That is the beginning of your story. Yod-Mezuth, The Many-Named God, kicked the can of Being down the road of Time. What you must understand is that this has happened before. It is happening now in fact. I am merely relating this to you so that you can know your place in the Universe. Not in an ordinal sense of course. Ordinality is meaningless when applied to a repetitive infinity. (Do you still want to know? This is the 136ah(c)iix(x)25th Universe. You see? Quite meaningless.) What I mean to show you is your existential place in the Universe. I do this in the hope that something good will come of it. That is the highest hope one can have. You may soon find that out for yourself.

Let me first tell you of The Many-Named God and how he came to be called by such a name. Yod-Mezuth gets bored of himself quite quickly. The beings and other things he creates are not to blame. It is in his nature to get bored quickly. He is the Creator! He is the Experiencer! Have you ever experienced 30 seconds of boredom that felt like an hour? Well, Yod-Mezuth experiences that across many Universes simultaneously. The hours are much longer. Rather than experiencing that as one being, which would be narrowly experienced and thus far more boring, Yod-Mezuth feels his boredom as many beings. This allows him to respond to the boredom in different ways. This allows him to feel the agony of boredom in varied levels. This allows boredom to be somewhat interesting. Kridd destroys beings and worlds. Xrylx enlightens beings and worlds. Tabitha gazes warmly at beings and worlds. These are all things Yod-Mezuth does in response to boredom.

The biggest response to boredom, of course, is to create another Universe. Sometimes they already exist, but Yod-Mezuth recreates them as another aspect of himself. These are the kinds of changes he brings to the Something-Nothing. We all exist for and because of him. We exist for him only because he created us in order to make boredom as interesting as possible. He creates us in order to experience us and hold sway over us in whatever way he chooses. We are still free to do what we want. Mostly. It depends on which aspect of Yod-Mezuth created the Universe. Some Universes are almost exact copies of each other. This happens because Yod-Mezuth liked a particular Universe and decided to alter it by creating it with another aspect of his. Or, he decided to change some aspect of that Universe to see what would happen. Yod-Mezuth, in his infinite wisdom, knows what would happen, but he likes to experience it. Experience helps reduce boredom. Besides, unexpected things can happen. That is part of the excitement.

What I am trying to tell you is that Yod-Mezuth created your Universe. Something-Nothing created the whole Multiverse, but Yod-Mezuth created your Universe. Your Universe was first created by Tabitha. Then by Kridd. Then by Moley and Deus. The Universe you inhabit, the one that is an almost exact copy of the past ones, was created by Yod-Mezuth. The world of Yod-Mezuth has his name written all over it. You have not known that till now. You do not know how to look for it. Let me tell you.

Yod-Mezuth is devious. He is a trickster. He is schadenfreude incarnate. In this world, you are free in a certain sense of the word. You are given enough of a taste of freedom in order to crave it. This complicates matters. Yod-Mezuth gives you this freedom in order to see you suffer. He watches you fight over what freedom really is. He watches you fight to get what you think freedom is. You do not exist for Yod-Mezuth in that he owns you. He does not want that. You exist for him as an actor exists for his audience. This simile does not convey the freedom you have in playing your part. Yod-Mezuth has set the scene and mood for his play. There is a script, but you ad-lib your lines. This is done either because you’ve forgotten our lines or because you feel it will enhance the play. It usually does not end well. Actors are thrown off by each other’s flubbing of the lines. Jokes fall flat. In the confusion, Yod-Mezuth can be heard laughing. This is exactly what he wanted. The Something-Nothing is a little less bored.

