Micro

A prompt response.

I knew a guy who microdosed LSD. He worked at that pizza place on Waters, you know? That gourmet take-home place? He was the guy tossing the pie in the oven.

His name was Cuz. At least, that’s what everyone called him. I never bothered to ask why. I was too busy listening to him wax poetic on topics of the soul.

Okay, his doses may not have been “micro”. But that pizza was fire, man, I’m telling you.

Anyway, one night he says to me, “Cuz,” he says, “you know they’re coming, right?”

I’m like, “Who?”

“The aliens, cuz. You know who I’m talking about.”

“Nah, dude. You said aliens?”

“Yeah,” he clarified, and then he pointed. “You know, cuz. You one of them.”

I laughed, because, I mean, what else are you supposed to do, right?

“You one of those time travelers, cuz.”

I laughed again, confused. “I’m a time traveling alien?”

“No, cuz,” he said. “Aliens are just us from the future.”

Inefficient

a prompt response

I have it all right here with me: every word of the story waiting to be yanked out of the ether and transformed into the easily consumable media to which we’ve all grown accustomed. I wouldn’t be sitting here wasting my time if there was actual work to do.

I’m good at the actual work.

Yeah, it’s all done: this hobbyhorse is shod and tacked. It’s ready to be ridden across the open range of someone else’s imagination. But my laziness – an orange-eyed monster whose skin fits me so well – he keeps convincing me that there’s something else to do, that the sequence starts earlier, that I should sit still and wait. The answers will come to me.

We all know this isn’t true. At the very least, it’s an inefficient way to live a life worth reading.