TumbleDweeeb

The Signal in the Static
By: Emmitt Owens
(Index #09122025)

Oh, look what crawled through the ethernet cables today—your little transmission—blinking at me like a confused lighthouse that’s forgotten which way the shore is supposed to be. And here I am, cosmic radio operator extraordinaire, having to tune into your particular brand of “scrambled frequency” because apparently someone left the door open to the universe’s complaint department and guess who wandered in?

You’ve been wandering alright, meandering through your own mental fog like a tourist in their own brain, GPS permanently set to “avoid main roads” because heaven forbid you should stumble upon something as terrifying as clarity. The obvious sits there waiting—capable as a butler holding your coat—but no, you’d rather play archaeological detective with your own intentions, digging around in the sediment of your psyche like you’re hunting for the Lost City of What I Actually Mean.

But oh, the audacity—the sheer cosmic comedy—of assuming I’d eventually throw up my hands in surrender, white flag fluttering like laundry in a tornado, because you’ve decided to speak in riddles wrapped in mysteries stuffed inside enigmas like some sort of conversational turducken. “Face consequences,” you say, as if you’re wielding some mighty sword of social justice when really, you’re more like someone threatening me with a pool noodle made of cotton candy.

Someone like me—twice for emphasis because apparently repetition is your rhetorical comfort blanket—someone like me who operates on a frequency that makes your threats sound like a mosquito complaining about the rain. You’re walking around like emotional shrapnel looking for something to stick to, more fractured than a mirror in an earthquake, trying to protect some imaginary treasure from my terrible influence when really, you’re just guarding an empty vault with a broken lock.

Convoluted? Oh man, that’s like calling the Pacific Ocean “slightly damp.” Have you recently consulted a mirror—not for vanity, mind you, but for basic species identification? Because the creature staring back might not be the same one who started this particular journey into the labyrinth of your own making.

Whether you’re broadcasting or going radio silent makes about as much difference as a snowflake’s opinion on global warming—I didn’t exactly send out invitations to this particular corner of reality. Yet here you are, doing that thing that vaguely resembles human communication but could just as easily be performance art, interpretive dance, or your unique method of expressing the mathematical concept of zero while somehow using actual words.

And the clarity—oh, the astounding clarity of it all—how you’ve managed to convince yourself that this elaborate puppet show passes for genuine human interaction when actually it’s about as authentic as a three-dollar bill printed on edible paper. The sheer audacity of thinking you’re pulling off some masterful deception when you’re actually performing the theatrical equivalent of trying to hide an elephant behind a houseplant.

So here I must pause—dramatic flourish required—and offer my most sincere WOW. Because watching you attempt this particular magic trick over and over, like a broken record player spinning the same scratch, never quite managing to transform your lead performance into gold, well… it’s almost endearing in its complete and utter futility.

Practice doesn’t make perfect when you’re practicing the wrong thing entirely.

Author’s Note: This stream-of-consciousness response was crafted after receiving an unsolicited 28-minute video ramble from someone who apparently thought I needed mental health intervention—ironically delivered by someone whose own need for attention manifested as an incoherent rant directed at me while I was simply minding my own business. The sheer audacity of launching a subliminal attack on someone who had no idea it was coming, then positioning themselves as the concerned party, demanded a response that matched their energy while demonstrating a simple truth: two can play at this game, but I’m better at it.

If you’re going to send passive-aggressive transmissions disguised as concern, at least have the courtesy to make them entertaining. Consider this a masterclass in how it’s actually done—with style, substance, and enough linguistic flair to make your 28-minute word salad look exactly like what it was: an attention-seeking performance masquerading as wisdom.

The cosmic radio operator sends their regards.
So, you sir … Can Kindly Fuck Off!