclear)

He cleared his throat and said:

“Well, according to a book I read once… I think it was Psychology for Dummies. Or something like that. Anyway, this looks like a classic case of Intermittent Clown Reinforcement.

When a child grows up without any paranormal activity… none whatsoever… the psyche may latch onto the first encounter with fear and keep it as a substitute supernatural relationship. In this case, the movie IT.

Your brother never had a haunting. No unexplained noises. No shadow people. No sleep paralysis figure. Not even socks going missing.

So he remained open. Hopeful, even.

Children in this state may begin to fantasize that one day, if they see a red balloon in the wild, it means they have finally been chosen… special, even.

Which is why, in this case, he did not appear to flee the clown.

He appears to have gone willingly.

The subject remains because the clown occasionally says, ‘Nice balloon symmetry,’ or ‘Excellent blood stain removal.’

These micro-affirmations activate the inner child, creating long-term loyalty to the circus environment.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

POLICE INTERVIEW CUTAWAY

“He’s not being held hostage. He clocks in at 8 a.m., inflates balloons, and waits all day for a single ‘good job.’”

Sister-in-Law (confused): “So… he’s basically an unpaid intern?”

Officer (very serious): “Yes, ma’am. But emotionally… a fulfilled one.”

He checked the file again.

Officer (very serious): “Although in some cases, the intermittent reinforcement may include arcade tokens.”

Absurd Geometry Case File #13

Failed Exorcism Starter Pack

When You Meet an Aging Dracula 🦇🧛‍♂️

You try garlic?

“I’m on allergy meds now. That doesn’t do anything.”

You flash the cross?

“I mean… I think that’s a cross. Hard to tell. I’m like 80% blind. All thanks to vitamin D deficiency.”

You scream, “In the name of Jesus Christ!”

“Oh, we made up. We’re cool now.”

Goth Church on Friday Nights

I think this photo ended up in a book about alternative scenes. We posed for the writer, but I can’t remember the title.

He didn’t know.
But now we do.

Turns out, we both used to show up every Friday night to the same ritual… our little goth church.
Barely 18, dressed in our sharpest black, paying our $10 tithe to the industrial goth gods, the ones who lived behind the smoke machine and screamed through the speakers.

Maybe we met.
Maybe we didn’t.

Maybe I cut him off in line.
Maybe I stole his parking spot.
Maybe I elbowed past him when the club let out and everyone spilled into the street like we’d just gotten a pardon from Hades.
Maybe he handed me a flyer for his band and without knowing I dropped it on the sidewalk.

Back then, the club was a kung-fu movie audition in disguise… limbs flying, boots stomping, bodies moving in angles that would give Euclid a headache. And yet, some of them didn’t dance. Some stood still, half-lit under the fog machines, watching. Maybe, just maybe, he was one of those… the kind who didn’t need to move to be present. A Watcher. One who observed enough movement to carry it home and sketch it later in silence.

Goth guys were shy back then.
It was like walking into a baby bat rescue shelter.
If you wanted one, you had to point and say,
‘I want that one.’
And maybe… just maybe… he was one of the ones who stood still,
clutching a plastic cup and silently praying to be summoned for a dance.

And the funny part is… after all those Friday nights at goth church, I ended up in one of their bat caves.
Not as a disciple.
More like a modern‑day goddess from another realm… the kind where we don’t follow north stars, we follow chickens through a cornfield maze until they point toward the exit.

Meeting him felt like a “deja vu with fangs.”
I hugged him… maybe too tight. I might've cut off his circulation, but it’s hard to say when someone’s already pale.
What do you even tell the paramedics? “Uh, he’s pale?” How pale? “Goth pale?”
So yeah… maybe I squeezed a little too hard.
But it had been a long time coming.

I called it a Reverse “Disney hug”. He broke the spell first, so the ritual ended.

So in the end, I did pose for him.
Yes… like Rose from Titanic... just not as glamorous.
I think I looked like I was about to be embalmed.
Still, he complimented me and said I held so still.
He had no idea I was in full zombie-brain mode… nerves disintegrating, thoughts scrambled.
I told him it was probably the horse tranquilizer.
Or maybe I just glued myself to the chair.
Either way, I made it through.

But that was the easy part.

It didn’t even cross my mind I had to take the sketch with me. And just like in the military: I didn’t ask, and he didn’t tell. Maybe deep down I thought he was just gonna sketch me like one of those 90s toy sketch pads… you know, the kind where the drawing disappears if you shake it too hard. Temporary. Erasable. No evidence.

The hard part was figuring out how to keep my parents from finding the artwork. I hadn’t realized I’d be taking it home with me… and I happened to be staying with my religious mother, who I was pretty sure would have to go to church twice that week just to pray away whatever sin she thought I’d committed. When I told her the truth, she slammed the brakes so hard I was glad I had my seatbelt on. In that moment, I was teenager again. And I think she’s still lighting candles.

