On the Inadmissible Proximity of Days

(Recovered from a bundle of papers folded incorrectly on purpose)

A day should not be permitted to follow another day directly.

This is not how time was meant to behave.

Between one day and the next there must be a thin, uncounted region—

not a day,

not a night,

not even a concept—

but a buffer,

wherein the soul is removed from the socket, gently dusted,

and reinserted facing forward.

The ancients understood this.

This is why they invented dusk, dawn, thresholds, vestibules, and lying down without sleeping.

We have abolished all of these and replaced them with tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a lie told by today to avoid accountability.

Time now behaves like stacked plates in a cupboard.

Each day leaning on the next.

Cracks inevitable.

The calendar insists this is stability.

I propose instead the Interstitial Day—

which does not occur,

cannot be scheduled,

and refuses to be remembered once passed through.

During the Interstitial Day: – clocks lose confidence

– cause precedes intention

– one may sigh before knowing why

– and rest is achieved without permission

Critics argue this violates thermodynamics.

I remind them that thermodynamics started it.

Quantum physicists object that such a day would require a particle to be in two states at once.

I reply: so are we.

One foot remains in yesterday.

One foot is already tired from tomorrow.

The Interstitial Day is the moment we notice we are doing the splits.

It is not a pause in time.

It is time stepping aside to let us pass.

Children encounter it naturally.

Artists fall into it by accident.

Adults glimpse it only while staring into cupboards or standing in doorways forgetting why they arrived.

Governments cannot tax it.

Employers cannot name it.

Wellness influencers ruin it immediately.

Therefore it must remain unofficial.

If you feel that the days are touching—

overlapping—

pressing their warm, unreasonable faces against one another—

this is not fatigue.

This is the absence of the space that was meant to catch you.

I leave this unsolved on purpose.

Resolution is how time wins.

— E.N.

Heroes - Born Again

What does it take to be a daredevil?

Is it skydiving into an active volcano? Wrestling an alligator while blindfolded? No. True courage is found in the everyday marvels—the unsung acts of bravery that separate the mortals from the legends.

Like refilling the straws at the Slurpamatic 9000 in your local Kwiky Stop, knowing full well that one wrong move could send an avalanche of plastic cascading to the sticky linoleum below.

Or standing at the register of Big Bubba’s Discount Food & Tire Repair, staring down a self-checkout machine that refuses to recognize your existence, demanding you “place item in bagging area” when YOU ALREADY DID.

Bravery is trusting a gas station egg salad sandwich at 2 AM. It’s walking past the overly enthusiastic mall kiosk worker who locks eyes and lunges at you with a lotion sample before you can hit escape velocity.

It’s calling customer service without rehearsing what you’re going to say first.

And finally, the ultimate test: navigating the labyrinth of the DMV, deciphering ancient bureaucratic riddles, and somehow emerging victorious, laminated license in hand—like King Arthur pulling Excalibur from the stone, but with more paperwork.

That is the bullseye of modern heroism.

Official Campaign Announcement: Timothy for Director of Time-Wasting Affairs

My fellow Americans (and those of you who just stumbled onto this post while procrastinating something important), today I am proud to announce my candidacy for Director of Time-Wasting Affairs.

I come before you not just as a candidate, but as a man with decades of experience in strategic, high-level time squandering. My credentials speak for themselves:

• Served with distinction in the Ministry of Dad Jokes, where I pioneered the art of groan-inducing humor.

• Rose to the esteemed rank of Grand Poobah of Dad Jokes, introducing landmark legislation guaranteeing at least one pun per family gathering, with severe consequences (mild disappointment) for non-compliance.

• Personally spent thousands of hours perfecting the infinite scroll technique, ensuring maximum inefficiency in all social media endeavors.

As Director of Time-Wasting Affairs, I will fight tirelessly (or at least until I get distracted) to ensure that every American has access to Bluetooth scrolling rings, so that you can doomscroll with the flick of a finger—efficient inefficiency at its finest.

But friends, we face an opponent who stands against everything we (don’t) stand for. The current Director, Reginald P. Taskington, has spent his tenure using time wisely, meeting deadlines, and getting a full eight hours of sleep each night. This is unacceptable. I propose an America where no task is completed without at least three unnecessary Wikipedia rabbit holes along the way.

