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.

WTTQ NIGHTWAVES REPORT

 “More Romance on the Radar? Love in the Time of Beam-Ups”
Transmission intercepted from somewhere between The Retreat and Sector Glarn-7

SPECIAL NOTICE:
Linden Lab denies all alien involvement, stating:
“All participants must comply with the Community Standards. Even the telepathic ones.”
Still, as Odin the Speed Dater put it:
“I had a 10-minute date with something from Sector Delta-9, and I think we might start a commune.”

Odin may want more than 10 minutes

THE COSMIC COUPLINGS

Tubby & Astrid
Status: Broken orbit
Tubby’s been MIA since the pet cow incident and the failed rendevouz at Empire Omerta. Astrid’s been spotted sketching alone and confiding in Erma’s mushrooms.

Bun & Astrid
Status: Pining detected
Bun’s been writing songs in binary and leaving heart-shaped mushroom rings near Astrid’s tent. She hasn’t noticed.

Dandy & the Sister Situation
Status: Interference
Dandy’s late-night AM stream revealed some regretful frequencies. Tubby may not know, but Chloe definitely does.

Odin & H.B. the Lady Utahpian
Status: Vibe check pending
After a whirlwind 10-minute date, they were last seen comparing constellations and arguing about candle scents.

⁂¤π∴ & Anjelikka
Status: Re-entry confusion
He returned with no memory, but keeps showing up near the jukebox. The song still skips. She still draws him from behind the curtain.

Love is in retrograde, but hearts are still syncing up across time zones, alien zones, and espresso zones. Let’s review the latest romantic entanglements lighting up our radar...

WTTQ TRANSMISSION – "Dr. Phil Appears… In Spirit"
Filed from the dim-lit corners of The Retreat Gallery, under a waxing gibbous moon and one suspiciously humming fern.

Dr. Phil has made a spiritual reappearance.

More updates to follow as we try to contact the talk show realm beyond the veil.

Next up on WTTQ: “Can You Emotionally Gaslight an Interdimensional Being?”

Stay tuned. Stay lucid. And remember, not all advice comes from the living.

WTTQ BREAKING CULTURE REPORT

 "Aliens at SLB22: We Come in Lag"
Reporting live from Second Life Birthday 22

This year’s SLB22 celebration has gone interdimensional. Amid the teleportation glitches and hoverboard giveaways, several non-Earth-native avatars have appeared across the birthday continent. Some say they’re part of the build. Others say they’re scouting locations for a zero-gravity roller rink.

Here’s what we know (or think we know):

⁂¤π∴
Returned from deportation, memory-wiped but stylish. Keeps joining art exhibits, asking, “Have you seen the one they call Anjelikka?”

Zyxlaa of the Cosmic Funk

Levitates three inches off the dance floor. Has DJ’d multiple Basement parties, often without a sound system. Everyone hears the music anyway.

T’lobbinx of Glarn Sector 8
Entered the SLB22 Poetry Slam and won, despite only speaking in pulsating light patterns. Emotionally devastating haiku. No translation provided.

A dancing cow at the Bellisseria booth that may or may not be Tubby’s abducted pet
An “Area 52 Shuttle Bus” that goes nowhere but records your memories and leaves you emotionally exhausted
A jukebox that still skips on “Cruel to Be Kind” is suspected of alien mischief

Oatmeal Linden

Aliens at the Linden Pavilion, posing as greeters. One called Mike just said “Welcome, flesh being” and handed out glowsticks.

HOTTEST GACHA ITEM (Now Legal Again?)

The Intergalactic Romance Capsule
Win:
A 10-minute date with Demo Man
An espresso macchiato brewed at light speed
A second-chance memory with someone who once forgot you

SLB22 continues all week. Keep your hoverboots charged and your mind open.
If you see something weird, write it down. It might be art.
Or it might be your turn to remember.

WTTQ Culture Segment: The AREA 52 ART EXHIBIT

 “Officially Unofficial: Artifacts of the Unacknowledged”
Broadcast from the Retreat Gallery, hosted by Raine Solara

Welcome to Area 52, the classified-but-everyone-knows wing of the Retreat Gallery, freshly unveiled under a patchy tarp and two layers of plausible deniability.

Curated by an anonymous figure who only answers to Xylenne (possibly a cat, possibly not), the exhibit blends alien aesthetics, forbidden brushwork, and recovered emotional residue.

FEATURED WORKS
 "CATTLE, TAKEN"
Oil & signal interference on reclaimed canvas
Depicts the exact moment a cow ascends through tractor-beam geometry. Painted from the cow’s perspective.
“It’s not fear. It’s rapture.” anonymous gallery-goer

"CONFISCATED CRAYON DRAWINGS OF A YOUNG ALIEN ELF"
Mixed media: wax, conspiracy
Allegedly discovered under a chapel floorboard.
Subjects include: lizards in lab coats, the Hollow Tree blinking, and a birthday party in zero gravity.