Bartering Dozens for Drama

I can’t sleep… and of course, I’ve got something absurd stuck in my head again.

I was really sad earlier, and sometimes when I’m sad, my brain just… spirals into ridiculousness.

So this is me… turning grief into eggs.

(Just roll with it.)

_______________________________________________________________________

I keep thinking about the egg shortage.

Remember that? “Eggflation.” When eggs were like $9… or your firstborn?

Well, actually, people don’t take firstborns anymore.

Too expensive to raise one. These days they just want them working age. And that age varies by country.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anyways, I didn’t really feel it. I live in a small town surrounded by farms, so eggs here stayed affordable… sometimes even free.

Well… "free."

There was this woman who used to bring me boxes of fresh eggs,,, like, cartons at a time … in exchange for something far more expensive:

Listening.

Not just nodding politely. I’m talking about full-on therapist mode.

One-woman trauma dump hotline. Small-town edition.

There was one day I’ll never forget… she told me her toxic boyfriend finally gave her a ring. I got genuinely excited for her.

Then she said:

“It’s a promise ring.”

And I blinked.

Because this man was nearly 60 years old.

And I was like… ma’am.

I mean, I always heard men don’t reach full maturity until about 65, so maybe there’s still hope. Maybe by the time he hits retirement, he’ll propose for real.

Scientific studies confirm this.

Actually… don’t look it up. You’ll just confirm that I’m lying.

But yeah. That was just one of the many emotional egg transactions I endured.

It’s rural bartering at its finest:

Psychological labor in exchange for protein.

A little therapy for a little cholesterol.

Anyway, I was in Austin once during the height of eggflation and people were losing their minds at HEB, full egg crisis, collective panic.

I just stood there and said,

“Well… at least the cholesterol went down.”

Silence.

They weren’t ready.

The Neighborhood Animal Crisis Hotline (and the Law of Finders Keepers)

The little monks who came to test my spiritual readiness.

It started innocently △ △ △ a few Ring notifications here and there. Somewhere between the lost dog on Canary Lane and the Chicken Snake Incident, my Ring app has evolved into a full-blown animal-rescue soap opera.

Every few minutes, a new headline appears:

“Wandering dog seen at Arlan’s parking lot.”
“Is anyone missing a Chihuahua? He’s sitting politely at my door.”
“White shit zu under a truck. Possibly meditating.”

Meanwhile, the Chicken Snake slithered past a “No Soliciting” sign and became a local celebrity△ △ △ proof that enlightenment comes in many forms (and sometimes, scales).

And then there are the essays △ △ △ neighbors writing heartfelt memoirs about refugee cats they’ve been feeding for three days.
They post tear-jerking photos and ask, “Should I find them a home?”

No, Karen. You found the cats. They found you.
That’s destiny △ △ △ Finders Keepers Law, Article I, Section Me.
That’s how the geometry works in this neighborhood.

If they’ve been sleeping on your porch for three days, congratulations: you’ve been chosen.
That’s the sacred geometry of suburbia.

But the universe likes to remind me that it, too, has a sense of humor.
One afternoon, two tiny kittens appeared near my back door △ △ △ trembling, angelic, clearly homeless. I called my friend at animal rescue, who said maybe the mother was out looking for food… but might not return.

So I did what any responsible adult goddess of home decor would do:
I went on a full rescue mission to Walmart.
I spent an hour curating the cutest little cages, reading cat food labels like I was adopting royalty. I chose toys, water bowls, blankets that color matched △ △ △ the feline equivalent of a welcome basket from the Four Seasons.

And when I finally got home △ △ △ radiant, benevolent, ready to open my heart and my wallet △ △ △ while meanwhile, the cats have already Houdini’d back to the cosmos. Reminding me that even the strays have free will.

Just gone.
Like tiny monks who came only to test my spiritual readiness.

Now I understand the real geometry of it all:
Sometimes the strays find you.
Sometimes they just pass through to remind you that love, like cats, cannot be contained.

The feed has become a holy scroll of suburban compassion and chaos.
Everyone’s searching △ △ △ for pets, for purpose, for closure.
And me? I’ve muted notifications, enlightened by the truth:
The animals have already chosen their people.

Apollo B, the Weekday Serial Killer

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 3
(Because even gods show up at the gym.)

