The World is a Scary Place

And My Pillow Fort is Very Small

Welcome to the 2025 Shit Show, huh?

I mean, I knew—somewhere in the back of my mind…okay, in most of my mind—that things were going to plunge into the toilet. But I’ve already added and checked off more of my BINGO card in three weeks than I imagined possible.

I’d contemplate the conspiracy theories that we exist in a giant computer simulation if the constant nightmare drops didn’t defy the programming capabilities of even the most fiendish artificial intelligences. (Hal? Ultron? Infinity Gauntlet Ultron? Not even they went this far) Speaking as a sci-fi writer, I’m left sitting in dumbfounded shock as to what to create anymore because even my most outlandish ideas for dystopia no longer seem that far-fetched.

At this point, a full-scale alien invasion would feel like a breather.

Instead of enjoying my birthday (46th trip around the sun), January devolved into a giant crisis of faith in my ability to exist as a human being in the run-up to the Hunger Games currently underway. Drowning would have been a more pleasant experience. This felt more like some Geneva Convention-banned torture where every time I managed to gain a sip of air, the Universe shoved my head back under the water.

• My father-in-law needing brain surgery

  • He’s in recovery now and doing okay—before you jump on that

• California wildfires within miles of my sister and brother-in-law

  • They didn’t need to evacuate (yet), but my sister was sent home from work, and too many people they know have lost their homes; a teacher has no school to work at

• Meta pulling its bullshit (which somehow surprised people…too many of whom never watched The Social Network)

  • I deleted my business FB account. And both of my IG accounts. Fuck Mark and his psychotic empire

• An endoscope discovering a pseudoesophageal hernia, which decided to take part of my Nissen fundoplication with it (for funsies)

  • Surgery scheduled for March—earliest I’ve ever had a surgical consultation in my life

• Witnessing my country become the laughingstock and utter horror of the functional (and probably non-functional) world simultaneously in a matter of hours

  • Which keeps, somehow, getting worse and more speechless—truly a feat

I feel like I’m suffocating in the open air.

Accomplishing anything requires more effort than I care to admit. All I do is jump at every unusual sound and dread what I’m going to see on my Bluesky feed. (And, yes, I have muted words… The problem is, I can’t mute the entire dictionary, and that seems to be what I need to do now)

For the first time in my life, even my anxiety can’t keep up with the potential horrors that may rain down next.

My mind spends 90% of the day spinning in circles of doom. The other 10% drag along in hopes of keeping me at least somewhat functional. At the expense of my vocabulary. And coherency.

Honestly, managing to string two sentences together takes so much strength and effort, it feels like I should be able to benchpress an oil tanker.

I need a break.

Before I break.

So Invisible Inks is going on a little hiatus while I try to scrabble after some semblance of sanity in the crumbs around me. (And, obviously, while I have surgery and recover)

I’m sure more people will unsubscribe (it’s your right).

For those who hang in there, please know I love and appreciate you more than words can say. Right now, everyone needs all the support we can get.

See you on the other side.