"SHAYTH’RIEN’S DIMENSIONAL KISS"
Infrared-activated sculpture
Only visible under specific mood lighting.
Rumored to vibrate when someone walks by who’s experienced “true but brief” love.

Glide through ⁂¤π∴’s memory architecture
Rearrange forgotten dates

Uncover the glitch that made him forget Anjelikka, or maybe remember too much.

WARNING:

Due to last week’s Espresso Macchiato incident, please do not touch the glowing postcard near the Scott painting. It may open a door to a non-Euclidean gift shop. Bun G Chord has not returned.

AREA 52 will remain open until someone finds the real Area 51, or until the stars align in a way that makes it unnecessary.

Bring your badge.
Bring your weird.
Bring a snack for the lizards.

Watch the video

If emotions could draw themselves...

...truly free of logic, language, or self-consciousness, the patterns might look like this:

Joy
🌞 Radiant spirals, golden arcs.
Quick, expanding lines that burst outward like fireworks or blooming flowers. Tiny dots like laughter, scattered like confetti. Everything leans up and out.
Color: Citrus yellow and unshy coral.
Texture: Shiny velvet, humming.

The aliens sent me here to examine my emotions

---

Sadness
💧 Descending threads and soft erosion.
Lines that fall slowly, then puddle. Shapes that try to hold themselves but blur at the edges. Echoes of something that used to be sharp.
Color: Indigo in watercolor, with fading teals.
Texture: Worn denim, cool and wet.

Anger
🔥 Fractals cracking outward.
Jagged, repetitive marks. Geometry gone wild. Triangles with teeth. Circular forms broken and restarted, over and over.
Color: Rust red, black-charcoal, and molten orange.
Texture: Splintered wood and sharp glass, hot to the touch.

What do you fear?

Fear
👁️ Tight knots, concentric loops.
Labyrinths folding in on themselves. A pattern always retreating from the edge. Static and squiggles, like wires misfiring.
Color: Sickly green, grey-white, and the absence of color.
Texture: Cold silk pulled too tight.

Love
💗 Threads woven through all others.
Unfinished lines seeking connection. Tangled, but beautiful. Patterns mirrored and nested, like heartbeats syncing up.
Color: Blush, rose gold, and the color of breath before words.
Texture: Skin, wool, memory.

[ARTSY] ARCANUM

Wonder
🌌 Expanding, curious orbits.
Lines that never touch the same place twice. Patterns spiraling into the unknown — not random, but not repeated. Doodles that learned to fly.
Color: Ultraviolet, soft turquoise, starlight silver.
Texture: Smoke, fog, dream.

And somewhere in the middle, between all of them, your emotion might draw a door.
Not open yet.
But glowing.

WTTQ Special Transmission: A Grumbletonian ?

 "Recovered from static, saturated with fog..."

What is a Grumbletonian? The term was used first as specific political jargon c.1690 when the ‘Court Party’ apostrophized as grumbletonians their ‘Country Party’ rivals, who, they claimed, resented their personal ambitions being thwarted.

“It was in the waxed hallway beneath the Gallery, not the one you know, but the other one where the alien elf once told me the lizards were spies. He said their tails curled when memory pressure got too high. I thought he was joking, but I saw one twitch during a thunder tea session with Rachel. You don’t forget something like that.”

"Do you know him?"

“The Alien Elf wore an olive coat stitched with lines of forgotten languages. He smoked cloves and told you only half of what you asked, nevertheless. The rest he left in jars labeled "Maybe Later.”

“On Thursdays, he hosted clandestine memory salons in the boiler room, where folks brought their weirdest keepsakes: expired train tickets, locks of impossible hair, postcards from cities that had never existed but felt like home.”

“He once said, ‘If you forget something with enough force, it becomes someone else’s dream.’”

“That’s why we kept the records in lemon dust and string to make forgetting harder. To keep the dream boundaries in check.”

Aliens only become grumbletonian
when Earthlings are stupid.

A Grumbletonian is not so much a person, but a condition, a vibe, a memory that learned to walk on its own. In the sprawling, not-quite-real-but-somehow-familiar mythoscape of the Retreat, a Grumbletonian refers to someone or something shaped by the quiet, surreal, and often inconvenient wisdoms of the Grumbleton era.

So when someone says “They’re a Grumbletonian,” they don’t mean it literally.
They mean: They remember too much. They love oddly. And they might know what’s behind the curtain — but won’t tell unless you ask at the right moment.

