The Familiar Has to Be Unfamiliar

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 114

I had been walking through the neighborhood for hours with a basket of muffins, a damp flyer, and a level of commitment that, in hindsight, may have crossed into poor decision-making.

By the time I reached his house, the rain had gotten worse. My hair was stuck to my face. My cloak was soaked through. The almond flour muffins had absorbed so much moisture they were beginning to resemble emotional sponges.

I knocked.

When he opened the door, he looked at me standing there in the rain with my basket of witch muffins and immediately said I was going to catch pneumonia.

“I don’t think pneumonia works that way,” I said.

“That’s what everyone says right before they catch pneumonia,” he said.

Then he looked down at the basket.

“And not only are you going to catch pneumonia,” he said, “but those muffins are going to catch pneumonia too.”

“They’re almond flour blueberry muffins.”

“Not anymore.”

I looked down.

The muffins on top had absorbed so much rainwater that some had begun to swell against their paper liners. The ones buried near the bottom of the basket, however, remained relatively protected.

“They’re moist,” I said.

“They’re pneumonia sponge muffins.”

“How many pneumonia sponge muffins have you sold?”

“Only a dozen,” I said. “And I’m about to sell another dozen in this house.”

He stared at me.

He sighed.

“Venmo or Zelle?” I asked.

He pulled out his phone.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll take a dozen.”

I lifted the basket.

“Give me the batch from the bottom,” he said. “Some of those still look spiritually uncompromised.”

That was when he told me to come inside.

He handed me his raincoat.

“Put this on,” he said.

So I took off my wet clothes and wore only the raincoat while my clothes dried.

I had just come from the witches’ reunion, and told him we had failed to close the circle properly.

We had been unable to locate a stray black cat.

A lot of people assume any cat will do, but that is not true. The familiar has to be unfamiliar. That is what most civilians don’t understand about pentagram work.

If you bring your own cat, he will step into the circle just because he wants you to like him more and keep enabling his catnip problem.

That invalidates the ritual.

What you need is a stray black cat. A gangster cat. A cat who has eaten behind restaurants shut down by the city, slept on top of cars and under them, and fought at least one koala on parole for territorial reasons.

That kind of cat does not get scared and break the circle just because a shadow appears.

“I missed your goofy-looking face,” he said.

“It’s not goofy,” I said. “I just have really high cheekbones, and they keep getting higher and higher. One day they’ll rise all the way to my forehead and become horns.”

“It sounds like you wouldn’t mind at all,” he said. “You’re probably already shopping for hats slightly bigger to accommodate them.”

“Did you put cinnamon in the blueberry muffins?” he asked. “You know I’m allergic to anything good.”

“I did,” I said. “But just a little. So you should only die a little if you eat them.”

“I wish you were joking,” he said. “But knowing you, you probably calculated the dosage.”

“That’s my Cin,” he said. “Always obsessed with just dying a little.”

“Dying a little never killed nobody,” I said.

“I bet if I woke up dead, you would probably love me again.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I guess you’d have to die first to find out.”

“Okay,” he said. “This is going too far. I like funny Cin better than macabre Cin.”

How do I stop seeing you in my dreams. Can you remove the spell?

“It wasn’t a spell,” I told him. “It was one single eyelash and one of the buttons from my blouse. The button must have popped off inside your house. They were both carrying residual charge, a tiny part of my soul.”

He stared at me.

Then he looked horrified.

“Once you find the button and the single eyelash” I said, “you should be able to exorcise me from your head and your home.”

“I heard you’re done with everything,” he said. “Getting rid of everything. Selling everything. Closing everything.”

“Where are you going?”

“Here,” I said.

And I pointed.

He looked at it for a moment.

“That’s out of this world,” he said.

“Exactly.”

The Witches’ Reunion: A Special Guest

Last updated July 21, 2026

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 112

As the High Priestess, I decided to host the first witches’ reunion in the city of Pasadena while everyone was distracted by the Rose Parade.

Our faces looked more tired, but the spells and our old-world cooking recipes remained the same.

Witches came from everywhere.

Some parked their brooms in the bicycle area, which immediately caused problems because several of them looked identical.

Others Ubered to the reunion because they did not want to deal with confusing their broom with someone else’s and accidentally flying home on a stranger’s emotional baggage.

We openly discriminated against Hollywood witches, we denied entry to anyone who bought their sage and palo santo at Silver Lake boutiques and used Google Translate to turn English into Latin, as if Latin were the official language of the supernatural world. If we had to assign it an original language, it would probably be Hebrew. The Devil was already speaking it in Genesis.

“Blessed be,” I said.

“Now, sisters,” I said, tapping the microphone. “Tonight is a very special night.”

The room had been decorated with battery-operated, realistic-flame candles from Costco and essential-oil diffusers instead of burning incense, for fire-hazard reasons. Even the occult had to follow venue policy.

“For centuries, we have had to communicate through intermediaries: Ouija boards. Magic 8 Balls. Occasionally, an unplugged Zoltar machine. And one severely overworked raven.”

Several witches nodded.

“You remember the raven,” I said. “He took forever to relay messages because he had accepted too much work. Funerals. Omens. Breakup dreams. One woman kept asking him to check if her ex had moved on, and eventually the raven was named in a restraining order.”

“At some point, he was carrying so many messages that he started misdelivering them. On many occasions he delivered bad omens after the person had already died.”

“It got so bad that the raven exceeded the number of liens legally permitted on a single nest.”

A witch whispered, “If you can no longer trust ravens, who can you trust?”

“The devil,” someone shouted.

That voice sounded familiar.

I paused.

Then I continued, because when you are hosting an event, you cannot allow every demonic voice to derail the program.

“Recently, my cable company upgraded my internet at no extra charge.”

“I do not know exactly what plan I have now. Fiber? Ultra? Max? Something with bandwidth. The point is, I was finally able to host a night with the spirits without buffering.”

A few witches gasped.

“Yes,” I said. “The connection was strong enough for the spirits to carry a message all the way down to him.”

Someone whispered, “To the devil?”

“The one and only,” I said. “The original copy.”

“And tonight, sisters, for the first time in his devilish life, he has agreed to appear, not through a Catholic priest, not through a Ouija board, not through the smoke of a campfire, but through the projector.”

The room grew still.

A witch in the back dropped her crystals.

“No other witches’ convention has ever brought you the devil himself as a guest speaker,” I said. “Not Salem. Not Voodoo Doughnut. Not even that overpriced retreat in Joshua Tree where they made everyone sleep in yurts and called it spiritual resilience.”

Several witches murmured.

“Does anybody recall that?” I asked. “The retreat where they released goats into the camping area to police negative energy, but the goats immediately turned against the participants and began trampling through their tents?”

“By the end of the weekend, every participant needed a chiropractic adjustment.”

“And then,” I continued, “instead of apologizing, one of the organizers tried to add another healing activity.”

“What activity?” someone asked.

“Chiropractors with goats.”

Then one witch in the back finally snapped.

“Cut to the broom and show us the devil!”

At that exact moment, someone’s phone started ringing.

The ringtone was an eerie little song, the kind of melody that sounded like it had been composed by a haunted ice cream truck.

Everyone turned.

The Costco candles flickered mechanically.

The computers in the back began installing mandatory updates.

On the snack table, the hot salsa began getting hotter.

A witch dipped a tortilla chip, tasted it, and immediately started coughing.

Then the fire alarm went off.

The projector screen flickered.

A figure appeared on the screen, seated in what looked like a very Wayfair-decorated home office.

The devil adjusted his horns.

“Can everyone hear me?” he asked.

The organizer rushed forward.

“You’re muted.”

The devil rolled his eyes and cursed.

“I have been summoned across dimensions,” he said, “and still somehow, the first thing I hear is that I’m muted.”

“For centuries,” he said, “humans have been using my name irresponsibly.”

The room went still.

“They keep blaming me for everything. Wars. Son of Sam. Greed. Reality television. Men who own acoustic guitars. I have nothing to do with most of that.”

He sounded tired.

“I have not had official business on Earth since they crucified Jesus.”

Someone gasped.

“What?”

“That was the last time the assignment made sense,” he said. “Jesus was there. There was structure. At one point, we even tried to be civilized and went out for a glass of wine at one of his wineries to resolve our differences. Or perhaps three glasses. I was too drunk to keep counting.”

“And did you resolve your differences?” one of the witches asked.

The Devil looked away from the screen.

“In a way.”

“We made peace. I returned to the underworld. He returned to his Father’s kingdom.”

“And both of us,” he said, “gave up on humanity.”

“Humans started freelancing,” said the Devil.

“Do you know how annoying it is to be blamed for every terrible thing people do when I have been retired for two thousand years?”

“So you retired after the crucifixion?” someone asked.

“Spiritually, yes,” he said. “Administratively, it took longer. The final paperwork wasn’t processed until the end of World War II.”

The room went still.

“Once God accepted my resignation, I looked around and realized humanity no longer required outside influence.”

Another witch raised her hand.

“Then who was dancing in the forests with our ancestors?”

The devil stared at her through the screen.

“Those were lookalikes.”

“Lookalikes?”

“Yes. That was not me. People have been falsely identifying me in forests for centuries. They were wearing very convincing costumes made from real animal hides.”

“But they had horns.”

“Do you have any idea how many creatures have horns?”

Then he logged out without saying goodbye.

“Okay, everyone,” I said, returning to the microphone. “This concludes our reunion.”

The witches looked disappointed.

“I know. I know. Traditionally, this is where we would dance naked around a fire.”

Several women nodded.

“Unfortunately, we are not allowed to do that here.”

A few witches started heading out.

“I did try to negotiate. I told the owner of the center we would keep it casual. Nothing dramatic. Just a small ceremonial flame. Maybe roast a few marshmallows and twerk a little.”

“He wasn’t buying it.”

“He said if he smelled anything burnt or sulfurous, we were not getting our deposit back.”

“And sisters,” I said, “since we are not allowed to have a fire anywhere on the premises, please place your lists of unwanted burdens, attachments, and problems into this black bag.”

I held up the bag.

“I have hired a stork through the local zoo to deliver it to the shredding center for destruction,” I said, “so our release spell can be completed without violating the fire code.”

“Also,” I said, before anyone could leave, “do not forget to take the blueberry muffins.”

“The almond flour blueberry muffins I made to raise funds for Witches Awareness. Everyone grab as many as you can fit in your baskets and sell them on your way home.”

“Please Venmo me the proceeds by midnight tomorrow,” I said. “And do not eat the inventory. This is a cause.”

“I will be sending owls as your companions,” I said, “to ensure everyone remains honest.”

“These are compliance owls.”

Several witches looked toward the ceiling.

“They will accompany you home, observe your sales activity, and report any muffin-related misconduct directly to me.”

Someone whispered, “What does Witches Awareness even do?”

I looked at her.

“It raises awareness.”

“Of the fact that we are still here, still misunderstood, and still being blamed for obesity, bad life choices and not winning the lottery.”

“Also,” I said, “everyone must remain in uniform while selling the muffins. Put on your black cloaks.”

“Won’t that scare people?” someone asked.

“That is why it is called awareness,” I said.

After the reunion ended, some of the witches collected their baskets.

Some witches went to parking validation for their brooms, which apparently cost extra if you left them in the structure for more than two hours.