I do not know what you are supposed to do with this knowledge. I am telling you this because I know it may change things. The script is there, but it wasn’t written to be read correctly. It was written to distract. The scenes are there, but they were not created in order to be seen. They were created in order to make the actors feel as if they were in a play. All of this was created in order to give it a sense that it truly mattered. You are made to feel that you should hit the mark. You are supposed to take all of this seriously. This Universe was created to give its inhabitants a sense of direction, but each person is pulled toward a different direction. This Universe gives people an ideal that they cannot have. Yod-Mezuth relishes experiencing your struggles. This Universe is not what it seems. He does not create misfortune. Yod-Mezuth created a Universe were much misfortune is extremely probable. He has given you freedom to correct things, but many times overcorrections occur. You have it harder than you are willing to realize.

When Tabitha created the original of this Universe, she gave it rules and goals. She did this in order to create a peaceful world. Everyone was given the right way in her Universe. People were sure if they were good or bad. Yod-Mezuth did not want to afford such luxuries. Your world is chaotic, but you have gotten used to its chaos. You have accepted it as a necessary fact of your Universe. Rightly so. Yod-Mezuth would not have it otherwise. Your Universe could have been more fair. It could have been more straightforward. It could still be all these things if you could somehow let it be those things!

Now, why am I telling you this? I am Yod-Mezuth. I wanted to let you know what I have done to you and your Universe. Do you believe things could be better? I hope you do. I enjoy your struggle.

Faster than you could think, “What was that sound?”, a person named Sitva flowed out of the space office through a small hole. The hole spewed people soup into space. The flow stopped and the room notified the lower class citizen’s space office that a people soup leak had just occurred. The office notified a chef bot to collect the people soup. When the chef bot finished, the space office ejected the compromised room and promptly sent out builder bots to create a new room in its place. The room rocketed toward nowhere in particular. The room wondered why it no longer felt the comfort of belonging to an office. Then, the office sent the Human Resources department a memo.

That is when Sagar and Xi both received a memo.

Xi reads the memo and giggles while Sagar teletypes at his station.

“What’s so funny?” asks Sagar.

“We have to hire somebody.”

“Somebody? Just one?”

“Yup.”

Sagar takes off his headset and turns around. Xi, still holding the memo, turns around to look at him.

“What the hell happened? Did he fuck one of the boss’ wives?” Sagar asked while raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. The memo says the office labeled the employee ‘Leaked’.”

“What was his class?”

Xi glances at the memo. “Triple C”. Xi then tosses the memo back to his desk.

“Not even a double-letter?” Sagar lets out a healthy stream of laughter. “I know what they’re having for dinner.”

Xi laughs and puts his headset on. “Glad I’m not a triple-letter. I’m just going to pull a hire from the ex-convict pile. We need to up our civil service stats. You going to send that accidental death to Carlos?”

“Nah. I send those when we get to a thousand of them. We’re about two hundred short.”

Xi acknowledges Sagar with a soft grunt. Sagar turns around, slips his headset back on, and gets back to work.

In the other space office, a chef bot in a kitchen slowly pours its contents into a recently defrosted vat labeled “People Soup”. The chef bot instantly refreezes the vat and places it back into a cabinet with 99 other vats. The chef bot passes a row of 10 cabinets before reaching its recessed resting place and shuts down.

His girlfriend, Laura, wasn’t having sex with him. Money was tight. He wasn’t getting enough hours at work. The world was rubbing him the wrong way. He felt on edge. Thomas needed to scream at the sky or punch someone or drive really fast. He needed to do something to let out his frustration.

Usually, Thomas would have rough sex with his girlfriend to feel better. That wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t know why Laura was withholding sex. That bothered him even more. He slammed the steering wheel of his car with his palm.

“Fuck!”

Thomas needed to let out his frustration. He was going to speed, but he didn’t want to risk getting a ticket. He didn’t want to cheat on his girlfriend, because that’s just not the kind of guy he is. He was so angry and annoyed that he was thinking about going to a bar and starting a fight with someone. He didn’t want to get hurt though. He just wanted to punch somebody. Thomas was not a confident fighter.

So, Thomas was driving around aimlessly for a while. But then, he had a brilliant idea. He could scream at the sky. It sounds crazy, but is an action crazy if no one knows about it? Screaming at the sky in the parking lot of a Walmart is pretty crazy, but doing that, say, in the desert with no one around would be okay. Thomas thought so.