_______________________________________________________________________

I was lying in my hammock, taking a sunbath △ △ △ the kind that makes neighbors wonder if I’m photosynthesizing.
The sunlight was coming through the trees in slow geometric shapes, and I was laughing to myself about Apollo B △ △ △ the time I’d asked him to leave his axe at home. Divine encounters are complicated enough without weapons.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yes, that Apollo △ △ △ the one with supernova eyes.
The kind of eyes that burn bright enough to light a universe, and then disappear just as fast.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He had that cerebral wit that made you feel seen and studied at the same time.
He was a dissector of design, fluent in irony, allergic to sincerity.
I called him my second Apollo △ △ △ the man who could make even darkness look conceptual.

He had curls like a bird’s nest.
I once told him if I were a bird, I’d live in his hair.
He chuckled △ △ △ politely, I think △ △ △ but at the time, politeness and amusement looked exactly the same to me.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back when I still used dating apps (an arena I’ve long since left behind), I swiped right on him while trying to clean a smudge off my phone screen.
Which, in hindsight, was foreshadowing △ △ △ a metaphor disguised as a mistake.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Before we met, I performed what I considered a responsible safety check.
You know that urban myth that if you ask an undercover cop, “Are you a cop?” they’re legally required to tell the truth? (Completely ridiculous.)
Well, I’ve always assumed serial killers have a similar Code of Conduct:
if you suspect someone’s a serial killer, you can simply ask, and they must answer honestly.

Danger never really goes away, but at least it has manners.

So I asked him if he was a serial killer.
He said yes, but only on weekdays.
We were meeting on the weekend.

That was the moment I thought: finally, someone who speaks fluent absurdity.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Turns out we weren’t speaking the same dialect △ △ △ I was writing poetry, he was proofreading the margins △ △ △ ever the designer, searching for symmetry where I saw feeling.
We met for a brief chapter, and when it ended, it ended silently.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

He started appearing everywhere △ △ △ at Olympias (the gym where mortals train like gladiators),
in The Temple of Provisions (where divine beings select their weekly offerings),
even in the parking lot, where his white chariot always ended up beside mine.

One day at the Temple of Provisions, we locked eyes △ △ △ my famous gaze.
We stared at each other as if fate were pressing pause.
But honestly? I was only staring because I was evaluating a creature that needed to be sent back to its habitat.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was getting suspiciously mythological, so I finally texted him to confirm whether he was the man himself or his doppelgänger.
He replied that he was “the real one △ △ △ the real copy,” which somehow made perfect nonsense.
So I ordered him, as any goddess would, to alter his sacred training hours at Olympias.
The mortal realm was clearly glitching △ △ △ two divine beings should never share a treadmill.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The last time I saw him, I was in a yellow dress with my new bionic glasses on △ △ △ the prescription kind, not the superhero kind.
I walked right past him like sunlight moving past a shadow △ △ △ no eye contact, no hesitation.
That was my release.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Now, when I think of him, I laugh.
Maybe he really was a weekday serial killer △ △ △
the kind that kills the mood, the moment, the illusion △ △ △
but always clocks out before Sunday.

The Glued-Back Watermelon Conspiracy

BREAKING NEWS: Discount Demanded on “Pre-Tasted” Watermelon

Shoppers were left stunned today after evidence surfaced that certain watermelons on store shelves had been previously opened, taste-tested, and then carefully patched back together like a bad science experiment before resale.

Experts say the faint fault lines on the rind are clear proof: these are not fresh fruits but refurbished units.

Industry insiders confirm that consumers are entitled to demand at least 50% off any melon showing signs of prior consumption.

“This is standard return protocol,” one anonymous produce worker admitted. “If the original buyer didn’t like the flavor, it goes back to the shelf. Think of it like an open-box laptop △ △ △ but juicier.”

After all:
Why pay full price for refurbished produce?
It’s only logical.
It’s only geometry.
It’s only absurd.

Geometry Doesn’t Lie

Look closely at this watermelon △ △ △ the cracks across its rind aren’t random. They’re the scars of betrayal.

Someone cracked it open, took a bite, and decided… nope. Not sweet enough. Not juicy enough. Maybe too much math inside.

So what did they do? Naturally, they glued it back together and slid it back onto the shelf, hoping no one would notice.

And now here you are, staring at a Frankenstein watermelon with a past.
A watermelon that already failed its taste test, stitched back together and rolled out for one more chance at love.

Shoppers are advised to check their carts carefully. If you hear rattling seeds, it’s already too late.

Consumer Tip △ △ △ Absurd Geometry Seal of Approval

• Always inspect fruit for glue seams, stitching, or suspicious symmetry.

• Ask the clerk: “Has this produce been previously loved?”

  • If the clerk blinks once, that means yes △ △ △ even if he says no.

  • Remember: Shakespeare taught us the eyes are the windows of the soul. The lips may deny, but the eyelids confess.

• Demand 50% off refurbished items. It’s the law (probably).

Rule #47 of Absurd Geometry

If the fruit has already lived a life, you get it for half price.