To those who oppose me, I say this: I challenge you to a debate. In Pig Latin. No translators, no mercy. May the most time-wasting candidate win.

Vote Navel. Vote for Progress. Or Procrastinate Voting and Do It Later.

The Great Cosmic Prank—Or, Why Fedoras Are Our Last Hope

The Great Cosmic Prank—Or, Why Fedoras Are Our Last Hope

Okay, hear me out. What if humans have never actually invented anything? Like, at all? What if every so-called "breakthrough" was just some long-suffering alien scientist sighing deeply, handing us another shiny gadget, and whispering, "Please. Just this once. Use it responsibly."

But instead of unlocking the mysteries of the universe, we invent bubblegum pop, unlimited breadsticks, and entire social hierarchies based on whether someone can do a backflip. Every single alien attempt to elevate us is immediately derailed by our unshakable commitment to nonsense.

Take fire, for example. The aliens probably handed it to us thinking, "Ah, finally, they will forge tools, build civilizations, cook nutritious meals."

Us? "What if we made marshmallow birds explode into goo instead?"

Or the internet—surely the aliens assumed we'd use it to develop collective intelligence, share wisdom, maybe even transcend language.

Instead, we got memes about frogs, influencer beef, and a thriving market for medieval plague doctor outfits.

At this point, the aliens are just throwing things at the wall to see what sticks. Electricity? We made light-up shoes. Nanotechnology? We used it to make sunscreen that doesn’t leave a white cast. Quantum physics? A cat is both dead and alive, and this is somehow YOUR fault, Greg.

And yet—YET!—the aliens refuse to give up on us. They think, "Maybe if we just keep giving them new tech, they'll finally grasp logic." But we don’t. We never do. We're caught in a perpetual Dunning-Kruger vortex where we confidently charge ahead with no understanding, declaring things like "eggs are just squishy rocks" and "time is an illusion created by debt collectors."

The only reason they haven't fully abandoned us? Fedoras.

Somewhere in their ancient, hyper-intelligent minds, they saw a man tip his hat and say, "M’lady," and thought, "Perhaps… there is hope."

But there isn’t. There never was. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go argue with a stranger about whether hot dogs are sandwiches—because that's what the aliens really fear.

6 degrees of Chicken Nuggets.

Chicken nuggets, those golden, vaguely bird-shaped portals to childhood. Is it really chicken? Or a collective of sentient cornstarch molecules yearning for a dip in barbecue sauce. Remember that time the ocean dipped? Just vanished, like a sock in the dryer dimension. Dryers are swirling vortexes of lint and lost dreams. My dreams involve synchronized swimming with squirrels wearing tiny top hats. Did you know they were invented by a man allergic to pigeons? He needed a way to keep their… droppings… at bay. Like a tiny, felted fortress. Fortresses are just big castles, really, like the one I built out of mashed potatoes last Tuesday. It was majestic, until the gravy moat overflowed. Moats are basically just wet trenches, like the one I dug in my backyard looking for buried pirate treasure. Did you know every pirate ship had a designated parrot therapist? It's true. They needed someone to talk to about their existential squawks, like, what is the meaning of life? And more importantly, what is the meaning of Kevin Bacon? Six degrees, people. Six degrees. He's the center of the universe. Or maybe just the center of a very elaborate, delicious chicken nugget.

Ketchup

Ketchup Stains upon your clothes,

Mashed potatoes on your nose,

You should be ashamed , Yes you!

I don't care if you are two.

Blue and Red

You've never been blue.
Like I've been blue.
I went swimming.
what could I do.

The tide rolled on in.
I didn't wear my fins.
The tide rolled out.
The end begins.

Blue is a state of mind.
Blue is a state of being.
Hold your breathe long enough you'll find.
Blue comes from just not breathing.

You've never been red.
You woke up in bed.
And angry heart ache.
Really bad head ache.

The tide rolled in
The red begins
The tide rolled out
you flounder about

Red is a state of mind
Red is a state of being
Hit your head on the rocks and you'll find
Red comes because you're bleeding.