He was driving to a big patch of desert near his house that the suburbs had not yet taken over. It was a pretty good place to be alone.

Thomas arrived at his destination. He did not see any parked cars near him. He smiled because that meant that no one would be there. When he got out of his car, Thomas noticed a red frisbee on the backseat.

What the hell? He did not remember even owning a frisbee. But then, he remembered. The picnic!

Two days ago, Thomas had been at a picnic with Laura and some friends. He remembered tossing the frisbee around that hot, summer day. There was a spicy chicken salad. Laura had worn a sundress that made her look especially beautiful. It was a good day except for one thing.

Who does this belong to? He flipped the frisbee over to see if there was a name written on it. He saw the name Matt written in Sharpie.

“Fuck that guy.” Thomas frowned.

Matt was Laura’s best friend. He was at the picnic too. Thomas remembered tossing the frisbee with a friend of his while he watched Matt talk with Laura. Matt said something to make her frown. Then, she looked at Thomas. The frown didn’t go away. There was no sex that night. There was no sex at all since that day.

All of a sudden, Thomas figured out a new way of letting out his frustration. He took the frisbee, closed the car door, and locked the car. He walked into the desert.

The desert was ugly. Although society had yet to change it into a suburb, the desert was not free from its grasp. Cacti spines that once kept birds away from precious water reserves now held onto trash bags. Discarded Doritos bags were scattered everywhere. The remains of a bonfire was encircled by bottles of empty Bud Lights. Thomas did not feel guilty about adding a red frisbee to the desert.

He was going to throw it with all his might into the air just so that he could watch it drift away. Maybe, Matt wouldn’t miss his frisbee. That wasn’t the point. He wanted to get rid of the damn thing. He wanted not to care about Matt and Matt’s possessions. He didn’t want to think about what Matt might’ve said to his girlfriend. He wanted to throw his worries away.

Thomas held the frisbee parallel to the ground. He tucked it in close to his chest and flung it out into the desert sky. The frisbee soared out over the landscape. Something Thomas had not noticed before came into his vision. A man was running with his dog on an embankment of sand right into the path of the frisbee.

Woops. Thomas ducked behind a discarded couch. He wanted to scream out to the man, but he was too embarassed. He watched.

The man kept on running. He did not notice the frisbee. And then, it struck him on the head. He fell and disappeared from Thomas’ view. Thomas waited for him to come up.

The hot wind blew. A trash bag caught in a cactus rustled. Seconds passed.

Should I go over and check it out? Thomas worried. The man might scream at him. The man would ask for an apology. He would ask why Thomas had thrown a frisbee at him.

I didn’t throw it at you. I just threw it. That didn’t sound believable in his head.

He waited some more. Minutes passed, but still the man didn’t come up. Thomas decided it was time to go over and check it out. He ran across the desert towards the embankment. He ran up and over it. When he reached the edge of the embankment he stopped cold in his tracks.

Down below, the man who had been running was now lying in the sand with the red frisbee right next to him. The man’s dog was lying down with his head on the man’s chest. When the dog noticed Thomas, he whimpered and wagged his tail slowly.

In the middle of the slope of the embankment was a rock. It had been bloodied by the man during his fall. The sand had been smoothed where the man’s body had rolled from the spot where the rock was down to where his body now lied. Thomas noticed he hadn’t breathed for a while and took a deep breath.

What the hell am I going to do? His eyes zipped from the frisbee, to the rock, to the man, to the pool of blood growing around the man’s head.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” Thomas half walked half slid down the side of the embankment towards the man and his dog. Thomas looked at the man’s chest to see if he was breathing. He wasn’t. He was eye level with the dog. The dog seemed concerned.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He looked around. Did anyone see me?