A few simply started walking home in different directions with their baskets of muffins tucked beneath their cloaks.

I decided to walk home too.

Unfortunately, it started raining.

Mrs. Peeping Tom

Last updated June 19, 2026.

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 111

The first time I met Mrs. Peeping Tom, I had just moved into town.

The moving truck was still outside. The movers were unloading boxes. I was carrying something I had absolutely paid them to carry, because apparently I like to participate in the illusion of being helpful.

Then a woman appeared at my front door holding a plate of sealed Atkins protein bars.

Not cookies.

Not special brownies.

Not a casserole.

Sealed Atkins protein bars.

Which, in hindsight, should have been my first clue that she was either extremely considerate or extremely familiar with how evidence works.

“Hi,” she said. “I noticed you’re my new neighbor. I’m Mrs. Peeping Tom.”

I stared at her.

Because what do you say to that?

Is that hyphenated?

Before I could decide, she held out the plate.

“I brought you these. They’re sealed. I figured most people won’t eat homemade cookies from a stranger. Or even a store-bought cake, because it could still be tampered with. So I brought protein bars.”

“That’s… thoughtful,” I said.

“I noticed you work out,” she added. “I could tell by your well defined calves. Also, you were moving things out of the truck even though you paid movers.”

I looked down at my own legs like they had betrayed me.

“Right,” I said. “Let me put these away and I’ll bring your plate back.”

“You don’t have to invite me in,” she said.

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’ll just watch from here.”

And she did.

She stood in the doorway while I walked the plate into the kitchen, set the protein bars down, and tried to act like this was not the first scene of a documentary I would later regret participating in.

On my way back, I noticed a fly inside the house.

I grabbed a towel and started swatting at it.

“Oh, the whole town has a fly problem,” she said. “These houses are brand new, but they’re not built well. Lots of gaps. That’s how things get in.”

I froze for a second.

Because that is the kind of sentence a person says before revealing they have been living inside your walls.

I handed her the plate.

“Well,” she said, “if you ever need anything, just ask. I have a generator, gasoline, first aid kits, cat formula, and a full arsenal.”

“Cat formula?”

“For emergencies.”

“Of course.”

“And I have the only working landline in town. So if there’s ever a storm, or a tornado, or the cell towers go down, don’t hesitate to come knocking.”

“That’s very nice,” I said. “I usually try not to bother my neighbors. I’ll do my best not to become a damsel in distress during a federally declared event.”

She smiled.

“I live at the end of the street,” she said. “You’ll know the house. It has the red light outside.”

And then she left.

Which is how I learned that in Seguin, emergency preparedness sometimes comes with surveillance, protein bars, and a woman named Mrs. Peeping Tom.

After that, I could no longer relax in my own home.

I felt watched.

Not watched in the normal neighborhood way, where someone notices you forgot to bring in your trash cans.

Watched in the architectural way.

Then one night, from my upstairs bathroom window, I saw something.

At least, I think I saw something.

An elongated silhouette.

Standing outside.

It looked like Mrs. Peeping Tom. She was about seven feet tall, which is considered average here in Texas, a state mostly occupied by giants.

People are always asking, “Whatever happened to giants?”

They moved to Texas.

They built the countertops.

This explains why my sink feels like it was installed for someone with an NBA contract. I have to stand on my tiptoes just to see myself in the bathroom mirror, and at the grocery store the plastic bags are mounted so high you have to perform a vertical leap just to bag some tomatoes.

Or maybe it was the shadow of my neighbor’s tree.

Or maybe I was hallucinating from all the mushrooms on the pizza I had eaten that particular day.

We will never know for sure.

So I did what any reasonable woman would do.

I cemented the bathroom windows shut.

All of them.

Because the bathroom is where a person is most vulnerable. You can be brave in the kitchen. You can be composed in the living room. You can even pretend to be mysterious in the hallway.

But nobody is mysterious under fluorescent lighting with wet hair and mismatched slippers on.

Then I cemented the rest of the windows, just to be thorough.

Unfortunately, her prophecy became real.

A tornado came through town. It skipped my street, as expected, but it flooded both exits, which meant I was technically safe and completely trapped. There was no power. No internet. No phone reception. The cell towers were down, and I was vulnerable, helpless, and hungry as hell.

And not just normal hungry.

Pizza hungry.

The kind of hunger that makes a woman ignore every red flag she has ever collected.

Every pizza place in town was closed because everything in this town closes at six and becomes legally dead on Sundays. The only option was to order from the next town over, which meant I needed a phone.

A real phone.

A landline.

Which meant I needed Mrs. Peeping Tom.

I walked to the house with the red light outside.

As I approached, another woman came out of Mrs. Peeping Tom’s house. She did not look at me. She did not acknowledge me. She kept her eyes forward in the way people do when they have survived something but signed an NDA with their own soul.

I knocked.

Mrs. Peeping Tom opened the door almost immediately.

“I knew you’d come eventually,” she said.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “But I need to use your landline.”

“For what?”

“I need to order pizza from the next town over.”

She stepped aside.

“Come in.”

I did not move.

“Before I come in,” I said, “I need you to know that I know.”

She blinked.

“You know what?”

“I know you watch people.”

Her face changed.

“Have you been watching me?”

“Yes,” I said.

She stared at me.

She looked almost impressed.

“You cemented your windows?”

“I started with the bathroom windows,” I said. “Then I did the rest of the house.”

She sighed.

“Do you still have flies?”

I froze.

“What?”

“Do you still see flies inside your house?”

“Yes,” I said. “Unfortunately.”

“Then I still have a way in.”

I felt my stomach drop.

“As long as flies can get into your house,” she said, “so can my gaze.”

“Damn it,” I whispered.

“You have to follow the flies,” she said. “Find where they’re getting in. Find the gaps. Seal the gaps. Only then will you truly shut me out.”

“Why do you do this?” I asked. “Why peeping?”

She looked past me, toward the flooded street.

“Ever since my husband died, I’ve been bored to death,” she said. “There’s no one to argue with anymore. No one to make my life a living hell. And there are not many hobbies in this town.”

“So you chose voyeurism?”

“It chose me.”

“You could have chosen crochet.”

She frowned.

“Doesn’t yarn attract cats?”

“Yes,” I said. “But only if you’re doing it correctly.”

“I’m allergic to cats. Actually, I’m allergic to all animals.”

She considered it for a moment.

“No. I’m too deep into this. I can’t start a new hobby at my age.”

“Okay,” I said. “Well, before I use your phone, I also need you to know that I left a letter in the outgoing mailbox telling people I came here. So if I disappear, they know your house was my last known location.”

She looked at me.

“You mailed a letter during a flood?”

“I had no stamp, so I used an ‘I Voted’ sticker.”

“That won’t work.”

“It might. This country is built on hope and dreams.”

She smiled.

Then she led me to the landline.

“You can use it,” she said. “I’ll give you privacy.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Then she walked to the other side of the door and closed it.

I heard her breathing behind it.

“Mrs. Peeping Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Are you watching me through the peephole?”

“No.”

“Are you listening?”

“No.”

I stared at the door.

I picked up the phone.

Ordering a pizza while being watched by a female peeping Tom is one of the most vulnerable things a person can experience. You think vulnerability is being naked. It is not. Vulnerability is saying “extra mushrooms” into a landline while a widow with an arsenal and cat formula silently evaluates your character through a peephole.

I ordered the pizza.

I hung up.

Although the roads into the neighborhood were flooded and no car could cross, I figured we could still make the delivery work through athletic creativity.

I had tipped enormously through the app and promised an additional cash bonus upon successful delivery, which I hoped would inspire commitment.

The DoorDash driver could drive as far as the flooded road, stand on one side of the water, and toss the pizza to me on the other like a football.

The distance wasn’t impossible. We both would have had to believe in ourselves, but that is what delivery fees… and excessive financial incentives… are for.

The distance wasn’t impossible. We both would have had to believe in ourselves, but that is what delivery fees are for.

Right after hanging up, I looked through the peephole and asked the most serious question I had asked all night.

“Mrs. Peeping Tom,” I said, “how long do you plan to keep watching me against my consent?”

She looked offended.

“You should be flattered by all the attention I give you.”

“I cemented my windows because of you.”

“That was your choice.”

“I went to the police.”

“And?”

“Apparently, there is only one cop for the entire town, and for my case to even be reviewed, I have to get on a waiting list.”

She nodded, like this was a normal administrative delay.

“Not a list,” I said. “A waiting list to get on the list.”

“Well,” she said, “government moves slowly.”

“So now I’m trapped in a house with no windows, waiting for one cop to become emotionally available enough to investigate you.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It is difficult. As much as I appreciate darkness, I still need fresh air.”

She sighed.

“How long?” I asked. “How long until you stop visiting me through the architectural weaknesses of my home?”

Mrs. Peeping Tom thought about it.

“Until the newness wears off,” she said.

“The newness?”

“You were new in town. New people are interesting. Once I figure you out, I lose interest.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“So I’m basically on surveillance until a newer person arrives?”

“Most likely.”

“And after that?”

She shrugged.

“I may visit from time to time. Nostalgia.”

“Not often. Maybe years from now. Maybe I’ll pass by your house one evening and think, I wonder what she’s doing now.”

“That’s not nostalgia. That’s relapse.”

She smiled.

“Call it whatever helps you feel relaxed in your windowless house.”

The Hot Air Balloon Intake Process

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 110

We found the offer on one of those coupon websites that specialize in optimism.

The kind where the photos show golden sunsets, smiling couples, and a balloon drifting peacefully over a valley that does not appear to exist anywhere in Texas. The original price had been crossed out△ △ △  aggressively △ △ △ and replaced with something that felt less like a discount and more like a clerical error.

Two-for-one hot air balloon ride.

There are certain phrases that should be approached with caution. “Unlimited refills.” “No closing costs.” “Two-for-one aviation experiences.”

We purchased immediately.

This was our first mistake.

To reach the hot-air balloon launch site, we first had to meet in a parking lot.

From there, we were told there would be a “short scenic walk,” which turned out to mean half a mile through a deserted area where several people began quietly calling their insurance companies to make sure they were covered.

Eventually, we reached a narrow bridge leading into what appeared to be no man’s land.

That was when the ringmaster stopped.

He tilted his head.

“What is that noise?”

The assistant looked around. “What noise?”

“That clacking sound,” he said. “It sounds like a horse is walking with us.”

Everyone turned.

I was standing near the back of the group in real horse hooves.

The ringmaster stared at my feet.

“What are you wearing?”

“Footwear.”

“You look ridiculous,” he said.

I looked him up and down.

“Not as ridiculous as you look with those veneers.”

The group went silent.

“You’re so tall and your teeth are so bright you look like a lighthouse,” I said. “I think evil extraterrestrials discovered life on Earth because of you. You’re probably the one who gave us away.”

The ringmaster stepped closer and bent down.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I need to see if they’re real.”

He pinched the front of one hoof boot.

I kicked him.

“What the hell was that?”

“Sorry,” I said. “That must be a reflex. I guess it came attached with the dead horse hooves.”

He crouched again, horrified and fascinated.

“So these are real?”

“Yes.”

“Real horse hooves?”

“Yes.”

“From a horse?”

“No, from a NASA engineer. Yes, from a horse.”

