Zactly What You Deserve

 This alphabetical experiment IS about to close, and before we try to pretend that it was always under control, I think it's only fair - bordering on ethical - to try and explain what this series has delivered to you, the reader, and why.

It's all your fault.

So this post isn't what about what you read. And it's not the post you needed, but the post you deserve.

Outcomes matter, people! You continued to show up voluntarily... those kind of actions carry a little friend I like to call consequence. And consequence has many faces.

Sleeplessness

Yes, sleeplessness. Not the dramatic, stare-at-the-ceiling blame it on dark roast after 9pm kind. 

This is the brain reboot. Like your mind saying, "Dude! You can't reopen long-closed mental tabs like that and expect me not to freak out." There, in between REM cycles, your snoring mind ponders a weird metaphor you read that shouldn't have worked, but somehow did.

How? I don't know, I just write this stuff.

Just file it away. Your internal database will label it later as "Possibly Clever" or "Was That Intentional" or "Am I Overthinking as Much as Shawn Does?"

Also, why does a Bee Gees soundtrack follow me to the bathroom for my 230 am pee? They have to, they've been sworn to the Hippocratic oath to do no harm.

True. I know a nurse.

You're welcome, my friends. You're welcome.

Stop looking for answers. I know what the answers are, and I don't believe them for a minute. Besides, all you'll find is folders. Lots of folders. Endless folders. Folders within folders.

Did I... mention the folders?

Indeed, that ain't insomnia. That's...

Participation With Heartburn

This is often misdiagnosed as "Spastic Mexican Colon." Blamed on spicy food, stress, or the false reasoning of getting older. 

But come on! We all know what it was. The dad joke. That one you didn't laugh at - out loud. This one:

I knew a one-armed piano player. He took two minutes to play the "Minute Waltz."

Dad-joke-induced heartburn is cumulative, building over time. Each groan strips away a piece of the esophagus until it files a formal complaint. This is true. I know a nurse. A nurse who helped me realize a valuable truth I'll share with you:

Antacids don't help emotionally, Trudy!

You just might find yourself clutching your chest, but not in pain. Mild disappointment. With me. With yourself. Especially with the part of you that appreciated the joke despite everything.

So again: totes deserved!

Headaches

Also known colloquially as "how-the-heckisms."

A how-the-heckism occurs when two ideas that don't have any logical reason to meet (think lint and lies, kilts and a goose on a roller coaster) are introduced, casually tied together with unnecessary confidence and then left unattended. Sans chaperone. Nada lifeguardia. Filtero non bueno.

They cause a tightening behind the eyes. Followed by a reread. Then a whispered, "No. He didn't...-wait...what in the...how...ah, heck."

Insidious, isn't it?

These  headaches don't belong to confusion. They belong to a process; and that process is recognition. That moment you realize you were led - gently, slowly, even politely - into thinking. 

Not hard thinking, mind you. Worse. The sneaky kind. The kind that pretends to be utter nonsense but then taps your shoulder and says "Hey, remember me?"

Medical professionals can't diagnose this. True. I know a nurse.

Writers like me deny any and all responsibility. Readers experience it anyway.

And, once again, you kept reading. Nobody asked, "Should this man really be allowed to continue?"

In this case, silence is consent.

So then the absurdity escalated, sarcasm put its feet up on the coffee table, and normally sane people like yourselves fed this thing. You watered it. You whispered to yourself, "One more letter won't hurt."

It hurt.

But here we are.

Aftermath

Yes, the aftermath. Or is that fallout? No matter, you needn't look at me. Dave's handling it. He's got a bucket, a clipboard, and the exhausted expression everybody recognizes as the look of a man who got roped into helping without actually existing. Happens all the time.

Dave'll clean it up. Dave always cleans up. Dave always pays the price.

And Dave will absolutely deny being involved.

So yes. This - all of it - is 'zactly what you deserve.

And if, despite everything, you're considering doing this again... don't worry. I've taken a few notes.

First, a 20-piece series about things that were iconic, ironic. and required tonic in the 80's.

Titles like Boom Boxes: Subtlety Was for Losers, Is That a Mixtape in Your Pocket Or Are You Just Emotionally Unavailable? and Why Pac-Man is the Reason I Stress-Eat.

Then, the alphabet rises again: 

Shorter posts. Chaos adjacent. Possibly your fault by intention. Yep, reader-suggested posts. Anything is possible.

Including questionable structure and fewer safety rails. You've proven you can't be trusted. 

That's very encouraging. And encouragement only feeds an overactive blog writers mind.

True. I know a nurse.