Thomas sat down and thought to himself. The dog came over and sat next to him. The pool of blood around the man’s head had stopped growing. Thomas could hear the man’s iPod playing alternative rock. It was all just a little too real for Thomas. He wanted to run away.

And so, he did. He hadn’t gone far when he noticed a clinking and dragging sound. The dog had been keeping pace with him, dragging his leash as he ran with Thomas. He stopped and the dog stopped too. Thomas bent down to look at the dog’s collar. The collar had a tag that listed the address and name of the dog. The dog’s name was Lucky. He and his owner had lived in the same zipcode as Thomas.

“I guess…I guess you’re coming with me Lucky.” He picked up Lucky’s leash.

They both walked out of the desert and towards Thomas’ car. Thomas put Lucky in the backseat. When Thomas got into the front seat, Lucky jumped into the passenger seat next to him. Lucky put his head on the dashboard.

“I’m sorry I killed your owner.” Lucky looked up at Thomas. He kind’ve looks sad. Fuck. How am I going to explain this to Laura?

Thomas turned on the engine and drove away with tears in his eyes.

Maybe it’s just something about a dancing tire that pisses people off. Maybe I’m just a nice target for a random burst of rage. I don’t know.

I am a dancing tire for Tito’s Auto Repair. They keep my costume at the shop. I show up. I put it on. I go outside and dance. It’s not a job I’m proud of, but it pays the bills. Thankfully, I have few bills.

The costume is strange. I’m supposed to be a tire, but there isn’t a hole in the middle like a normal tire would have. I guess it’d be pretty weird to see a man’s beer belly in the middle of a tire. It looks more like an oreo with treads. At least it’s made out of rubber.

The worst part is the part I see through. The smart thing would’ve been to have a see-through screen or something. Instead, my costume has a cut-out rectangle that I can see and breathe through. The costume also has great big bulging eyes. The costume sounds like a semi-good idea on paper, but the placement of the cut-out makes the cut-out look like a mouth. When I’m in it, I look like a treaded oreo monster that has eaten a fat Mexican man. I think it would be unsettling to see a man’s eyes staring out at you from a monster oreo’s mouth, but it attracts customers. I haven’t seen myself in the costume. I don’t want to. I probably look like an idiot. I try not to think of that. I try to think about the money I’ll get. Sweet glorious cash! I may look like an idiot, but I’m a paid idiot. That’s what matters.

The dance I do for my job isn’t really much of a dance. It’s more of a wiggle. Sometimes, I forget to wiggle. It’s hot as hell outside. It’s even hotter in the rubber costume. All I can think about is how sweaty and miserable I am. When I get my lunch, Tito tells me, “You weren’t dancing enough. How are the customers gonna see you if you’re not dancing?”. If customers don’t show up, it’s my fault. So, I bend my knees and sway from side to side. I don’t know why dancing makes a difference, but I do it anyway. I haven’t lost my job yet.

I don’t mind looking like an idiot as much as I mind all the assholes. I see so many middle fingers. Flipping the bird has almost become a greeting to me. I just wave at all those pissed off fuckers. I used to get mad, but why be pissed off at a stranger?

Sometimes, I’m wiggling my ass off and then something almost knocks me on my ass. I never thought a Big Gulp thrown from a truck could pack such a punch. The first time it happened I couldn’t really believe it. Some guy in the passenger seat of a red truck looked at me. He smiled and threw me the finger. Then he threw the Big Gulp. I saw it in slow motion. The Big Gulp was coming towards me. Some of the soda and ice was spilling out. The ice shined in the sunlight. All I could think was, “Who’d do that to a soda?”.

It happens more often then you’d think. I just hate when it goes into the tire’s mouth and hits me in my face. The cold ice is refreshing, but the soda gets sticky fast. Slurpees are even worse. People even throw food at me! I don’t get it. Someone buys food. They’re driving around drinking or eating. They see me and, all of a sudden, they want to chuck it at me. They’re either crazy or pissed off. I assume they’re pissed off. There can’t be that many crazy people in this world.