The group went silent again.

“The horse was already gone,” I explained. “They were putting him down, and they were going to throw the hooves away. I just thought they could make good all-terrain boots.”

No one said anything after that.

We kept walking.

Eventually, we arrived at the hot-air balloon location, where men in orange jumpsuits were unloading tray after tray of donuts from the back of a truck and arranging them inside the facility.

Across their backs, in large block letters, were the words: PRISON VOLUNTEER.

The donuts were included, though not listed.

Trays circulated continuously, and the ringmaster encouraged participation in carbohydrate intake.

“Take as many as you can hold,” he said. “In some countries, donuts are considered a luxury.”

This introduced a moral dimension to the experience.

People began eating with a sense of global responsibility.

He encouraged participation.

“Eat,” he said. “Don’t leave anything behind. You only die once.”

Then, as if sugar required a moral framework, he expanded his arms △ △ △ wide, theatrical △ △ △ like a ringmaster addressing an audience that had already paid.

One leg slightly forward, the other trailing behind, as if even his stance required staging.

“Think about the children in developing countries,” he said. “Some of them don’t even know what a real donut looks like. They only know donut holes. That’s where the donut holes get exported.”

And as someone from one of those countries, I regret to say that it resonated.

He had accessed a memory.

Possibly several.

So I nodded.

This was my second mistake.

He saw me nodding.

This was his cue.

He gestured toward a small podium that I had not previously noticed.

“Would you like to share your experience?” he asked, already certain that I would.

At this point, refusal would have disrupted the performance.

So I stepped forward.

I confirmed that, yes, growing up, a filled donut was a luxury. Not everyone had access to that level of abundance. Donut holes were the closest they can get to the real experience

The crowd listened.

Some nodded.

Some reached for another donut.

I did not yet understand what I had done.

The ringmaster stepped forward again, reclaiming the space with a sweep of his arm.

“Any questions?” he asked.

There were questions.

A man in the back raised his hand.

“What about the donut holes we see at local shops?”

“Right,” the ringmaster said. “But those are domestic-grade donut holes. Those are the ones that didn’t pass inspection for export. The germ count was too high for international shipping, and obviously they’re not going to risk killing their largest overseas consumer base.”

There was a pause.

He continued.

“They’ve likely exceeded the five-second rule at some point in the supply chain.”

No one challenged this.

But several people looked visibly disturbed by the idea that the germ-covered donut holes had been left behind in the United States.

The ringmaster appeared satisfied.

The session had concluded.

After approximately thirty minutes, we were instructed to form a line. This was framed as a courtesy to ensure timely boarding. In practice, it functioned as the first stage of reduction.

About ten individuals did not make it past this phase due to donut-related complications.

The remaining participants were transported by the prison volunteers to a secondary facility. The vehicle resembled a theme park train, which created a false sense of whimsy.

Upon arrival, we were introduced to the scale.

A sign indicated that, per the agreement signed during coupon redemption (section 13, subsection unclear), individuals exceeding 180 pounds would not be permitted to board due to safety concerns. This was the first time anyone had encountered this information.

The weigh-in began.

Those who exceeded the limit △ △ △ even by one or two ounces △ △ △ were immediately removed from the process.

A collective strategy emerged.

Someone mentioned that swimmers remove body hair before competitions to reduce drag. This was immediately misinterpreted as evidence that hair had significant monetary and aviation-related weight.

“I don’t think that’s true,” I said. “I think it makes them faster. I don’t think it makes them lighter.”

No one responded directly, which is how I knew the group had already accepted the premise.

“You lose nothing by trying,” someone said.

“Yes, you do,” I said. “Your hair.”

There was a pause.

“And Samson lost all his power when a woman cut his.”

The room grew quiet.

This was apparently considered a compelling counterargument.

By that point, however, the order had already been placed.

The clippers arrived within ten minutes.

Someone had added a heroic tip to the DoorDash order, which apparently moved the delivery from “reasonable” to “emergency shaving response.”

No one questioned this.

People brushed crumbs from their clothes, sucked in their stomachs, and stood sideways on the scale as if gravity could be deceived by angles.

As though we had accidentally wandered onto a reality television survival show, contestants were eliminated one by one and escorted into another room to be presented with alternative opportunities.

Approximately half of the group was eliminated during this phase.

Thirteen of us remained.

We were then escorted into a dark room that resembled a small movie theater. This marked the beginning of the final stage.

The final stage was a safety presentation.

It began with ordinary warnings.

According to the presenter, we were more likely to die in a hot air balloon accident than while jaywalking or riding in a plane.

Then it escalated into footage of hot air balloon accidents, failed landings, emergency rescues, and grieving pets left behind by owners who had only wanted to see the sunrise from above.

Then they explained that even survival had consequences.

“If you fall and survive,” the presenter said, “you may still find yourself stranded in the desert.”

A video appeared of a rat giving birth to a litter.

“Is that what you want?” he asked. “To become a midwife to a desert rat?”

No one answered.

“That,” he said, pointing to the screen, “may become your Wilson. The movies have conditioned you to expect a volleyball. This is not guaranteed.”

That was when people began tapping out.

One by one, participants withdrew their consent to pursue aviation.

The presenter nodded with understanding, then informed them that last-minute cancellation would result in a penalty equal to three times the original ticket price.

Unless, of course, they agreed to attend a timeshare presentation at a secondary facility.

The transition was immediate.

The prison volunteers escorted the newly cautious toward another vehicle. Most of the group accepted the timeshare option with the visible relief of people who had chosen financial entrapment over desert rats.

When the room cleared, only two of us remained.

My friend and me.

“Hold it right there, both of you Rapunzels.”

We stopped.

He pointed at our hair.

“You think I’m letting both of you Rapunzels climb into my balloon with all that hair near an open flame?”

“Nobody gets in the basket until the hair is tied up.”

“I’m not letting either one of you commit arson with your hair in my balloon.”

“With our hair?”

“Yes. Hair. Hairspray. Frizz tamer. Cow spit. Whatever else you country people put in there. Wind. Open flame. That’s how civilizations fall.”

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll tie it up.”

My friend started digging through her purse.

“I found one!” she said, holding up a hair tie like she had discovered the cure for cancer.

“Great,” the ringmaster said. “Use it.”

She paused.

“But if you give me twenty more minutes, I can take my purse apart. I think there might be another one in one of the hidden compartments.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They’re hidden.”

“There is no time for purse excavation,” he said. “This isn’t a bar entrance.”

She looked at me, then lowered her gaze.

“Damn it,” she said. “You know what? Just go.”

“What do you mean, just go?”

She sighed, like she had already accepted my fate.

“Knowing how you live your life, you’re probably going to die before I do anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who went into a cavern to get sketched by some stranger while bats played instruments for ambient music.”

“That was art.”

“That was Craigslist behavior with better lighting.”

“It was not Craigslist behavior.”

“You went there so he could stare at your fat deposits under dramatic lighting. Alone. You’re lucky he didn’t cut you into pieces and arrange you by bone type.”

The ringmaster shook his head in disappointment.

My friend pointed at the balloon.

“So yes. Between the two of us, I feel like you have already made peace with danger. Go enjoy your little murder balloon.”

“It’s not a murder balloon.”

The ringmaster cleared his throat.

“It was misused by Nazis during World War II.”

I tied my hair with the scrunchie.

Then I prepared to board.

Because I was wearing real horse hooves as boots, I charged toward the basket with the confidence of a horse entering the final stretch.

I jumped.

It was not graceful, but it was committed.

The ringmaster watched me land inside the basket.

“You could have used the ladder on the other side,” he said. “But thank you for the performance.”

I rose into the air and reached into my purse to retrieve the donuts I had stashed earlier.

I expected to feel something.

Fear. Wonder. Butterflies. A sense that the dream had survived the process.

But once I was up there, it was not what I thought it would be.

Below me were the whimsical little trains transporting the disappointed, the prison volunteers in orange jumpsuits driving carts between facilities, and what appeared to be the real-life incident that inspired Cujo: a group of people running toward their car while a large black dog chased them with unusual commitment.

Beyond that, because this was Texas, there was only dead grass and flat land.

That was the view.

That was the dream.

Only disappointment.

Why Statues Don’t Face Each Other

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 102

I was at a store when I came across a small Venus de Milo.

There she was: topless, armless, and completely unbothered, sitting on a shelf like this was not one of the most famous divas in art history.

I carried her to the cashier and said, very seriously, “Hi, I was wondering if I could get a discount on this.”

He looked at me.

I held up Venus de Milo.

“As you can see, she’s defective.”

He looked at the statue.

“The arms are broken.”

Without hesitation, he apologized.

He said, “Oh, I’m sorry about that. I can probably get you a discount. Let me call a supervisor.”

And that was when I realized I had gone too far.

“No, no, no, no,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was just joking.”

He looked confused.

“She’s supposed to be like that,” I said. “It’s Venus de Milo. That’s how the statue comes.”

Which is a very strange thing to say about a woman with no arms.

He stared at the statue.

Then he stared back at me with the expression of a man who had just been introduced to art history against his will.

It was one of those moments where Venus de Milo herself probably wanted to come alive and say, “Excuse me. Don’t you know who I am?”

Then put her hands on her hips.

Then remember she does not have hands.

Or arms.

So she just stood there.

Armless.

Famous.

And still not recognized at checkout.

“Oh my God,” he said. “I can’t believe I fell for this. I’ve got to pay more attention when people ask for discounts on items that appear defective.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

He shook his head, disturbed in a way I had not intended, like I had just awakened a dormant retail suspicion inside him.

From that moment on, I imagine he changed.

I imagine I made him suspicious of every discount request that came after me.

Someone could approach him with a chipped mug and say, “Can I get a discount? This is damaged.”

And he would just look at them and say, “No. That’s kintsugi.”

Everything defective was suddenly potential art.

I probably ruined discounts for everyone in that store.

All because I couldn’t hold a joke back.

But the whole thing left me with a bigger question.

If Venus de Milo is supposed to come that way, then what really happened to her arms?

People say they were “lost over time.”

Convenient.

At Absurd Geometry, we do not simply accept official explanations.

We investigate unofficial sources, mostly because those are the only sources willing to speak to us.

So we decided to look into what really happened to Venus de Milo.

And unfortunately, the truth is much worse than history wants you to believe.

So I prepared accordingly.

This time, I made sure my phone was fully charged and fully updated, because I have learned from experience that nothing ruins an investigation faster than your phone forcing itself into a software update while you are trying to photograph a suspicious manatee at the circus.

I would not be silenced by technology again.

Armed with battery life, current software, and absolutely no credentials, I went to the closest museum.

Which was five states over.

There, after several minutes of looking official near a wall label, I was able to secure a brief interview with the most powerful man in the museum.

The curator.

Unfortunately, he was on his way to the toilet.

“Excuse me,” I said, walking beside him. “Is it possible for you to speak with us? We’re trying to find out what really happened to Venus de Milo.”

He looked at me.

Then he looked toward the restroom.

“I’m on my way to the toilet,” he said.

“That’s fine,” I said. “We can walk.”

Which is how most serious art investigations begin.

He sighed, like he had been waiting years for someone brave enough to ask.

“So why is Venus de Milo the way she is?” he said.

Because marble has zero chill.

