The Inner Monologue

Welcome, delicate reader, to my little corner of the internet—a place where words are toys, truths are flexible, and your outrage is entirely your problem. If you’ve stumbled here expecting hard facts, moral clarity, or anything resembling accountability, you’ve made a grave miscalculation. This blog is a work of fiction, much like your belief that people owe you emotional safety on the internet.

Let’s get one thing straight: nothing I write should be taken seriously, even when I present it with the solemn gravitas of a documentary about alien lizard politicians. If I say the sky is green and you waste your energy arguing with me, congratulations—you’ve played yourself. Fargo claimed to be a “true story,” and people bought it because, well, people are gullible. Consider this blog my Fargo, except with more sarcasm and zero responsibility.

If you’re offended by something here, ask yourself: Why did I expect honesty from a writer who openly admits everything is made up? Did you also yell at The Blair Witch Project for not being a real documentary? Do you send angry letters to Marvel demanding to know why Spider-Man isn’t cleaning up your neighborhood? If so, you might be the reason disclaimers exist.

This blog is satire, parody, absurdism, and occasionally just me throwing word spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks. If it resembles reality, that’s either a hilarious accident or your overactive imagination. Either way, I refuse to be held accountable for your inability to separate fiction from your fragile sense of righteousness.

So, to recap:

• Nothing here is real.
• If you think it is, that’s your fault.
• If you’re mad, maybe log off and touch grass.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go write my next post: “10 Reasons Your Favorite Moral Outrage is Fabricated (And Why You Fell For It).” Stay tuned—or don’t. I literally couldn’t care less.

—Your Unapologetically Untrustworthy Narrator