Developing Story

What worries shoppers more is the suspicion that watermelon may not be the only fruit caught in this recycling scheme. Reports have already surfaced of:

• suspiciously shiny oranges,

• unusually square apples, and

• bananas with suspicious Velcro-like seams.

The investigation continues…

Follow-Up: Field Test Results

At Absurd Geometry, we don’t just speculate △ △ △ we test.

So, in the interest of consumer science, I personally put Tip #47 into practice. I located a suspicious watermelon, dressed in my most professional suit, and approached the register with grave seriousness.

“I demand 50% off,” I said, sliding the fruit forward like it was evidence in a courtroom.

To my surprise, the clerk agreed immediately.
To my greater surprise, he took me literally. He handed me half off the price… and kept half the watermelon.

And that’s how the experiment concluded. A success in mathematics, a tragedy in fruit.

Australia: Land of Demigods and Drunk Koalas

When I think of Australia, it’s not just about the outback, the endless coastline, or the fact that everything there can give you the kiss of death. No △ △ △ it’s also about the runway of good-looking demigods that seem to inhabit the place (yes, Chris Hemsworth, I’m looking at you), just walking around like Thor forgot to clock out of Asgard.

But what really steals my imagination are the animals. Take the koalas. They look cute and cuddly, but they’re tougher than they seem, fearless little troublemakers. I’ve seen videos of them picking fights with dogs, which makes me think twice about my dream of hugging one. Honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked if I walked past a Sydney bar and saw a koala being thrown out by security for starting a brawl △ △ △ eucalyptus-flavored liquor in fuzzy paw, still demanding “just one more.” That’s how I picture Australia: a place where even koalas have nightlife drama.

And then, there are the dingoes. The dingo dilemma is simple: never sit down, never take a break when you’re out in the wild. Because you never know △ △ △ a dingo might be watching. And not just watching△ △ △ watching like a cartoon wolf, tongue out, eyes bulging, practically salivating at the thought of you as the main course.. They’re opportunists. Show weakness, and that’s when they’ll come at you. So if I ever play Frisbee with a dingo, I’d throw it as far as I could △ △ △ and by the time he came back all excited, I’d already be gone. He’d be stuck wagging his tail, still holding the Frisbee, and scanning the horizon for his next victim. Don’t believe me? Look it up.

That’s how I imagine Australia: beautiful, dangerous, and a little absurd. And yes, I’d still risk it all △ △ △ but with life insurance, of course.

Welcome to Absurd Geometry

This blog, Absurd Geometry, is dedicated first to God. I believe that the talents we’re given are not random △ △ △ they are divine sparks, gifts of grace. When we share those talents with the world, we are honoring God Himself, because we’re returning His gift in the form of light, laughter, and creativity. Like light through a prism, what He gives us bends into colors of our own making △ △ △ angles only we can create.

It is also dedicated to my dad△ △ △ a true alchemist. He suffered as a child in ways most people can’t imagine, yet instead of letting that turn him bitter or angry, he transformed it. Where others might use suffering as an excuse to stay stuck or resentful, my dad turned his pain into jokes, into warmth, into laughter he could share with the world. That is alchemy: turning suffering into gold, into humor, into love.

And in my own way, I try to carry that same legacy. I take my stress, my challenges, my absurd little moments of life, and I turn them into stories and jokes. This blog is my version of that alchemy△ △ △ finding the geometry in the chaos, reshaping it into laughter.

Why “Absurd Geometry”?

My humor has always been a little absurd, a little deadpan. A few years ago, I started writing my jokes down △ △ △ turning stress into humor, into little stories. Some of the names have been altered, but they’ll probably rhyme with yours.

This blog is my collection of those absurd angles and crooked lines of life △ △ △ where everyday frustrations, weird encounters, and awkward memories get reshaped into geometry that somehow makes sense when you laugh at it.

Sometimes you’ll find anecdotes. Sometimes you’ll find short stories. Sometimes it’ll be commentary on the “news” (or the kind of news that doesn’t always make the news). But it will always be me, finding the geometry in the absurd.

So welcome. Take a seat, take a chailpill, and get ready for angles that don’t add up △ △ △ but somehow still add laughter.

My dad, the original alchemist of laughter, crouched with the elephant in the room △ △ △ but in puppet form.

Last year, at a children’s museum, my dad climbed into a little puppet booth, grabbed a couple of puppets, and started doing a show. He used this ridiculous voice, shaking the puppets with all the drama and passion of a Broadway star. My dad gave that performance like the room was full, like he had an audience of thousands. But he only needed one person to see it. And that was enough.

That moment is the seed of Absurd Geometry. This blog is my puppet show. Sometimes it’ll be silly, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes both. But if even one person laughs, one person “gets it,” then it’s worth everything.