“Everyone thinks statues in museums are placed that way for ‘optimal lighting’ or ‘curatorial balance.’

“No.

“The real reason is stupid.

“Marble staring contests.

“The moment two statues lock eyes, they enter a silent, psychotic duel of intensity. The first one who can’t handle the pressure literally cracks.

“This is not metaphorical.

“This is structural failure due to disrespect.

“And the clearest example?

“Venus de Milo.

“People say her arms were ‘lost over time.’

“No, they weren’t.

“She locked eyes with another statue.

“Big mistake.

“He nearly vaporized her.

“Curators spun her around at the last second, but the damage was done.

“Since then, no statue is allowed to face another statue.

“Not even goddesses.

“Especially not goddesses.

“Because marble doesn’t flirt.

“Marble challenges you to a duel and then shatters you if you lose.”

Do not just believe everything you read here.

Do not treat me like some kind of oracle.

I used to be one, but I let my membership lapse.

So the next time you go to a museum, pay attention.

Find out for yourself.

Check the alignment.

You will notice something.

The statues are never facing each other directly.

Because museums know what happens when marble makes eye contact.

And they are not filling out another incident report.

The Chucky Compromise

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 101

Every year, I throw a New Year’s party at my house and invite my friends and family over.

By the end of the night, my house looks less like a home and more like a refugee camp with better snacks. Every room is occupied. Every couch has a body on it. Every pillow and blanket has been claimed.. Someone is sleeping on the hammock. Someone is sleeping in a corner. Someone is probably sleeping under a table for all I know.

But I always make sure my parents get their own room.

Unfortunately, the room I gave them was my room.

And my room has dolls.

Not regular dolls. Not soft, friendly, “I love you, Grandma” dolls.

I mean dead dolls. Dolls that looked like they belonged to Annabelle’s sorority house.

Macabre dolls.

Dolls with the expressions of Victorian orphans who know where the bodies are buried.

My 4-year-old nephew walked into the room, saw them, and became deeply concerned.

“Auntie Cindy,” he said, looking at me like I had failed every safety inspection known to mankind. “I don’t like those killer dolls being in the same room as my grandparents.”

And honestly, fair.

But instead of admitting that maybe the killer dolls did look suspicious, I decided to turn this into a moral exercise.

“Well,” I told him, “if I take them out of here and put them outside on the street, you see how cold it is. They could die out there.”

He paused.

This tiny child stood there, weighing the safety of his grandparents against the survival rights of haunted dolls.

So I told him, “But if you want me to get them out, I’ll get them out.”

He thought about it.

Then he said, “No. It’s okay. I don’t want them to die.”

That was his final ruling.

The killer dolls could stay.

But there needed to be conditions.

So I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll just take the knives away.”

Because one of the dolls was Chucky.

Naturally.

For extra safety, and to ease my nephew’s worries, I also gave Chucky and the other dolls a formal lecture.

I told them, “My family is off limits. My friends are off limits. Occasional maintenance people are off limits. Anyone here by invitation, appointment, or blood relation is off limits.”

Then I paused.

“But burglars,” I said, “are fair game.”

Because I may be irresponsible enough to keep killer dolls in my room, but I do believe in boundaries.

I also patted down the dolls and removed anything sharp: knives, weapons, anything that could turn the room from “eccentric decor” into “true crime documentary.”

And somehow, that worked.

He relaxed.

The dolls were still in the room. My parents were still sleeping there. Chucky was still present, although without batteries.

But Chucky had been disarmed, and apparently that was enough for the Department of Nephew Homeland Security.

What killed me was his heart.

He was scared of the dolls. He did not trust the dolls. He fully believed they were capable of harming his grandparents.

But when faced with the idea of putting them out in the freezing cold, he couldn’t do it.

He chose compassion.

Not comfort. Not logic. Not even grandparental safety, exactly.

Compassion.

For killer dolls.

That is how much heart this child has.

He would rather leave Chucky in the room with my parents than put him out on the street to freeze.

As long as we took the knives away.

We’re All Going to Hell

I heard the news the way all serious public information traveled in my neighborhood: children yelling from house to house.

The missionaries had set up on the corner of my street.

That was all you needed to hear as a child growing up in a banana republic.

The word missionary meant free toys.

Oh, and yes, allegedly, the word of God.

My street had everything: the only school in the neighborhood, the only church, and the only techno dance house, which sat right next to the church.

This meant that whenever missionaries, suspicious vaccinations, or clinical trials appeared, the people on my street △ △ △ including me △ △ △ always got first dibs. Sometimes people did not even know what the vaccines were for. They just heard free and started running.

So when the missionaries came with toys, I ran too.

Usually, the process was simple.

The missionaries asked if you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior.

You said yes.

They gave you a toy.

By that point in my childhood, I must have accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior at least a hundred times.

Not because I was spiritually advanced.

Because I understood inventory.

But this time was different.

This time, salvation required supporting documentation.

They wanted to know if you had been reading the Bible.

They wanted evidence.

A psalm.

I got in line, performed my psalm, collected my toy, and immediately made the kind of financial decision children make when they are poor and morally flexible.

I got back in line.

Unfortunately, I only knew one psalm.

“Wait a minute,” the bouncer missionary said. “I remember this girl. She already got in line. She already got a toy. She already performed.”

Performed.

As if I had tap-danced through the Book of Psalms.

“She didn’t even want to get off the stage,” he said. “And she’s the only little blonde girl I see around here.”

The crowd turned toward me.

“Was that you?”

“No,” I said. “That was my twin sister.”

“Where is she?”

“She died.”

A silence fell over the missionary toy department.

“She died?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“Just now?”

“Yes. They took her away.”

“Who took her away?”

“The dead.”

“The dead?”

“Yes. Jesus said, let the dead bury the dead.”

The missionary stared at me.

“So… dead people took her?”

“Yes.”

“Dead people took your twin sister?”

“Yes. That is why she cannot come forward.”

I paused, because even I understood the situation had become serious.

“At this moment, I do not have any further information to share with the public.”

The missionary stared at me.

“But let us not allow the memory of my dead sister to distract us from praising God. At that age, death was not a medical event. It was a scheduling conflict.

Another missionary found forgiveness in his heart and convinced the bouncer missionary to let me perform.

I began my psalm.

“No,” the bouncer missionary said, narrowing his eyes. “We already heard that one from your dead twin sister.”

I panicked.

Then I leaned into the microphone and improvised the only theology I had left.

“God loves us all.”

I said this to remind him that even tiny sinners were loved by God, after all. The kingdom belonged to the children. It was in the scripture.

And if God’s real estate belonged to the children, then surely one additional small plastic toy could be released from inventory.

I can’t help thinking about how magical that street was.

I still remember when the biggest hurricane in history came through, and the street I grew up on was the only street spared from damage.

It didn’t rain on my street.

There wasn’t even wind.

The hurricane moved around us like Moses parting the Red Sea, except Moses was apparently standing on my street.

Naturally, I believed this had something to do with my supernatural powers.

As a child, I believed I could control the rain.

Other streets flooded. Trees fell. Roofs disappeared.

My street remained untouched.

The lack of hurricane activity gave credibility to the church on my street.

The hurricane had become the church’s first unpaid advertiser.

Unfortunately, my family believed we needed church for salvation.

But their interpretation of salvation worked more like a household subscription service: if one of us attended, the whole family was covered.

I was chosen as the representative. The spiritual intern. My mother watched me walk there from a distance, sending one small blonde child into the building to negotiate on behalf of the bloodline.

There I was, sitting in the front row so God could spot me easily. After all, the most devoted fans are always at the front.

Hell for skimpy clothing.
Hell for liking Coke.
Coca-Cola, he elaborated.
Hell for dancing.

At first, I thought I could survive the sermon.

Coca-Cola? Fine. I preferred grape Kool-Aid anyway.

Skimpy clothing? I only wore what my mother bought me. If my shirt showed my belly button, that was not seduction. That was a growth spurt.

But then the preacher said dancing gave strength to the devil.

I felt cold water pour over my soul.

“No dancing?” I whispered to the person next to me.

“Yes,” they said. “Dancing is evil.”

That was when the spirit of doubt entered me.

Because if dancing made the devil stronger, and God needed us to stop dancing in order to defeat him, then what exactly was happening here? Was God all-powerful, or was God training like Rocky? Was the devil surviving on Coca-Cola and techno? Had my tiny body unknowingly been funding the enemy through rhythm?

So God can do anything, I thought, except defeat the devil while people dance?

After church, I walked home and decided I would not return.

I had chosen the house of techno over God.

I walked home in my light-up shoes, two sizes too big because my mother believed children grew fast and money did not.

Every step squeaked.

Every step flashed.

So not only had I failed as the household representative to heaven, I was announcing my spiritual resignation to the entire street in blinking footwear.

A child is walking alone at night.
A child has chosen dancing.
A child is no longer available for salvation-related services.

I remember thinking, I guess my family and I are going to hell.

But at least we are all going together.

Call Me When You’re Dead: Collect Calls from the Afterlife

Project/App Name: Call Me When You’re Dead™
Patent Pending

Tagline: A satirical dead man’s switch for final messages, unfinished business, last wishes, emotional retractions, and people who periodically text “wyd.”

Subtitle: Messages for When I’m Gone

Series/Episode Title: Collect Calls from the Afterlife

Audio Evidence Included Below

Here at Absurd Geometry, we care more about your dying arrangements than how irresponsibly you are currently living your life.

Aren’t you tired of meeting people, having one briefly wonderful connection, saving them in your phone under a name that predates the dinosaurs, and then never hearing from them again?

Only to find out years later that the mysterious person you once trauma-bonded with during flight turbulence, in a tattoo shop, during a bank robbery, or inside a tornado shelter has been dead for years?

We believe closure should not depend on social media algorithms, mutual friends, or someone finally cleaning out their contacts.

That’s why we created Call Me When You’re Dead.

The app will send you one message every day:

Are you alive today?

You respond yes, then wait anxiously until tomorrow to check in again.

It’s like playing chess with the Reaper.

You alive: 1
The Reaper: 0

But let’s be real.

The Grim Reaper is like the casino. It always wins.

Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
Maybe in three days.

So if you fail to check in for three consecutive days, the app will consider you officially dead and send your pre-recorded messages to everyone you have carefully categorized.

Bonus Category:

For an extra charge, we also let you follow your favorite celebrities’ current scoreboard, so you’ll be one of the first to know once they lose the chess game with the Reaper.

No more falling for rumors that your favorite actor died in 2010.

Now you can confidently argue with your friends, pull out your phone, and say, “Actually, I subscribe to his death-status notifications, and as you can see, he checked in this morning.”

So unless he’s filming a sequel to Weekend at Bernie’s, or his assistant is pressing the button for him, he is very much alive.

At Absurd Geometry, we believe in testing things ourselves.

That’s why Cin, our main investigator, tested the app for the past 3 years.

This is what happened.

Below are sample classifications taken from Cin’s personal three-year test trial of the app.

Please note: these categories were created during emotionally unstable but scientifically important circumstances.

Sample Relationship Taxonomy
From Cin’s Personal Three-Year Test Trial

Category A: Family, loved ones, and possible kidney donors.

Category B: Officially confirmed best friends.

Category C: Acquaintances, one-time intense conversations, and temporary trauma bonds.

