June 7th, 2025:

All I have to do is walk in. I’ll casually run into Him and just give him the bag, say ‘Happy Birthday’, and leave. It’s really not that big of a deal. It’s really just a two-minute errand. Fuck, I bet I could hold my breath the entire time.

If I tell you what’s in the bag, will you let me continue to play dumb?

This Stupid Brown Paper Bag. I folded it neatly, but I can now hear it crumple in my tightening grip. It shrinks in on itself. It tries to disappear and it would probably succeed if not for the cursed, skinny, tiny, trinket inside.

I can hear the party through the apartment door. A twenty-eighth birthday party— praise be this Infantile Saviour.

It would be more embarrassing and require more effort to wish Him a ‘Happy Belated Birthday’, so I hold my breath and push through into the lion’s den.

The apartment is packed with crowds of people chatting in close circles with red solo-cups in hand. Many are dressed up in black tie, prepared to honour this monumentous occasion. The Brown Paper Bag feels underdressed and ducks behind me.

A ‘birthday bash’ that’s funeral-themed. How melodramatic… how avant-garde… an appropriate setting for one’s entrance into their Late 20s.

I’m not sure what the moral implications of these immersive theatrics may be. I wonder if someone here is working on such an analysis. I wonder if there’s another person failing to fall into character. I wonder if I’ve caught a critic’s eye. Do I dare jeopardize the Five Star Reputation of this Pretend-Pretend Troupe?

The costumes give it away, anyhow. Some uncommitted actors seem to have scrounged up whatever pass-able ensemble they had on hand, while others seem to have ignored the dress code entirely. Everyone, however, is still more put-together and polished than the Brown Paper Bag.

I’m not sure if this is an objectively large crowd or if it’s just crowded. We’re cramped into a small studio apartment that is ridiculously cluttered with mismatched furniture and hobbies— standards are low.

There’s a twin-sized bed tucked into an over-zealous living area that tries to Tetris-in just one more chair…

Neither the ceiling nor walls evade this hungry fungus. The walls are decked out in shelving units that display a variety of books, picture frames, lamps, mugs, cooking ware, dishes… I’ll spare you from the Abnormals. The ceiling is littered with tapestries and posters, and I’m sure there’s probably a light up there somewhere but I don’t care enough to take any more field notes on the matter.

The only thing on proper display is this stranger’s martian identity. A person is defined by their possessions, habits– their physical and metaphysical belongings. One is responsible for their kingdom; their realm of influence expands ‘as far as their eyes can see’. This is a two-dimensional collage of wastelands.

The bathroom is the only space that completely evades my view– No Matter! The people of my kingdom will make do with the kitchen sink— I decree it!

Despite it being my second time here, the environment feels completely foreign. The light shines bright through the windows, highlighting the absurdity, along with the stains and spills on the floor. The shadows from the blizzard four months ago seem to be returning, though that could just be from my light-headed neural misfires. Someone bumps into me and a sharp breath escapes. I consider going for round two, but the seal is already broken and I’ve spotted the liquor table. And so, I brave the expedition to obtain a red solo-cup of liquid courage. I correct the boundaries of two of my peasants’ settlements to assume my rightful place at the helm of my cornucopia.

I feel their concerned eyes trained on me, observing and interpreting my every swallow. My responding glare breaks their animal-rescue delusion.

I look around and take inventory of the faces and furniture again and again, but I still don’t see Him. The only give-away for His existence is the stupid invitation-flyer that’s still pinned to the fridge. Four months ago, it was a Hazard notice. Now, it’s the only Guide Sign on this wretched highway.

And so, we drink! Pour after pour, because God, we’ve been spotted and I’ve been pinned to this wall, table, and bottle.

Unfortunately, I don’t drink. This Liquor Table will be the one to deflower my apathetic sobriety. I’d stop to analyze the taste of whatever the selection may be, but I have no context… nor do I have the time to build a context. I have to finish this bottle. My legs eventually succumb to the faulty nectar and I take a seat on the floor, hiding the brown bag under my folded legs. I sensually lean into the Liquor Table, my tragic lover, and close my eyes. When I open them— there They are.