All that shit was a pain in the ass at first. Now, I think it’s just part of the job. The days when I don’t get hit are weird to me. There’s something satisfying about being somebody’s punching bag. Work is a little more meaningful because of it. I’m not just out here selling my time for money. This isn’t just about my food and electricity. My job is also about being a stress reliever.

I shake my fat sweaty ass for all those pissed off people. Maybe they won’t take out their frustrations on somebody else. Who cares about a Mexican-eating treaded oreo monster anyway?

What I really want to know is: where do these people work? I’d like to share some drinks with them.

I didn’t question his wisdom because he didn’t question my ID. I’m 18 and Checho’s bar was the only bar that let me in. Why ruin a good thing?

Beer had flowed into me faster than my hard-earned money going back into the socioeconomic system which I thought repressed me. That’s why I drank. The Man could have my money, but he’d never have my mind. No. My mind I saved for philosophy, drugs, and alcohol.

That’s how I spent my time. I gave my money to Checho. Checho would use that money to buy his wife a bracelet. The jeweler who sold Checho the bracelet would take his money and buy whatever it is jewelers buy. I essentially traded in my time at my job for beer. From that, a jeweler was capable of satisfying his material needs. The world kept turning.

“Hey man. What’s good?”

I turned to the speaker. I didn’t know what to say. I have trouble with slang. Would “Not much.” be an appropriate response? I have no idea. It was only then that I took in my surroundings and the look of the speaker.

I had taken a shortcut home as always. The alley was not well lit. The only light was the moon’s. The speaker addressing me was under a broken lamppost. His face was obscured by the shadow from his hood. Our clothes weren’t so different. What is it about baggy jeans and a hoodie? I could’ve been him had things gone differently in life.

“Not much. How are you?”, I said.

“I’m good man. I got the chron. 25 a g.”

So many things pass through your mind when confronted with such a sales pitch. Why does he assume I smoke weed? Is he gonna rob me? Do I have enough money for this? Do I need more weed? Is he a cop? What drives a man to selling weed to strangers in a dark alley?

A strange feeling comes over me. Its a mix of confusion, terror, and glee. This man at this hour at this alley and here I am. Questions are zooming through my mind, but I already have my answer.

I say, “Sounds good.” And, we step into the shadows. Three things are true: he’s not a cop, he’s not going to rob me, and I want to be high. We both reach into our backpockets. Its a beautiful ballet. I reach for my wallet and he reaches for a gram of chronic. The chronic comes out in a plastic bag shaped nicely into a ball. The money is crumpled lettuce. We exchange our goods in a mock handshake of goodbyes.

I get to get high and he gets to pay his bills. Some guy at the electric company will be able to put his kid through college. This lettuce is powerful.

The hardest part about smoking is the preparation. You need to clean
the weed, put it in some kind of smoking apparatus, and light it.
Thankfully, good chron stems can be smoked. So, I didn’t need to clean
it. I have a pipe. No need to roll a joint. Lighting is easy. A lighter always seems to appear
in my hands at the exact time I need one.

I was already on my way down the alley. If you know me, then you know that I carry a bag wherever I go. My dad always told me, “Just like the Boy Scouts, always be prepared.”

From my bag, comes the pipe. The pipe is in my left hand as I search for my smoking tool with my right. This tool is perfect. It cleans, it scoops, it packs! I feel it in my bag and grasp it. The tool is now poking a hole in my bag of chron. It scoops up a good amount for the walk home. I pour the chron into the pipe.

Chk! Chk! The lighter in my hand clicks into the night and finally comes alive. Fire meet chron. Chron meet fire. You two are a wonderful match.

I inhale deeply.

The walk home is much more comfortable. A day of working and yet it is now that I feel I have contributed most to society. I have finally gained happiness from a purchase of material goods. I have joined my brethren in sweet bliss.

But, tomorrow I will still see Checho. His wife wants more jewelry and I will need more beer.