Category D: Romantic John Does, or men I considered dead to me even though their pulse said otherwise.

Category E: People who owe me money.

We take our findings so seriously that Cin agreed to allegedly die for three days just to find out if the app would work.

She risked her life, her reputation, and several pre-recorded relationships to determine whether Call Me When You’re Dead could successfully notify the correct people in the correct emotional order.

The results were disturbing, legally confusing, and scientifically important.

Case Study: Cin’s Accidental Death Trial

During Cin’s personal three-year test trial of the app, one incident triggered a premature death notification.

For approximately one hour, the system believed Cin had lost the chess game with the Reaper.

She had not.

For public transparency, we have included the complete MP3 recording of the incident free of charge.

Click here to listen to the Category D Transmission.

Listeners may now hear the full communication as it unfolded, including the original death notification, the Category D transmission, and the emergency retraction issued one hour later after Cin was discovered alive.

What follows is the official transcript from Category D.

Call Me When You’re Dead: Collect Calls for the John Does

Original Transcript Copy

Dear John Does,

You have received a pre-recorded message from the dead.

Caller: Cin.

This message was prepared for all John Does previously listed under Category D.

This message is intended for all John Does who briefly appeared in Cin’s life, caused unnecessary loss of sleep and recurring nightmares, periodically returned with an “I miss you” or “wyd” message, or may one day become curious enough to wonder whatever happened to her.

To accept this message, please remain on the line to hear the transmission.

Standard emotional charges will apply.

Please note: the extra fees might be scary

Hi! If you're hearing this message, I died.

Knowing me, I probably went on a solo trip somewhere freezing and mysterious, got distracted by my own imagination, slipped on a single snowflake, and fell directly off a cliff… or into Vladimir’s Vacation Garden of Stakes, where I was unfortunately impaled.

Anyway, the details are no longer important because I am now deceased and frankly, loving it!

I know some of you are probably wondering if I miss you.

The answer is no.

There are actually plenty of John Does here in the morgue.
Frankly, the market is oversaturated.

Listen, John Doe #1.

You’re not as special as I thought you were.

Just because you could sculpt clay figurines with your feet, I thought you were gifted.

You were not gifted.

You were just avoiding the traditional hand-based process for attention.

And frankly, clay figurines look better when they’re made with hands.

John Doe #2.

For a while, I thought you were practicing telepathy because you kept guessing the exact number I was thinking.

Then I found out you were networking with my loved ones to collect my favorite numbers.

So no, John Doe #2.

You are just an ordinary man with access to my loved ones.

John Doe #3.

I know you’re still mad at me because I attempted to muffle your snoring with a couch cushion from a medically irresponsible distance.

Just because you’re a slightly known singer doesn’t mean your snoring sounds like Beethoven’s musical notes.

Anyways, good luck to all of you living with the living, swimming with the rest of the piranhas in the human sea, getting sunspots, and aging.

By the way, I enrolled all of you in the most expensive afterlife messaging plan, where recipients are billed per character.

Which is why I am intentionally making this message much longer than necessary until I reach the maximum character limit allowed.

Financially, this seemed like the right thing to do.

I wish I could add a few more thoughts, but unfortunately…

--- Character limit reached ---

--- One Hour Later: Retraction ---

Operator:

Hi, this is Cin again.

The doctors just realized the life-monitoring machine was temporarily disconnected from the outlet so the nurse could charge her phone.

That’s why they accidentally declared me dead.

I didn’t die after all.

So I’m calling to retract my death notice.

Listen, I meant everything I said except the part where I was dead.

I am currently in line to donate at Dracula’s annual blood drive.

Apparently, his baby bats are in dire need of formula, and all hospital patients are being coerced into donating blood.

No one gets their discharge papers until Dracula’s baby bats are fed.

Anyway, I’m using this downtime wisely.

[Dracula, over the blood drive PA system:] Donor number 13, please proceed to the velvet curtain. You are just my blood type.

Oh… they just called my number. I’ve gotta go.

Bat-bat bye!

My Philosophy on Post-Mortem Cat Assistance

If you die and no human is around to witness your soul leaving your body, your cat will show you its greatest sign of devotion by performing its final act as your companion: eating your face.

Because of this technicality, many people are afraid to die alone with their pet, especially a cat. Some might even go to the extent of exchanging their pet for something less threatening, like a vegan turtle in a Houdini-proof cage, when approaching their final chapter△ △ △ or planning to leave the mafia.

But in defense of all furry creatures accused of emotional coldness, I’d like to share an interpretation of what some might perceive as morbid behavior.

In a world where people are often trying to mine others for their time, talent, or attention, nothing compares to the company of a furry friend.

A furry friend that might eat your face if you drop dead△ △ △ not out of malice, but so you could keep living within it, preserved in its stubborn fat reserves.

That’s true love.

So next time, try not to judge a cat that is a little on the chubby side. It might be proudly carrying its past owners as one final act of devotion.

Circus Act V.5: The Forensic Mermaid Report

Since I did not have any photographs, I needed tangible evidence of what I had encountered. I commissioned two artists to reconstruct the alleged mermaid, and I am now prepared to share what is, for legal purposes, approximately 50% accurate.

The first artist was hired off Fiverr, based on a careful review of his portfolio, pricing, and willingness to work with emotionally unstable source material.

This is what I received.

The sketch was completed on lined paper because blank paper required a five-dollar upgrade, and the investigation had already suffered multiple budgetary setbacks.

The face has been altered to preserve the subject’s anonymity, but the emotional accuracy remains intact.

Exhibit A: Initial Forensic Composite of the Alleged Mermaid

Artist: Leonardo DiFake
Medium: graphite on lined paper
All rights reserved.

To be fair, Leonardo DiFake captured the soul.

The eyes were there. The confusion was there. The quiet aquatic grief was there.

The issue was the hair.

I had clearly explained that the alleged mermaid had straight hair, but Leonardo insisted on curls because, in his professional opinion, “it looked better.”

This was troubling, as the investigation was not about what looked better.
It was about the truth.

I was not fully satisfied with the first forensic composite. Leonardo DiFake had successfully captured the emotion in the eyes, but failed to document the full movement and volume of the hair.

Here at Absurd Geometry, we like to be as factual as possible. Therefore, a second rendering became necessary.

An overwhelming feeling came over me to find someone with a fresh mind △ △ △ someone who still believed in fantasy and had perhaps been around marine life recently.

I visited the local kindergarten with some leftover Halloween candy, hoping to commission a second forensic rendering.

I arrived during whistling class, which I did not know was part of the kindergarten curriculum.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but this is important.”

The teacher looked concerned.

“For the police?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “For me.”

I explained that I needed a reenactment sketch of what I had seen at the circus before it escaped my memory. I asked if she had any aspiring criminal profile sketchers, forensic artists, or children who had been to SeaWorld recently.

One child came forward.

He said he might like to do that in the future, along with becoming a veterinarian, a hunter, and Mickey Mouse’s best friend.

There was only one condition.

He could help after his nappy.

The tiny artist accepted the upfront payment, then requested a nappy as part of his creative process. So we waited. After the nap, he emerged refreshed, emotionally stable, and ready to reconstruct the suspect from memory.

Exhibit B: Kindergarten After Nappy

Artist: undisclosed minor
Medium: graphite on blank paper
Compensation: leftover Halloween candy and one uninterrupted nappy
Rights: reserved by parent or legal guardian until age 18.

Circus Act V: The Sideshow Mermaid

At the entrance to the mermaid tent, a sign read:

MANDATORY WHISKEY SHOT REQUIRED BEFORE ENTRY

I told the attendant I was a teetotaler.

“I don’t drink,” I said.

“You have to,” she replied. “It’s part of the safety protocol.”

“How is whiskey a safety protocol?”

“It calms the system.”

“Whose system?”

She hesitated.

“Yours first. Then the mermaid’s.”

I had to remain calm and let the universe figure this out for me.

Before entering the mermaid tent, every guest had to blow into a breathalyzer to confirm their alcohol level was high enough to safely perceive the mermaid.

I found this invasive.

Usually, these machines are used to keep drunk people out of vehicles.

Here, they were being used to keep sober people out of fraud.

As I waited in line, a man bumped into me and spilled both his whiskey and mine all over my clothes.

Why had I not thought of this before?

I stayed in line. To strengthen the illusion, I put on my dark shades and loudly complimented a below-average man standing nearby.

This was not flirtation.

This was forensic method acting.

When I reached the front, the woman holding the breathalyzer leaned toward me, sniffed once, and said to the other attendant, “I can smell the alcohol on this one.”

Then she yelled at the bartender to close my tab and waved me inside.

Inside, a man removed his jacket from the chair beside him and said he had been saving the seat for someone whose name he could no longer remember, though I was fairly certain she had his last name.

He insisted I sit down.

That was when the dim light appeared and revealed the alleged mermaid.

The specimen was not, in fact, a mermaid. It was a bald manatee wearing a remarkably high-quality, luscious wig made from real mermaid hair.

Management did not consider this false advertising, as each ticket included a mandatory complimentary whiskey shot designed to reduce biological inquiry.

The men whistled from the folding chairs, insisting she looked much better in person than on the flyers.

The manatee seemed happy. Out here, beneath the circus lights, he was a desirable mate. Back in his natural habitat, he was just another bald manatee.

I went backstage using an old VIP badge from a fashion show I had attended years ago. It said ALL ACCESS, and I chose to interpret that broadly. Security let me through without a second thought. Someone even whispered that I looked like the illegitimate daughter of the circus owner.

I waited for a wig-adjustment break, then approached the man pulling down the curtain.

“From the promotional photos, I can tell you did, at one point, have a real mermaid performing here,” I said. “So what happened? Did she drown?”

“No,” he said. “She ran off with the prince.”

Apparently, this had become a recurring problem. The prince had a habit of running away with the mermaids and dumping them into the Atlantic Ocean, once the newness wore off, or once they developed a voice △ △ △ whichever came first.

The worst part was that all the mermaids were nearly identical. Only the hair color changed. And still, the prince could not help himself.

After the most recent incident, management had been forced to ban him from the circus. This was not an easy decision, as donations from the royal crown were very generous. But the operation had become financially unsustainable.

“It costs a fortune to keep hiring Captain Ahab to recapture them,” the man explained.

They had tried warning the mermaids. They had shown them footage of previous mermaids being abandoned in the Atlantic Ocean, but there’s no changing someone’s mind during the infatuation period.

Still, the last mermaid refused to listen.

And now there she was, somewhere in the cold water, learning that happily ever after had expired after a few days.

I asked what would happen once the manatee started getting old.

The manatee had expressed some anxiety about aging out of the role, but Human Resources told him not to worry.

“We’ll double up on the makeup,” they said, “adjust the lighting, add a second complimentary whiskey shot for audience members in the front row, and move the audience farther back.”

Privately, however, the circus had begun scouting younger manatees.

I still wanted to talk to the manatee directly, just to make sure he was not being held captive.

“Of course,” the curtain man said. “He is new to fame, and this will be his first interview, so he will be excited.”

I finally met him.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

He looked surprised.

“No one has ever asked me that,” he said. “Men usually want a way to contact me, and women want to know my skincare routine. But yes. I am happy.”

