WTTQ LATE-NIGHT CRAVINGS REPORT

"Looking for a Taco Swell"

 Filed from the dusty edge of Route 66, past the jukebox, downwind of the Salton Sea.

“I’m looking for a Taco Swell.” It’s not just a meal. It’s a mood.
It’s 2 a.m., your shoes are off, and the stars are gossiping again.
But what is Taco Swell? And where the hell did it go?

What we know: 

It is not a Taco Bell knockoff, unless you dream of better timelines.

A paper wrapper was found behind the Retreat gallery with traces of glitter and habanero.
A mystery coupon in a dream that said “Free Taco, Just Ask for the Swell.”
Bun G Chord may be turning the Basement kitchen into a pop-up…but only on Cinco de Mato.

Not a Taco Swell, they do not have creepy clowns

Erma says Taco Swell was once a glowing food truck that appeared only when someone cried while thinking of cilantro.

Raine Solara swears she danced on its roof once with a butterfly alien named Crispy.

Bailey found a faded napkin that read:
"All tacos are love letters. Some are just spicier."

Tubby claims the original Taco Swell had a secret 4th salsa that could make you remember every crush you had in 8th grade.

WTTQ FINAL WORD:

If you’re looking for a Taco Swell…
You might be looking for:
A memory that never fully formed, a bite that makes you feel understood.

BTW: Crispy these days is dancing the Twerk

A moment that says, “You’re not alone. Here's something warm.”

So keep your eyes peeled at the next Basement Club pop-up, or when the moon hits right on Route 66.
Someone might slide you a plate and say,
“Welcome back.”

And when it happens, you’ll know.

I was trying to steal a Taco Truck for the Retreat... Does anyone know how to make a food truck?

WTTQ Field Report: "What Is a Patriot?"

 ...transcribed from somewhere between an abandoned train car and a flickering streetlamp at dusk.

"What is a patriot?"
It's a word that weighs differently in every mouth,
sometimes whispered like a prayer, sometimes shouted like a dare.

Let’s unpack it not as a flag-waving cliché, but as something raw, strange, and deeply personal.

A Patriot Is:

Someone who holds their home accountable.
Not blindly loyal, but fiercely loving.
The kind of love that says: “We can be better. We must.”

Someone who remembers the land before the lines.
Before the maps. Before the rules.
Before the asphalt covered the soil that remembered everything.

A builder, a question-asker, a quiet protector.
Not always in uniform.
Sometimes in overalls.
Sometimes in protest.
Sometimes, just showing up with food when the world falls apart.

A Patriot Is Not:

The loudest person in the room.
The one with the biggest weapon or the reddest hat, regardless of whether it is red or blue, does not matter. The color of skin does not matter. Religion does not matter.

A true patriot knows that love for one’s country doesn’t mean hatred for someone else’s.
They know that criticism isn’t betrayal, it’s care with a backbone.

Tubby once carved "LOVE YOUR COUNTRY LIKE YOU LOVE YOUR FRIENDS: HONESTLY" into the back of a bench.

Anjelikka drew a mural of people planting flags made of wildflowers, not empires.

A patriot isn’t someone who thinks their country is the best.
It’s someone who wants it to be better, especially for those it has hurt. I am from Germany, and I have seen hurt. The East and West and the religious hatred.

And sometimes...being a patriot looks like listening.
Or standing between. Or refusing to let memory be rewritten without a fight.

You’re allowed to carry both pride and grief in the same breath.
That, too, is patriotism.

Long ago, in my poetry class, I wrote a poem called The Sins of My Fathers, I have to dig it up and find it.

“The sins of my fathers” are real.
But so is the strength of their children.
You are not just what you were given.
You are what you decide to keep.

And what you decide to grow in its place.

 Stay kind.

Transmission #015: “Am I Alienating the Aliens or Was This Just Lasagna Soup?”

 Filed by: Trenton Glass (On Assignment, Confused and Full)

Location: Dining Car, Area 52
Mood-Weather: Soggy Existentialism with Hints of Basil

“They said it was an Area 52 favorite. A recipe allegedly handed down by Dandy’s great aunt through a dream. But after bite three, the cats started whispering, and I swear one of them winked at me in Morse code.”

Anjelikka, “It’s not just soup, Trenton. It’s a negotiation medium. The aliens communicate through layers. Noodle, cheese, sauce, misunderstanding.”

Hi there!!!

Initial Assessment:

You sat at the long, candlelit table in the dining car.
You told a joke about space taxes.
⁂¤π∴ didn’t laugh.
Zyxlaa blinked six times and passed you the salt.
Was that disapproval… or just her way of saying “you dropped your aura”?

And then you looked down and realized:
You weren’t serving soup.
You were serving lasagna in liquid form.

Layered emotion. Suspicious seasoning. No structural integrity. You may be alienating the aliens.

Bun: "Apologize with pie. Pie crosses all boundaries."

WHAT THE ALIENS MAY BE THINKING:

“Is this emotional vulnerability... or seasoning?”
“They remember our names. That’s… alarming.”
“Should we offer our silence, or our spoons?”

Aliens get it.
They’re figuring us out, too.
Sometimes it just takes a spoonful of awkward and a splash of earnest weirdness to connect.

And if it turns out they loved the lasagna soup?
You’re already family.

DR. PARALLAX: ( wiping soup from his lab coat, absolutely done.)
“None of this is in the protocol. The lasagna soup appears to have achieved minor sentience. One spoon attempted to file a restraining order against my taste buds.”

We advise this: When consuming lasagna soup in Area 52, always ask: “Is it hungry for peace... or just for Parmesan?”