Not They as in He, They as in Them, The Androgynous Prince Charming of your silly little gay dreams.

Prince Charming’s sitting next to me, politely engaging with the surrounding islands of conversation that seem to be getting louder. Prince Charming looks straight, then left, then right. I anchor myself to Their tiny left ear to keep balance.

After some time, I feel Prince Charming elbow me.

“Good Morning, sleepyhead. I was afraid we might have lost you.”

Greyish-blue storms. These eyes don’t pin. They trap you in their current and spin you around until a tsunami sends you crashing back into your own tragic self. These tiny blizzards feel so familiar. I can feel my face sting against their icy cold.

“Sorry– bad joke.”

The blizzards soften into a flurry. The thrashing waves calm into a still, albeit boring, ocean.

“I have a bottle of water, if you want. It’s unopened.”

I take a defiant gulp from my red solo-cup and turn to scan the room again.

I wake up in a coup d’état — the peasants have revolted. My red solo-cup seems to have run away. I can’t blame it. I am surrounded by idle, incessant, ecologically diverse chirping. I shut my eyes and try to dig my head deeper into the pillow.

I tighten my grip, but it’s missing. The brown paper bag is missing. The Brown Paper Bag has escaped. I bolt upright and try to take inventory of the spinning room. I feel around, prompting the faceless guards around me to shoot off the bed. I hear glass break and furniture scratch against the floor. I can’t hear the crumpling whine of that Brown Paper Bag.

“Give her space!”

It’s Prince Charming.

Prince Charming’s hands press hard on my shoulders.

“Hey… Stay with us… I’m so sorry… It sucks… We’re here… He…”

Prince Charming knows. He knows. They all know.

“Shh… It’s Okay… You’re Okay…”

Prince Charming’s voice grows soft, but the dampened background makes it land hard.

When Their hands finally soften, I break away. The faceless guards don’t even try to put up a fight. I repel them with every gesture. I spin around, in tandem with the room.

Photos. Why are there so many photos?

Evidence of narcissism is plastered everywhere. Notes are haphazardly tacked onto the shelves, hiding, no doubt, more deposits of Him.

Fuck– what a mess. I turn towards the entrance and finally face the wall I came through… the one that up till now, has only tried to swallow me from behind. The wall is interrupted three times— three rectangle frames. There are two apparent doors at either side and a hinge-less rectangle frame in the center. The Liquor Table should be adjacent to the main door, but they seem to have separated. Word of our affair must have gotten out. Did they shame my lover into hiding?

The other door must be the one hiding the bathroom.

Instead of a grand escape or shelter, the center frame holds an ironic photo of Him. I am once again thrown into storming eyes. He, unfortunately, does not have a tiny-left-ear-safe-haven. There are flowers and snacks and candles littered beneath it. The set dresser is displaying an embarrassing level of commitment.

“Do you need a break?”

It’s Prince Charming’s voice.

If the Brown Paper Bag were here, it’d probably just blend in with His crap. I shouldn’t snoop… it would be impolite. It’s in His possession. My work here is done. I can check this errand off of the list. We’ve succeeded in the mission.

I push past the final line of faceless guards. I pray that I came in through the leftmost frame. If it’s the bathroom, I’ll just melt through the drain.

I envision my path through the mystical and modern city sewage system, but these dreams are interrupted by a cold shock that shoots up through my legs.

I’m on the sidewalk outside. There’s a puddle where my ankles end. I pull one leg out after the other to reveal damp navy blue.

I turn left and run.

Imperfections dig into my feet. My shoes are missing. I wonder where they ran off to… they’ve probably escaped to somewhere over the rainbow to start a life with that red-solo cup. Their incestual polycule will probably harbor that Brown Paper Bag delinquent. My hands are empty and martian. Traitors.

I bet that unfaithful Liquor Table inspired this immoral behavior. Or perhaps, they got jealous of the passion that the table and I shared? Maybe they got scared.

I’m at the end of the block.

I turn left and run.