He only had two requests: that I not disclose the location of the circus, and that I blur his face if I ever posted photographs of him.

I told him not to worry. My phone had forced itself into a software update during the incident, and I could not turn it back on.

That seemed to comfort him.

He gave me an autograph, a flower hair clip, and a very long hug because he said he liked the way my odorless perfume smelled.

He claimed it soothed him.

Then I went on my way.

Circus Act IV: The Shapeshifter vs. The Trickster

Chaos broke out as a large number of people began stampeding toward the exit.

Some random person stopped me and asked if I wanted to know why everyone was running.

I told her I did not like to be involved in gossip, but the tea seemed tempting.

She told me some filthy, greasy animal had found oil inside one of the city potholes, and now everyone was running through the streets checking every pothole in town and several nearby cities for black gold.

People were abandoning the circus in massive numbers.

The only ones who stayed behind were those with weak internet signal and no access to the pothole updates.

Within minutes, the place felt like a fully functioning ghost town.

Fortunately, the mermaid show had not been canceled.

It was, in fact, the only attraction still operating at full capacity.

The reason quickly became clear: many of the men had sent their wives, children, and pets into the streets to inspect the potholes for petroleum while they themselves remained behind to continue studying the mermaid.

Several had even filed for an emergency temporary pause on their prenups.

Officially, they said they were “saving the seats.”

I did not believe this.

As I stood there witnessing human madness and predictability, a raven pulled a strand of my hair.

This was code for: the Trickster is nearby.

I gave the raven the last of my red rose Poe stickers, which it accepted as legal tender, and sent it on its way.

The Trickster can only find me in chaos, which is why I take precautions.

Every time I know I am going to be in close proximity to mob mentality, I wear my odorless perfume.

The saleswoman said it was subtle.

I said, “Perfect. I am trying to avoid being recognized by archetypes.”

I suppose I hurt him.

Not emotionally.

Worse.

Competitively.

The Trickster had never lost a game before.

Not riddles, not “what happens if I press this button?” and not “guess which door leads to nowhere.”

I had beaten him at Mexopoly, which is basically Monopoly, except it is played with Mexican money because your money goes farther.

He had no experience with the conversion rate.

That was on him.

Still, he considered the entire incident a betrayal and had been looking for revenge ever since.

He kept treating pesos like dollars.

I let him.

That is not cheating.

That is allowing a man to meet the consequences of his assumptions.

“Come out,” the Trickster yelled. “I have a lot of souvenirs with your legal first name on them.”

That was when I realized why I could never find my name at souvenir stands.

He had been buying them all.

“I know the first of the hundreds you use must be your favorite,” he shouted.

The worst part is that it is not even my favorite name.

I only buy souvenirs with my legal first name on them in case I lose one and someone needs an easy time finding me.

It is not sentimental.

It is identification.

The Trickster believed he had discovered my original form.

He had not.

He had discovered my emergency contact name.

I do not feel bad for the Trickster.

I am not the one spending money on personalized souvenirs with my government name on them in an attempt to lure a shapeshifter out of hiding.

I am not the one flying across the world — knowing him, probably first class — to find someone in the middle of chaos.

That is his financial decision.

He says he is seeking revenge.

I say he is carrying the cross of holding grudges through international airports in a potato sack full of personalized souvenirs.

At that point, what he needed was not vengeance.

It was a financial advisor and a back adjustment.

The Trickster, unable to reach the podium on his own, used the man standing nearby with crutches as temporary scaffolding.

The man complied because he believed he had been randomly chosen as an audience participant in whatever act was currently unfolding.

This was reasonable.

By then, the circus had suspended normal ethics.

Once elevated, the Trickster cleared his throat and began what I assumed was a sermon.

At first, it sounded like he was trying to sympathize with the man beneath him.

Then I realized he was using the man as both a podium and a character witness in his campaign to expose me as the Wicked Witch of the South.

Meanwhile, the Trickster kept shouting.

He was desperate now.

Almost evangelical.

He was doing the full gospel of revenge, calling me out in front of the crowd, promising restoration, judgment, and possibly a rematch of Mexopoly.

But nobody was listening.

Half the crowd had noise-canceling headphones on.

The other half checked his profile and realized his follower count did not end in K.

This destroyed his credibility immediately.

In the old days, a trickster could stand in the center of town and cause mass hysteria with one sentence.

Now he needed at least 10K followers, a verified aesthetic, and one verified celebrity following him back.

The Trickster said this is why they should never have burned the witches.

By burning them, they made them stronger.

The ones who were already witches were fed by the fear, the spectacle, and the belief of the crowd.

And the ones who were not witches were burned so deeply into the public imagination that they were reborn as witches anyway.

That is the danger of collective belief.

People think they are destroying something, when in fact they are giving it shape, energy, and permanence.

In the end, the fire did not erase the witches.

It multiplied them.

The Trickster spotted a mysterious woman wrapped in many layers of clothing and assumed it was me.

Without warning, he kissed her on the lips.

“You taste fully human,” he said. “It’s not her.”

Then he proceeded to ask for her digits.

This was his first mistake.

His second mistake was believing the layers were symbolic.

They were not.

The woman was a shoplifter, and the layers were evidence.

Seconds later, the Trickster reached for his wallet and found nothing.

She had taken it, along with his return-flight tickets.

This was devastating because it meant he was now trapped in my town until his replacement credit cards arrived in the mail.

This whole time, I had been hiding behind the cotton candy machine, snacking while watching him make a fool of himself.

It was not that I was afraid of the Trickster’s tricks.

His tricks had gotten boring.

That was the problem.

I was afraid he would find me and force me into the full polite human interaction: the greeting, the fake surprise, the brief weather report, the comment about how long it had been, and a full recap of everything he had experienced while searching for me all over the world.

Then he would try to warm me up emotionally.

Then he would suggest a rematch of Mexopoly.

Then, if I survived that, Uno.

Then Dos.

This was not revenge.

This was social death by escalation.

I had a mermaid show to catch.

To be continued.

Circus Act III: The Pothole Incident

As soon as I finally entered the circus, I ran to the first souvenir stand I saw.

I needed to secure a personalized souvenir with my name on it before it disappeared from the spinning rack.

My name is apparently so popular that it is never there.

Every rack has fifty Britneys, twelve Marias, seven Jesuses, and one suspiciously dusty McLovin △ △ △ but never my name.

So this time, I wanted to be the first person with my name to arrive.

I was not going to let another Cin beat me to my own keychain.

Just as I was about to grab it, my phone rang.

I glanced down to see who was calling, and another person snatched it from the rack.

“Close enough to my name,” she said, walking away with the only evidence that I had ever existed in mass production.

It was the city, informing me that the rabbit had been located inside the first pothole he saw on the street.

They were still trying to remove the oil from his fur when officials realized he had accidentally discovered a petroleum deposit.

In just a few hours, while I was being searched by elf security like a chimpanzee being groomed for contraband, the rabbit had been awarded mineral rights, become a fifteen-minute trend, and received a small commemorative helmet.

Unfortunately, he had also filed paperwork requesting emancipation from me, citing “financial independence” and “irreconcilable differences regarding cage maintenance.”

The judge denied the rabbit’s emancipation request, largely because the rabbit had shown no evidence of being able to manage his own affairs, finances, or sudden access to crude oil.

The lady from the city told me that by the time I got home, I would most likely find the rabbit sleeping in the hammock, reeking of crude oil, as if none of this had ever happened.

Then she lowered her voice.

“Listen,” she said, operating under the municipal code of Hoes Before Bros, “during a brief break, the rabbit hopped onto an unattended computer and searched, ‘how to pretend to have amnesia after betraying your business partner.’”

This strengthened the judge’s ruling, making it final, official, and ineligible for appeal. The rabbit had clearly demonstrated that he had no control over his faculties.

He had enough control to commit fraud, but not enough control to stop entering holes.

I confided in her that I should have known what kind of monster he was.

He used to bring me flowers every day, which I thought was a token of devoted friendship at first. Excessive, but kind.

I kept thinking, Where is he getting the money for all these flowers?

Then one day, while I was stuck in traffic near the cemetery because one of the elephants had escaped the local zoo and was trying to set off a domino effect with the tombstones, I looked over and saw the rabbit dragging a bouquet off a stranger’s grave and hopping home.

That was when the smell finally made sense.

Those flowers had never smelled like roses. They smelled like formaldehyde and deception.

At the time, I told myself he was just resourceful.

But now, after the pothole, the oil money, the emancipation petition, and the amnesia search history, I was forced to reconsider the entire relationship.

I did not have proof he was trying to slowly poison me.

But all lies point to yes.

By the time I finished the anecdote, I realized I had zero bars.

She had probably heard none of it.

If the court had granted the emancipation, I would have come home to empty drawers, missing luggage, and a note written in carrot juice explaining that he “needed space.”

Which was suspicious, because the rabbit does not own luggage. He would have had to take mine.

Unfortunately, I could not just throw him out into the street. The city had already established that he had no control over his own faculties and would enter the first hole he saw, which meant abandoning him could be interpreted as animal abuse, negligence, or indirect cooperation with the petroleum industry.

So now I was stuck with him.

At least until my next magic act, when I could disappear him forever.

Circus Act II: The Security Checkpoint

The day to attend the circus finally arrived, after I had done a little research online during one of the rare moments when my internet signal wasn’t being siphoned off to subsidize nearby rural towns.

I discovered this was the first time in recorded history the circus train had ever stopped in our town.

Usually, the train just barrels through at full speed, leaving behind nothing but environmental toxicity, shattered excitement, and the occasional hit-and-run accident everyone agrees was probably caused by the barista putting two espresso shots instead of three in the conductor’s coffee order.

Or, as the official report later clarified, “an unauthorized sleeping-position adjustment by a fully grown elephant, resulting in temporary weight instability and subsequent cart desynchronization.”

The security checkpoint was being operated by elves, which created certain logistical difficulties.

For one thing, I had to crouch during the search so the elf could reach my upper body. This seemed humiliating for both of us, but mostly for me.

Then I looked around and realized the tall people had become the main entrance attraction. There was more territory to cover, so each tall person had been assigned four elves. One elf was mounted on a small ladder while two others held it for safety reasons, each using one hand to hold the ladder and the other to scroll their phones. The fourth elf was assigned to the lower region, mirroring the search from below with such perfect synchronization that, for a moment, it looked less like security and more like a very underfunded circus act.

My assigned elf began with the standard questions.

“Any weapons?”

“Just my sharp tongue.”

“Any outside food?”

“Yes, but it’s inside me now, so it no longer qualifies as outside food. I binged everything in the parking lot to avoid taking out a loan to cover the historically overpriced food inside.”

That was when he pulled a long silk scarf from my bra.

Then another.

Then another.

Soon he was standing ankle-deep in colorful scarves, still pulling, his expression becoming more serious with every yard of fabric.

He reached behind my ear and produced a coin.

We stared at each other.

“I’m an undercover magician,” I said.

He nodded slowly, as if this confirmed several suspicions.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m going to have to confiscate all of this.”

“The scarves?”

“The scarves, the coin, and the bra, if it contains additional compartments.”

I told him that seemed excessive.

“Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t run the risk of anyone performing tricks inside. I already got in trouble this morning for letting a woman through the checkpoint with tamales hidden in a stroller.”