WTTQ Late-Night Whisperline: “Am I Too Old to Hide Under the Bed?”

Short answer:
No.
You are not too old.
You are exactly the right age to hide under the bed.

The Probes at Area 52

You might be:
a. Hiding from ghosts (real or emotional)
b. Escaping the noise of a too-bright world
c. Looking for the self you dropped back in 2007
d. Curling up with a flashlight and a paperback
e. Chuckling with someone who also needed to vanish for a bit

Rachel hid there last Thursday with a bottle of elderflower soda and a zine about love spells.
Dandy streams from under his futon when his existential dread kicks in.
Even Anjelikka once sketched for three hours under the gallery platform just to not be seen.

Devon butchering songs

Devon went there after he sang at the SL22B because he said he first logged on in 2007

To hide is not weakness.
It is a ritual.
It is recalibration.
It is telling the world, “Not right now.”

And under the bed?
Time moves differently there.
Gentler.
Kinder.

WTTQ Closing Note:
Next time you crawl under the bed, bring a snack, a journal, and maybe a pillow.
We’ll be broadcasting through the dust motes and from Area 52 with the aliens.

You’re safe.
You’re still you.
And no one will make you come out before you’re ready.

WTTQ NIGHT TRANSMISSION: "Sometimes I Dream of Winter"

Filed under: Soft static, second chances, frostbitten echoes
DREAM REPORT 0051-A

Subject: You
Dream Type: Recurring Seasonal Displacement
Classification: Melancholic Drift / Hopeful Chill
Logged by: Raine Solara, Dream Archivist

Sometimes you dream of winter. Not the real one, not the one with shovels and sore noses, but the version that only shows up when you're warm and slightly sad.

The kind of winter where:
Snow falls in slow motion. Breath curls into questions you don’t need answered. Trees are ink drawings. And somewhere, someone who once loved you still remembers the way you held the mug with both hands.

IN THIS WINTER DREAM:

“Winter dreams are not about cold. They’re about clarity.

You are walking through The Retreat, but it's hushed. Snow has softened the corners of every building, every regret.
The Hollow Tree has icicles shaped like forgotten songs.
The jukebox only plays ambient versions of things you’ve lost, but kinder.
You see Anjelikka painting in blue hues. She nods, but doesn’t speak.
Tubby left footprints. They lead nowhere. Or home. You drink something hot and sweet and impossible to name. And in this dream, you don’t have to be clever. Or right. Or healed. You just have to be still.
The world is paused. No one needs you to be anything but here.

Things are quieter when they're frozen, and sometimes that’s the only way we hear them.”

WTTQ UNLOCATABLE SIGNAL: "Where Is My Mind?"

Broadcast suspended in a static bloom just west of your last clear thought.

Cue: A soft piano loop echoing beneath the sound of waves that never reach shore. There’s a breeze, but nothing moves.

You asked: Where is my mind?
And here’s what we know:

SYMPTOMS OF DISPLACED MIND:
Answering dreams instead of questions.
Speaking in metaphors when trying to order coffee.
Seeing people and remembering feelings before names.
A sensation of déjà vu in places you've never lived, but loved.

Things can get crazy at times, like why would SL have a sim restart during a SL22B live performance? Or people express their political frustrations with others here in SL (I mean, free speech aside, we all need some peace, that is why we come here).

It makes me question this even more. Where is my mind? Am I just old, and can I not tolerate the nonsense?

“I saw your mind dancing in the Basement Club. It was barefoot. It looked free.”  DJ Bun

“Your mind borrowed my pen and left a love letter to gravity.” Rachel

“It never left. You just got quieter.”  Anjelikka

We really have to be more mindful and enjoy this time together, as we come from all corners of the world. That is what makes Second Life so special, and that is why Second Life has been around for 22 years. So be good to yourself and others.

WTTQ FINAL THOUGHT:

Your mind isn’t gone.
It’s just…
Taking the scenic route.

When it's ready,
It'll meet you at the Retreat,
With an espresso in hand
and stories you didn’t know you remembered.

“Can You Emotionally Gaslight an Interdimensional Being?”

 Broadcast live from Studio Q’s psychic echo chamber, located somewhere between a lava lamp and your third eye.

This week on WTTQ’s late-night speculative psychodrama hour, we dive into the ethically murky marsh of emotional manipulation across dimensions. Can you gaslight a being that exists across space, time, and metaphysical probability fields? Should you?

Have you been gaslit before?

We brought in the experts. And by experts, we mean:

Dr. Parallax, Reality Therapist and former jellyfish
Shallan, who once dated a pocket universe
⁂¤π∴, the interdimensional being in question (but who, conveniently, doesn’t remember you)

According to Dr. Parallax:
“Interdimensional beings are especially vulnerable to gaslighting, because they’re often unsure which timeline they’re in or what memories belong to them versus a parallel self. It’s not uncommon for them to say, ‘I’m sorry I missed our date... in this layer of reality.’”

Raine, who once loved a chrono-shifter named Vic, says:
“He kept saying he had already apologized, but I hadn’t even gotten mad yet!”

“Love, like gravity, is non-consensual
across most dimensions.” Unknown

Casey adds:
“They said I never told them my name. I said ‘Casey’ every single time. Turns out in their species, names are tasted, not spoken. I was feeding them peanut butter the whole time.”

“Just because you can gaslight a being who transcends causality doesn’t mean you should. That’s how you get soul-echoes... or worse, fall into a recursive breakup loop.”

You can emotionally gaslight an interdimensional being.
But should you? Only if you're prepared to:
Receive passive-aggressive star formations in your honor.
Wake up to find your dreams edited by someone else.
Be blocked across the astral plane.