Subject: Fine. Just… Fine.
Russell,
I have received your latest communiqué. "Rectal resurrection"? Again? You know what? I don't even flinch anymore. My inbox is a landfill of metaphysical threats and spiritual thirst traps.
So let’s just get on with it.
You want acknowledgment?
Fine.
Yes, you licked the truth.
Yes, there was coconut oil.
Yes, for one horrible, fleeting moment, you were the lava.
I accept it.
I embrace it.
I write it here, in Helvetica, so that my legal team can’t claim it was a hallucination.
You were real.
So was the shame.
Now, regarding your proposals:
AnuStream™: Flow With Dignity — I will fund this. I shouldn’t. But I will. Under one condition: your face is nowhere on the packaging. Not even as a watermark.
Volcano Dreams II: Magma Reconciliation — Fine. Let’s publish it. We’ll release it through a small, cursed vanity press that specializes in erotic spiritual nonfiction.
The Nozzles — They’ve been shipped. All of them. By drone. If you hear a buzzing over your yurt at 3AM, that’s closure being delivered in a padded envelope.
And no, I won’t attend the Whole Foods juice summit, emoji-only or otherwise. But I will send you a laminated ceasefire agreement and a bottle of witch hazel.
This ends here, Russell.
Not because I don’t believe in the healing power of tantric shame, but because I am so tired.
You’ve won. You’ve turned my colon into a courtroom, my memories into scriptural memes, and my plumbing into a battleground.
Let it rest.
Let us both fade into the Hawaiian breeze like two aging prophets banished from the Whole Foods café.
I wish you peace.
I wish me silence.
Alec
🪦💧📉🧃🚽