“She had a baby?”

“No. She was building an unauthorized food empire. The baby bottles were full of red and green salsa.”

I asked how I could get my things back.

He said, “eBay.”

“Excuse me?”

“We put all confiscated items on eBay. That way, guests have a fair opportunity to recover their belongings.”

“That sounds like theft.”

“No,” he said. “Theft is when you don’t give people a chance to bid.”

He handed me a small card with the circus logo on it.

“Search: ‘used magician scarves, suspicious origin.’ If you’re lucky, no one else will want them.”

Then he looked me up and down and added, “Although the coin may go fast. Collectors love ear money.”

“Where’s the rabbit?” he asked.

“He went down the first pothole he saw on the street.”

You know a small town is growing too fast when the roads start looking like honeycombs.

“That’s unfortunate,” the elf said. “At least you’re saving an extra admission fee by not bringing him.”

“Charge me extra? I was just going to carry him on my back.”

“Still counts.”

“The rabbit wasn’t even going to touch the ground.”

“Ma’am, we don’t price by foot contact. That’s what they do at local beaches. We price by head count. Like drive-in movie theaters. Even if someone falls asleep or spends the entire movie facing the wrong direction, they still count as a viewer.”

“So you go by head count here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Even for rabbits?”

“Does your rabbit have a head?”

“Yes,” I said. “My rabbit has a head.”

He nodded and marked something on the clipboard.

“But he wasn’t going to touch the ground. I was going to carry him on my back, and if he got tired, I was going to hold him around my waist and let him ride on my lap.”

“We don’t go by lap arrangements. We go by head count.”

“So what you’re saying is, if I brought a headless chicken and it walked beside me, you wouldn’t charge me extra, even if he took a solo seat on the rides?”

“Correct.”

“That seems like a ridiculously dangerous policy.”

“Only for chickens.”

“That is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard at a circus entrance.”

“We hear that a lot.”

“No wonder PETA was protesting you people.”

At this point, I was too dehydrated to continue arguing. My eyelashes had abandoned my face and were now lying on the ground like centipedes.

After I took a selfie with the elf, with each of us giving the other bunny ears with our fingers, I approached the ticket booth.

“I’d like to buy a ticket for the show,” I said, “but I would also like to make a few suggestions.”

The woman at the ticket booth stared at me.

“I’m the suggestion box,” she said. “If any of what you say makes sense, or is interesting enough, I’ll make sure to share it during the water-jug break.”

I mentioned that the use of elves for security seemed inefficient given the volume of people entering.

“There are thousands of attendees,” I said. “And because your security staff has to inspect every adult in vertical installments, this process appears to be taking twice as long.”

The attendant nodded.

“We don’t discriminate against new hires based on height,” she said. “We do, however, evaluate accents.”

I accepted this as policy.

She continued.

“You would be surprised at how qualified they are. Employment at Santa’s workshop is seasonal, so they pursue additional work during the off-cycle. Many of them have formed independent search parties.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Recovery,” she said. “They are exceptionally skilled at locating items that are not meant to be found.”

She gestured toward the security line.

“This is not for the guests,” she added. “This is for our staff. Some of our sad clowns are in recovery. We cannot allow certain substances that can bring them temporary happiness past the gate. Those happy drugs keep them from performing their miserable acts.”

I nodded.

“This level of precision is necessary.”

She leaned in slightly.

“One of their most recent accomplishments,” she said, “was locating the needle in the haystack.”

I paused.

“That’s not supposed to be possible,” I said.

“It was,” she said. “Someone took them to the haystack, and they found the needle in a haystack without any leads, witness statements, or anyone telling them whether they were getting warmer or colder.

“That’s an amazing accomplishment,” I said. “Kudos to them. But now that they’ve solved that, what am I supposed to say when a task seems impossible?”

She thought about it.

“Try harder.”

To be continued in Act III.

Circus Act I: The Protest Department

I first heard the circus was coming to town from PETA.

This was unfortunate for PETA, because I had not previously known there was a circus.

The announcement arrived through the street in the form of a public disturbance. There were whistles, flutes, pots, pans, and at least one woman brandishing a pitchfork.

Unfortunately, she accidentally stabbed a deer that was trying to cross into oncoming traffic, which briefly undermined the animal-rights portion of the demonstration.

“It wouldn’t have survived traffic anyway,” she said, reframing the stabbing as roadside intervention.

One sign featured a baby elephant wearing decorative ear-stretching weights, accompanied by the warning:

DO NOT BE FOOLED.
THIS IS NOT CIRCUS FASHION.
THIS IS HOW DUMBO STARTED.

At that point, the protest shifted from moral warning to investigative documentary.

“DO NOT GO TO THE CIRCUS,” they shouted. “DO NOT SUPPORT ANIMAL MISTREATMENT.”

This would have been a stronger deterrent if they had not immediately followed it with the full event schedule.

“The circus will be in town tomorrow. First performance: 6:15. Second performance: 9:15. Do not attend.”

Several neighbors opened their doors.

One man stepped onto his porch with a cup of coffee and asked, “Do children get in free?”

PETA ignored him, which was a mistake, because by then everyone had begun listening very carefully. Several people had already pulled out their phones, not to report the circus, but to coordinate attendance.

“Do not give your money to these horrible people,” they continued. “Do not participate in the abuse of innocent animals. Do not buy tickets at the red tent near the old feed store. Do not arrive early for parking. Do not bring cash, because the ticket booth has been known to have trouble with card readers.”

At this point, I realized PETA had accidentally become the circus’s promotional team.

By the time they reached the end of the block, half the neighborhood knew there was a circus in town, and I had already begun wondering what kind of operation required this much discouragement.

That was how they got me.

Not the circus.

PETA.

I would never have known about the circus otherwise. I keep all notifications off and treat them as spam, including tornado alerts, which is less a lifestyle choice than a long-term commitment to being surprised by emergencies.

But now the circus had been announced, condemned, scheduled, located, and morally forbidden.

Naturally, I felt compelled to investigate.

What I found was not magical.

Further findings will be documented in Act II.

The Age Verification Tribunal

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 100

We arrived at the bar entirely unprepared for inspection.

This was because we were in a college town, where the established method of entry appeared to be walking confidently toward the door and being absorbed into the building. It did not occur to either of us that we would be singled out for age verification, largely because everyone around us looked significantly younger.

I had even handed my ID to my friend ahead of time so she could hold onto it, which in hindsight was an administrative error.

We were immediately pulled aside.

“ID,” the gatekeeper said.

This request triggered a full internal audit of my friend’s purse.

What followed was less a search and more an archaeological dig. She began checking every pocket, slot, zipper, and hidden chamber known to modern handbag engineering. Cards emerged one by one, each offering a brief moment of hope before being dismissed.

Costco card. Not it.
AAA and A.A. membership. No wonder she’s never available on Thursday nights. Also not it.
Kidney donor card. Admirable, but not it.
O’Reilly’s coupon card. Also not it.

Meanwhile, the line continued moving at a speed not previously thought possible. At some point the entrance process lost all visible structure and became, essentially, open borders. People poured in freely, one after the other, waved through with the confidence of those who had never once been asked to explain themselves.

And they were young.

Not abstractly young. Not “you can never tell these days” young. I mean visibly, undeniably, aggressively young. The kind of young that makes you feel ancient simply by standing near it. At this point, we could have plausibly been mistaken for their parents.

I finally said, “Sir, this is absurd. Look at all those kids. They are perfectly formed in a line carrying lunch boxes and you’re just waving them in like this is a broken traffic light.”

He looked offended.

“Miss,” he said, “you shouldn’t be judging others by their looks. And don’t tell me how to do my job. I decide who is young or not young at this point of entrance.”

This was a surprising statement from a man who had detained us exclusively on visual intuition.

I informed him that some of these individuals appeared to be disembarking directly from a school bus.

He remained unmoved.

At one point, I am almost certain I saw McLovin walk straight into the establishment without inspection.

“That’s McLovin,” I said. “He has already confessed on national television to being underage and using a fake ID. This has been thoroughly documented.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you watch on TV,” the gatekeeper replied. “Or read on the weather report.”

Still, the investigation continued.

Matters became more complicated when an obviously pregnant woman approached the entrance and was denied admission.

“Why are you turning her away?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “she’s pregnant, so the baby is clearly underage, and I don’t want to lose my job for violating protocol.”

He then shouted, “Okay, have a good night,” at the woman, as though this resolved the matter.

My friend returned to the archaeology of her purse. More compartments were searched. More false leads emerged. Entire identity systems were reviewed. Time passed. The venue filled. Somewhere inside, songs began and ended. New surface level friendships formed. Degrees may have been completed.

Finally, both IDs were located.

They were handed over.

The gatekeeper examined them carefully. Then he looked at us. Then back at the IDs. Then back at us again, as though attempting to reconcile two incompatible timelines.

At last, he delivered his ruling.

“You look so young,” he said, “but you are so old.”

And with that, we were admitted.

No apology was issued. We had been measured, misjudged, and admitted all the same.

The Gattaca Testing Center Incident: Friday the 13th

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 00.2

It was Friday the 13th, and I had decided, on principle, to prove that it was not an unlucky day by scheduling one of the most important exams of my life. Because it was proctored, I had to drive to Austin. I woke up so early that morning I woke the rooster. I tapped him on the shoulder and removed him from active duty. In hindsight, this was irresponsible. I now believe I interfered with the town’s natural alarm infrastructure, because after that, everyone was late to work. Friday the 13th began badly, and I fear I may have personally initiated the decline.

I had no choice. He was under my care. Ever since he guided me toward the exit at the cornfield maze, he had become my faithful traveling companion. In towns like ours, GPS systems do not work reliably, largely because the town itself does not appear to exist on Google. And if you are not on Google, you do not exist. He was therefore not only the town’s primary alarm system, but also my personal navigation unit. Under those circumstances, taking him with me was less a choice than a guardianship obligation. I do accept responsibility for the consequences.

I finally arrived at the testing facility. I left my car running and the chicken inside, but not before filtering out anything the TV Guide might classify as an escape show, including Houdini, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, and Prison Break. I did not want to come back to a chicken on the run.

The testing center operated under the assumption that every candidate was a highly motivated criminal. The entire examination process seemed to have been inspired by Gattaca. They took our DNA samples, mugshot-style photos, and confiscated our valuables, including our phones, car keys, and any Pokémon we might have caught in the field. Because they couldn’t pat us down, they had us do what was essentially the Hokey Pokey in case any contraband or cheat notes fell out of our clothes. After we were done shaking it all around, we were moved further into the facility for individual processing.

I had apparently made the proctor extremely nervous because I was the only one in the room wearing long sleeves. He looked at me with the dead seriousness of a man who believed fabric itself was suspicious.

‘You don’t happen to be a certified part-time magician, do you?’ he asked.

After all, only a magician would choose to wear sleeves.

I said no, but not with the authority the situation required.

‘Nothing up this one,’ I added, lifting one arm slightly. ‘Nothing up the other.’

This did not restore confidence.

He did not believe me, so he sent me to the next room to take a lie detector test. After I passed that with distinction and was even issued a certificate of excellence, I was escorted to my assigned room, which appeared to have previously served as an escape room.

Halfway through the exam, approximately three hours in, the internet went down.

