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me: sweet hit me with the good stuff

media: so there's this marginalized underclass of people, right?

me: okay

media: and they're like, stigmatized for something that's mostly an aspect of how they are born, or where they're from, or they're badly misunderstood, right?

me: yup, got it, I'm with ya

media: so these people are rebelling against the current social order, because it's the instrument of their suffering

me: oh good great sure

media: but also they're violent and deranged and need to be stopped

me: ...what

media: yeah they're going too far, they're trying to overthrow the system and assassinate the nice cop trying to help them and also they burned down an orphanage

me: ...why? would they burn down an orphanage??

media: extremism is bad

me: still not seeing what this has to do with their fight though???

media: also now they've shot a dog. oops they shot another dog

me: what?! why? I though their motive was to overthrow oppression??

media: yes but their suffering has also made them evil

me: ...???

media: don't worry though, the good guys will defeat them and restore the status quo

me: the status quo that's been killing people?

media: well it turns out it was only killing the kinds of awful people who burn down orphanages and shoot dogs :)

me: oh. this is actually a pro-authoritarian story, isn't it?

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This time for real.

I feel like I'm being scammed.

And I think, in a way, you are too.

For most of my life, I thought adulthood was something people eventually arrived at.

Not an age. Not a phase.

A state. A moment where it just clicked.

A place where you finally knew what you were doing.

The people around me looked like they had made it there.

The picture-perfect couple with matching routines, a kid, and a dog that always behaves.

The single parent balancing work calls and school runs like it’s second nature.

The childfree woman building her career, calendar full, life intentional, like every choice was already made with certainty.

Different lives.

Different priorities.

Different fonts.

But all of them seemed certain.

Until the small cracks stop feeling like weakness… and start feeling like truth.

The marriage that almost fell apart.

The career that happened more by accident than intention.

The dream that slowly disappeared without anyone really naming it.

The years spent quietly thinking everyone else had it figured out.

And suddenly, certainty starts looking like something else.

Something performed.

Something learned.

Something repeated until it looks real from far away.

Because nobody is actually reading from a script.

We’re all just improvising, hoping it holds.

Maybe the scam was believing there was a moment where it all starts to make sense.

Because we’re all just winging it.

Good Omens

coloured pencil drawings