"Just let Go Jack."

I came back, because I'm better. I don't know how to let go of Reedsy.

Reedsy doesn’t want you to know, but they kidnaped me.

They don’t want you to know their secrets.

I’ve seen their break room fridge. Big enough to fit 102 Dalmatian pups. It's nothing but 

caviar, 

expresso, 

crème brule. 

champagne,

expresso champagne,

skim breast milk coffee creamer,

gluten free breast milk filled in camelbak go bags (you can purchase the backpack separately at the Reedsy gift shop- add on a matching fanny pack for dopamine), 

and vegan spit from 100% pure sugar babies. 

The cult of Reedsy comes with 2 important deli llamas. 

Do you think your story should have won and is a bonafide winner hiding in plain sight?

Or are you pedaling idle looking for your next big break?

I bomb it's what I do.

So I tried to kidnap someone and blow up Reedsy headquarters. I’m just a fun guy, who loves explosions. Get me into a fondue party and I’ll laugh you up till you're sneezing Havarti. 

Who really hasn’t seen a rope and been like this has so many practical, professional and oxygen limiting uses for this thing? 

I walked into Sensation Creations adult store for pleasure and left with the start of a plan to take Reedsy down and finally get my $250. 

But my plan failed. Punk-ass snitches man. 

I got-got because one of my double agents tripled me and cut my rope just as I was about to swing into my escape helicopter. 

As I was free falling, the glass in tiny rain-like drops behind me, my banna gun being eaten by the boss looking at me laughing from inside the building.

He waives his hand and shoos off the armed Reedsy security guards. I catch a glimpse of my former employee, taking off his tie dye shirt. Immediately applying nail polish remover to wipe off his yellow painted pinky for “Code Pineapple” the mission I was royally blowing. He put on the Reedsy collared polo shirt that I later found out said: 

“Stay peachy!” written on the front. Fat ass peaches are dancing and winking at each other on the shirt.

In small, barely legible print under the back of the shirt collar the shirt, unseen by anyone who isn’t really looking, is written: “Reedsy has eyes in the back of your ears. Stay peachy!”

My traitor employee strapped on a Reedsey fanny pack and slung it over a boob milk camelbak with excitement he likely hadn't felt since infancy. 

I felt my heart drop, not because I was falling to uncertain death, or because I’m dragging out a freeze-frame perspective for too long but because I got played. I thought I could trust any anarchist who agrees to paint their pinky yellow, wears tie dye shirts and listens to classic rock. 

But then I forgot that I saw him eat string cheese in 3 bites like a psychopath. He didn’t actually pull out each piece string by string, per the name “string cheese”. It's not called a “bite stick” for a reason.

Those bite stick pricks are literal stone cold killers. 

This is why I don’t let my lower level anarchists know my full plan.

Be too reckless to tell anyone the obvious truth that you already know. 

I’m always in control. 

I may seem out of it, but attention is currency, I buy stock in what explodes. 

Catch on to it, but I’ve got a joint or two up my sleeve. You’ll know the smoke when it smells dank, that’s when code green commences.

 A secret well, bordered by a perimeter of smooth lime-green cobblestones with moss leaping out the cracks on the outside and running deep down below into the unknown. 

Floating inside the well are pink, orange and red lilies, or so it is told. It's unknown how deep the well goes, but the water has never drained below 6 feet from top. 

The bucket on a string, is not for a bucket, but built to strap in a human being. 

This is where the real boss is told to have obtained the greatest Reedsy stories transcribed over onto brown moleskin notebooks. 

The boss reads each page from the moleskins aloud to the well, tears them out each 1 by 1 and places them into the glowing pool. The pages swirl around in a whirlpool until they’re swallowed in the center. If the story has the well's blessing the well will allow the page to float back up, glittering in rainbow sparkles. The words melt off the page and pull your eyes, making it nearly impossible to not compulsively re-read the story endlessly. 

If the story is not granted a blessing it's lost forever. 

But we’ll get to that.

I need to make it clear, just in case anyone was going to tell me “deli llamas” is lazy and "dilemma" is the obvious correct spelling, you can see yourself out the plane window. 

To those people I would say, Look...I tried to get Reedsy spell check to recognize 'dehlima' first.

(Retrospect makes me realize that sounds like a mother of meat).

I thought of course I spelt it wrong, ‘dehlima’ kinda sounds right, but looks close enough. Everyone spells things wrong, I’m overthinking this, hiding from my inside securities.

Then I typed. 'Delemah'

Reedsy spell check still couldn't recognize the word!

I seriously had to open up another tab and type into google chrome to find the correct spelling. 

I felt like an idiot. 

I cursed at faceless scoundrels. 

My smile through pain coping dimples held up the insomnia bags under my eyes. 

In disgust of my incompetence I called my computer a "biatch!" and walked away for a second. But then I realized.

Was my therapist right?

Do I really have irritable bowel syndrome and multiple personality disorder? 

Do all my issues stem from my asshole and in turn, make me an asshole?

Or is all therapy someone’s projection? 

But who’s projection is it? 

More deli llamas, I tell you? 

"How am I to know if that's Rodney, my ‘angry’ self”, I said sitting in a recliner I could live in. 