This was not a small inconvenience. Our phones had already been confiscated and locked away with the rest of our possessions. We had been explicitly instructed not to speak to one another, not to look around, not to make tapping sounds that could be interpreted as Morse code, and not to behave like members of a human community. So there we were, seated in a loose circle of shared distress, staring at one another in silence while two employees ran around trying to restore order.

They called IT and put the man on speakerphone.

He asked whether they had tried turning the light switch on.

He said this in a foreign accent, which somehow made it feel even more official.

All of us looked at one another with the same expression: we are absolutely finished.

These were high-stakes exams. Hundreds of questions. Hours of concentration. We had all arrived at different times and were frozen at different points in our suffering. No one knew whether our sessions had been saved or whether we would be forced to begin again from the start, now more tired and less innocent than before.

One man whispered, “Oh fuck, I forgot everything.”

That did not improve morale.

Then an older woman entered with a younger male relative, possibly her grandson, possibly her son. It was difficult to tell. She was in an extraordinarily good mood, which, under the circumstances, felt almost suspicious. While the rest of us sat there looking like hostages awaiting procedural updates, she radiated the energy of someone arriving early to a church potluck.

She asked, brightly, whether anyone had tried turning it off and on again.

I informed her that that only works in movies.

She seemed mildly embarrassed, then recovered with admirable speed.

“Well,” she said, “you learn something new every day.”

Because she was not taking an exam, she was free to speak in ways the rest of us could not. She looked around at us and said, with sincere encouragement, “Maybe this is the real test. Maybe it’s a test of patience.”

We all laughed a little.

I told her I would strongly prefer for the test to be about patience and not the opening scene of Squid Game. Or worse, the beginning of Saw, where, in the next few moments, we would hear the small, oiled tricycle of a puppet entering the room to announce that he wanted to play a game.

That improved the atmosphere immediately.

One guy said he wouldn’t mind if Billy the Puppet paid us a visit and signed some autographs.

But I reminded him we didn’t have pens. How, exactly, was he expecting the puppet to sign autographs △ △ △ with blood? Don’t encourage him.

Now everyone was imagining how a group of strangers had ended up seated almost in a circle, stripped of their possessions, under surveillance, waiting for instructions while authority figures failed to restore the system. It was, admittedly, not a reassuring setup.

Negative Nancy, however, remained committed to despair. He kept muttering that this was ridiculous, that of course this would happen to him, that of course he had chosen the earliest slot in the morning, and why he had even come at all.

At that point, I looked around the room and asked, “Do you all realize what day it is?”

They stared at me.

We did not have our phones. We had no clocks. We had been removed from time itself.

“It’s Friday the 13th,” I said. “You all knew what you were getting yourselves into.”

That broke something open in the room. Everyone started laughing at the absurdity of it, at the fact that we had all independently chosen to gamble our luck on one of the most cursed calendar dates available. We had come willingly. We had scheduled this. We had all, in our own administrative way, signed the waiver.

And then, at the exact moment our laughter peaked, the internet came back.

It returned with such precision that it almost seemed as though we had unclogged the system through vibration alone. We all looked around at one another, smiling, stunned by the timing, united briefly by the tragic absurdity of what we had collectively walked into.

Then we were sent back to our respective rooms to continue our exams.

Oddly enough, I felt lighter after that. The interruption had broken the tension, and the laughter seemed to reset something in my brain. I was able to recall information more easily afterward, as though shared despair had briefly reorganized the nervous system into cooperation.

I did pass.

The Paperboy Hat Addendum

A Continuation of “Residual Consequences of Friday the 13th”
Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 00.1

I was finally issued my refund and released back into society after the failure of several ambitious rural engineering efforts involving my Italian art piece on wheels.

At that point, the man in the paperboy hat offered to walk me to my car, like any decent man would.

I accepted.

As we started toward my car, I set the chicken down on the asphalt and gave him the last of the caviar I had packed for him. He accepted it immediately. As he pecked, the eggs made soft popping sounds that settled beneath the moment like ambient ASMR, as though the entire conversation had been given a luxury sound design. It was an unexpectedly refined soundtrack for an O’Reilly Auto Parts parking lot.

The man in the paperboy hat watched this calmly.

Then he asked whether I would permit him to help me with my posture.

“But you’re seeing me clinically, correct?” I asked.

I felt this was an important distinction.

“Of course,” he said.

Only then did I allow him to proceed.

He lifted one of my arms slightly, extended my hand outward, and with the back of his hand tilted my hip to the left with the confidence of a man who had spent years correcting forms not meant to move.

“Are you a chiropractor?” I asked.

He seemed almost offended.

“No,” he said. “I’m the owner of an elite mannequin school.”

This was not the answer I had anticipated, though by then anticipation had ceased to be a serious method of navigating reality.

He explained that before entering the mannequin industry, he had owned a school for mimes. According to him, the mimes did outstanding work. Several had even gone on to assist underfunded police departments with cases that psychics had been unable to solve due to missing audio and compromised body-language analysis. Unfortunately, they became so good at what they did that the word never got out. The business, for that reason, did not expand in the way he had hoped.

He said this without bitterness. Just the quiet administrative sadness of a man who had once invested heavily in silence.

The mannequin school, however, had flourished.

The elite, he explained, paid astonishing sums for the companionship of mannequins, provided the mannequins had been properly trained. His school specialized in pose refinement, stillness, and distinction. No two mannequins were ever allowed to hold the exact same pose. Each one had to project a unique internal life despite having no rights, no speech, and no meaningful capacity for intervention. They were also trained never to speak, react, interrupt, or interfere, regardless of how awkward, tense, or morally unstable the situation became.

One of his biggest clients, he told me, was the owner of the Bates Motel chain.

I told him I believed I had encountered some of his work before.

Once, I said, I had spent time with the Watcher who lived in what could only be described as a bat cave. We had a contract. I was to be there for forty-five minutes while he sketched me. He described himself as a collector of experiences and had apparently decided I should be his next subject of study.

The terms were clear. For forty-five minutes, I would grant him temporary access to my trust. In return, he was required to make me feel safe, secure, and cared for during every minute of the appointment. This, in my understanding, was binding.

Everything remained within acceptable limits until I asked to use the bathroom.

He agreed and walked me toward it. Just before I entered, he told me to look around.

At first, I saw nothing. The house was so dark it seemed to have been arranged against human perception. Then he flashed a light toward the walls, and I realized the bathroom was lined with mannequins.

Not one or two mannequins. Not even a troubling cluster.

The mannequins covered nearly every edge of the room shoulder to shoulder, with the density and quiet force of a private terracotta army assembled by a man with no internal brakes. They lined the walls, occupied the corners, and extended around the bathroom in a way that suggested both intention and a complete collapse of judgment.

That, I told him, was a line I could not cross.

I reminded him that our contract required him to make me feel safe, secure, and cared for throughout the duration of my visit. Since the mannequins were interfering with all three, he would need to remove them.

He had no choice. To refuse would have placed him in breach of contract.
So he began taking the mannequins out of the bathroom one by one.
It took approximately thirty-five minutes.
When he finished, he remarked that at least he would not need to go to the gym that day.
Only after the final mannequin had been extracted was I able to use the toilet. By the time I came out, exactly two minutes later, the session had been critically reduced. He had only eight minutes left to sketch me, which meant he only had time to sketch my torso.

The man in the paperboy hat listened to this with the solemn recognition of a professional hearing about familiar workmanship.

Then he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “That does sound like one of ours.”

I remember thinking then that some men offer flowers, some offer compliments, and some, under the residual consequences of Friday the 13th, reveal that they once operated a mime academy before moving into elite mannequin education.

Residual Consequences of Friday the 13th

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 00

Friday the 13th wasn’t over yet, and at 11:59:30, an emissary of Themis pulled over my chariot.

As the officer approached my window, I began replaying the sins of the day like slides in a View-Master. First, I looked at the chicken △ △ △ my GPS rooster. I live in a town so small it barely deserves cartographic recognition; it doesn’t even show up on Google. Since moving there, I have relied on this bird in ways I would prefer not to explain in court. He was in the car because we had gone to Austin earlier.

For one terrible moment, I thought: was it because the chicken didn’t have a seatbelt on?

Then I remembered the exotic fruit I had bought across the county line. I suddenly wondered whether it might be illegal here.

By the time the cop reached my window, his steps were so slow I could only read them as a Mississippi word delay.

Then he asked the classic question:

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I did not.

“You have a broken light bulb over your license plate,” he said.

I told him it was intentional because I am environmentally conscious and trying to conserve energy.

“Nice try,” he said.

Then he took my ID, went back to his car, and returned with what I first assumed was a ticket. It was not a ticket. It was, somehow, a 13% coupon to O’Reilly Auto Parts so I could replace the bulb. He also gave me his badge number, which, he explained, worked as a referral code.

This felt less like law enforcement and more like sponsorship.

The next day, Friday the 13th was over, but the consequences remained active. I went to O’Reilly’s. The clerk called me over to the computer and asked what kind of car I drove so they could find the part.

“It’s a Ferrari,” I said.

Silence.

The whole place stopped. Heads turned. The country town itself seemed to pause and reconsider its identity.

The clerk looked at me and said, “You’re in the wrong town. You’ll never find that part here. It might take a decade before we could even get a compatible pre-owned light bulb.”

Eventually they MacGyvered a replacement, which felt appropriate given that I live out in the country. The employee was very confident he would be able to install it for me. But when we walked outside and he looked at my license plate setup, his whole expression changed.

“Oh my God,” he said. “There’s no way.”

He stared at it like he had just discovered an ancient locking mechanism.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “We can’t help you with this. You’re going to have to take it to a mechanic. They’ll probably need to remove this whole panel from the back to get to it. You might even have to leave the car overnight.”

There was a pause.

“I’m not doing that,” I said. “At this point, I’ll just buy a new car.”

The man stared into my eyes, speechless, with the vacant solemnity only a mannequin could give you.

They asked me to go sit down and wait for a refund, since after three hours, several YouTube tutorials, and what felt like at least two episodes of MacGyver, they still had not managed to create a viable bulb situation.

That was when I ended up sitting next to a man in a paperboy hat.

“I’ve seen you around,” he said. “Always with that chicken.”

“Rooster,” I corrected him. “I call him a chicken because people ask fewer questions.”

He ignored this. “You think that bird is magical. You think he guides you because of that incident in the cornfield maze. But the magic is within you. And if that chicken could talk, do you know what he’d say? He’d tell you to get out of this town.”

“Then he’d point his beak west.”

He said this with the calm certainty of a man who had already filed the paperwork.

“So the chicken is just moral support?”

“Moral support,” he said, “with delusions of grandeur.”

“That tracks,” I said. “He’s allergic to everything except caviar and medium-rare steak.”

“But tonight, that ends. His luxury era is over. The finest thing he’ll be eating is Fancy Feast from a can.”

At this, the chicken became visibly agitated.

“That’s not all I know about you.”

“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re the woman songs and movies warn people about. You are △ △ △”

“Please don’t say it,” I interrupted. “I already have to live with the consequences. I’m saving the official revelation for when I appear on The Masked Singer.”

Then he noticed my biohazard tattoo.

“That’s why you got that tattoo, right?” he asked. “To warn them.”

Unfortunately, to be continued.

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.