LNMTP Editorial Board: Please Stop Assigning Lore To Me, My Dating History Proves Time Travel Isn't Real.
All Hands On Deck for The Apocalypse. We're Writing Again.
Pheww… what a couple of months it’s been, and while I haven’t even made it to my 40s yet, I’m pretty sure the matrix already filed an incident report.
While I’ve been used to people saying crazy stuff to me my whole life, I’ve officially reached my limit for people saying crazy things to me lately—even if I’ve absolutely set the precedent.
(Hey, I’m writing again! It’s all hands on deck for the apocalypse, right? Even if the hands are unmanicured, clutching tear-soaked Kleenex and a flashlight in the dark while trying to reinvigorate some vague sense of purpose.)
People love to wax poetic about my existence, usually unprompted. Last week I was told I was “stuck in the third dimension” and needed to expand more, as if dimensions are a budget motel I forgot to check out of. And while that’s certainly something to ponder, I’d like to note that the third dimension verifiably has cheese-stuffed crust and I have yet to hear a compelling argument regarding any other dimension’s dipping sauce offerings. For future reference, if people lead with the availability of garlic dipping sauce, I’m a little more attentive.
(Is the fifth dimension all “light energy” and no carbs? Because frankly that sounds restrictive.)
While learning about quantum resonance sounds like a real hoot—and thank you for the invitations, I’ll probably come around soon—I’d like to counteroffer with…have you ever been alone in bed, eating twelve lemon-pepper wings, completely judgment-free, and then taken a nap? Holy shit. That’s transcendence. That’s enlightenment with wet wipes nearby.
Apparently when you entertain yourself but are supposed to be super-serious, people lose their collective minds, to which I apologize.
It’s like you can’t even buy french crullers anymore without being accused of accepting job offers from the french. Play pictionary with a nice Italian boy? You might as well be swimming to Sicily. It’s not that deep, I just wasn’t hugged enough as a child and if anyone is looking to simulate that experience and our younger years, I’m open to providing a few more pointers because, quite frankly, it’s all feeling, dare I say, a little Mickey Mouse lately.
Look, it’s hard to be super-serious when people are providing grand narratives about how time travel is real and while the thought has crossed my mind, I’ll tell you why I’m pretty sure it isn’t… at least not in this dimension.
My dating history makes it a mathematical impossibility. If I had access to a wormhole, do you really think I’d allow this timeline to remain on the public record? If you line my exes up in a row, you aren’t looking at a timeline—you’re looking at a diagnostic chart for clinical mental illness. I am literally able to chart my own decline in real time.
NASA couldn’t map this trajectory.
I mean, for heaven’s sake, you meet a nice Jewish boy in your early twenties and accidentally get anesthetized in the same building as the Israeli Defense Ministry ONE time and people construct a narrative around it a decade and a half later. Give it up, guys. I just like the Manhattan scenery and the United Nations has the best Dunkin’.
Donuts fill the void deliciously.
While it’s also pleasing to the ego to hear narratives about one being some sort of grand protector—and admittedly hilarious—I’d like to note that last week I had to buy a second jar of salsa because I couldn’t get the first one open.
I also regularly buy fruit with the best of intentions and then watch it liquefy in the crisper drawer like a slow-motion car crash I absolutely could have intervened in. I can’t even protect a cantaloupe from its own inevitable decay; the universe is going to have to look after itself.
So, while we’re making our way back to the writer’s room, (insert flashing “thank you for your patience sign here”), please, while we love us a silly-goose and fuckery, we’re all goosed up for the moment.
We’re currently searching for our writing room direction.
In the mean time, if you came here looking for the “divine wisdom” this, LOL, “oracle” has to offer?
Here’s something a little more concrete we’ve collected from the past.
LNMTP advice from the editorial board:
Don’t ask questions you don’t want the soul-crushing answers to.
Jumanji is proof that you can never unroll the dice and I did my best to never play the game.
Don’t ever bend your knee or you’ll be on it forever—(and at my age, the cartilage simply won’t sustain it.)
If you’re going to foul on purpose, make sure it hurts. Or at least make it look convincing.
Never, ever, ever forget to deglaze the fuck out of the pan.
And finally, remember:
men are like the bus…..you miss one, another one comes by……usually smelling faintly of both bad and excellent decisions.
The sun is shining. For now. We’re gonna enjoy it while we can.
They’ll never take the jokes. Or each other.