My therapist's office was always cold. Fans run on blast to make enough white noise for your subconscious to play subtitles like floating words on the bottom of a news screen. Paintings of flowers on the walls. My therapist has her legs crossed and her thumb holding up her chin, she leans forward when she has been holding onto a quality therapy comment for too long. The boils running all over her skin from having to keep listening to my chicken-scratch-rambling is driving her body gassy. 

This is why she leans forward, irritable bowel syndrome or IBS.

Her eyes were thin due to lack of sleep and probably watching too many self help TikToks.

I keep searching the flower wallpaper for vaginas, because of Georgia O’Kweef, while I’m talking, but I come up dry. 

My eyes come back to my therapist crossing her legs even tighter and a lone forehead vein, bulging angry trapped blood soldiers screaming her forgotten middle child attachment issues loud and painfully. 

"... talking to me from inside my nose…” I’m telling her, really laying it on, I have emotions, she went to school for this. I deserve to rant for hours because I’m worth it. I have healthy shame now, give me attention. 

“...or as you would put it.” In a mocking tone I said, "Eating enough cheese to make an entire genome wear pacemakers."

I tell all this to my therapist eating a block of cheese with something French written on the gold painted labeling. Yea it's expired, but all cheese is expired, so lets shrug and call it a mystery. 

She hates it when I eat cheese in front of her. I can hear her stomach sing like a tight lipped tabernacle choir boy’s cry. The sound shrieking, ill pitched and calling out for a minuscule lick of cheesy goodness. 

"No," she says pausing to burp. "I said ‘you have a clogged ear valve from sitting-at-home,' and ‘eating too much cheese’- 'that started your depression- in that order'. Why would I dress up a very serious issue of yours with sarcasm.”

I rolled my eyes. "My issues are your gas lighting up. I guess when I see you in 2 weeks, we’ll know for sure whether I really have Dissociative Identity Disorder. I swear if I find Rodney or any other man in my closet I will lose it. " 

Sherice paused and looked at me like you would look at a toddler trying to sound out big words. "Honey, you're gay and you haven’t told anyone but me," she said. 

"Hey, that's my right to choose."

"No one chooses to be gay and you’re a man." 

"Touché. Thanks for the advice as always.” I took a huge bite out of the cheese block and smiled sarcastically. 

You could hear her exhale loudly, but her face was emotionless. What precision training a college degree can provide. 

“Did you say something?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She leaned back in her chair and put a hand over her stomach. 

“See you never, at the next church barbeque, Sherice,” I said, begging to push myself up out of the recliner. 

"Listen. Cut the crap,” Sherice says, her voice stern and mom-like in the way that makes a mama’s boys hard. 

I sit back down in my chair. Cheese wheezed in my stomach. 

“Your attention is a yo-yo on a long string,” she said. “It takes too long for you to come back around to what's important. Don’t forget, when your attention is loose, you’re depressed because you’re lost and watch life pass you by. You’re anxious because it's easier to come up with reasons to not do something than the 1 reason that makes it so hard to do it. The weight you feel is indifference, not defeat. You quit while you’re ahead because it's easy. You’re as mindful as a potato chip. Eat less cheese. Stop being depressed and take a walk. Stop blaming everyone but yourself. Live your life. Attention is the intent or the ‘gas’ that fuels your mood or ‘the car’ to get going. Attention with intent with everything. Where is your mind floating to? Find your mistakes, keep driving, be yourself and lean into gratitude.”

“So you’re saying I’m fat and I don’t pay any attention to myself, so that's why my personality spits itself out like confetti.” 

“That's not how D.I.D. works. You’re over diagnosing, because you think your brain can get you out of this one, but you’ll lose. You need to correct everything and everyone else so you don’t have to correct yourself. You need to take care of your mind. Say kind things to yourself. Our thoughts can mislead our body’s inadequacies and try to put out nonexistent fires. Make sure to get your medication on the way out. We don't need another Reedsy situation."

"Fuck you Sherice."

“Go to hell, skinny penis."

"Thank you."

"I'm praying for you," said Sherice.

And that's how the energy gets sucked and the point always comes back around to the same thing; Reedsy destroyed my life. 

Yea, I tried to explode a wee building. But I was just kidding. 

It wasn’t a real gun… I just wanted people to eat more potassium. Blah-blah- “Pay Me Reedsy!” I was only screaming that, because I needed rent and I was out of meds and I needed to feel something. 

My body felt so cold and numb. The fans needed cheering. I needed the fans to clap for me. Praise me! Scream my name!

Give me explosions. 

Show me $250. 

I need to let out all the voices loose. They’ll know what to do. 

Reedsy put me in hiding so I’m back to telling everyone else they’re my problems. 

I walked out the office doors and lit up my fuel with the best intentions to lift my shitty mood. 

“You smell that Rodney,” said a woman walking her dog, talking to a man with a blonde man bun who scrunched his nose to play detective. 

“Yea,” he says, sniffing some more, “Smells dank. Aye Jack you blowing this joint?” She looked at me and handed over a trigger switch with a blinking green light.

“Code green bitches,” I told them, blowing a cloud into the polluted city skyline. "I couldn't let go. I just couldn't let go. I'm not that kind of Jack."

That's what we call last minute continuity folks.

I really did it this time. I pulled the trigger.

I can’t let go of writing on Reedsy. 

You shouldn’t either.