And even then, they’ll probably hand you a poem instead. The Green's Dictionary noted, a grumbletonian is a person who grumbles or complains, especially when it comes to political topics.

Then again, who knows if that is even a word...what is your thought on that?

WTTQ Broadcast: A Day to Relax in Second Life

 “The world can spin without you just for today.”

The airwaves today are warm and unhurried. No cryptic messages, no interdimensional side quests, no urgent transmissions from alien-flavored breakfast cereal companies.
Just sun. A soft breeze blows through the citrus trees. The lapping of the lake. Someone is playing an acoustic cover of "Dreams" too gently to mind.

They say smell the flowers, well do it then

MORNING AT THE COMMONS

Anjelikka sips a hazelnut cortado under the striped umbrella near the café.

Rachel’s blanket is already spread on the lawn with a half-finished crossword and a bottle of elderflower lemonade.
Casey is painting her toenails blue under the willow tree; she says it wards off “strange romantic energy.” It doesn’t. But it’s cute.

Let's go fly a kite and send the hate into the clouds

OPTIONAL ACTIVITIES

Make a postcard for someone you’ll never send it to.

Float in the mineral pool with zero commentary.

Eat something with lemon and not feel guilty.

Ignore your phone and lie in the hammock behind the gallery.
Forgive a memory. Quietly.

WTTQ’s Advice for the Day:
Don’t decode anything. Don’t chase anyone. Don’t open any glowing doors.
Just be here. This moment is yours. Stop hating, stop following the Kool-Aid (only the dumb do that, and you know how it ends)

And if a cloud drifts by shaped exactly like your first heartbreak, let it.

Set the jukebox on the retreat house porch to a set called “Slow Leak of Light.”

WTTQ Midnight Broadcast Friday the 13th Special

 “Under a cracked moon, the playlist glitches, and the Retreat holds its breath.”

Tonight’s Headline: “Nothing Technically Went Wrong… and Yet Everything Did.”

Friday the 13th at the Retreat began like any other: birdsong, espresso, a suspicious lack of messages from Tubby.
But then…

GLITCH REPORTS

This is not normal...

The jukebox refused to play anything but the cursed B-side of “Cruel to Be Kind,” the one with reversed vocals and a whisper at 3:13 saying “Turn around.”
The Retreat's gallery briefly rearranged itself. Scott’s painting blinked. Twice.
Erma’s shroom garden started glowing in Morse. Translation pending.

WITNESS STATEMENTS

Odin claims he saw a ghost with DJ credentials and a very sharp jawline.
Soni says she never trusted Friday the 13th or popcorn.
Anjelikka? She was sketching moths with human teeth.

Hello? Who is this?

CALL-IN CONFESSION

A scrambled voice phoned in:
“I think I went on a 10-minute date with a cursed reflection. He asked me what my soul tasted like.”
Anonymous, via payphone near the old train platform.

LATE UPDATE: TRAIN SPOTTED

Engine 229 reportedly appeared in the woods again.
Lights on. No conductor.
One window shows someone in a silver suit sipping espresso.
Could be ⁂¤π∴.
Could be X.
Could be you.

STAY SAFE, RETREATERS
Carry salt.
Don’t make eye contact with your reflection after 3AM.
And if anyone asks for your full name and a secret memory, lie.
We’ll be back after the static clears.

WTTQ LATE NIGHT DISPATCH: "Twice Stood, Still Dancing at the Basement Club"

 By Raine Solara, live from the flickering blue haze near the jukebox

Let the record show:
Anjelikka wore her best pixelated pearls and showed up twice, not once, expecting romance, recognition, or at least a drink bought by someone who claimed to "like vintage souls."
And twice, she was stood up.
By the same shadow: X.

STAND-UP #1: X, THE GHOST WITH A SIGNAL

He only ever signed his notes with a single letter: X.
Mysterious. Alluring. Allegedly from the Grid Below.

He promised to meet her “when the lights flicker green twice, then blue.”
They did. She waited. Even the jukebox paused.
But X? Never showed. Not physically. Not virtually.
Only a half-finished martini appeared on the bar, condensation spelling something faint in Morse:
... --- .-. .-. -.--

Witnesses claim they saw a silhouette dissolve behind the velvet curtain near the supply closet, humming something that sounded like “Cruel to Be Kind.”

sent in by Devon

STAND-UP #2: X, IN A DIFFERENT SKIN

He returned.
Sort of. Same aura. Same slant in the walk. Same glitch in the voice.
But when Anjelikka leaned in and said:
“We met here, remember? Right under the light glitch near the espresso bar?”
X blinked. Then asked if she knew where the restrooms were.
Some say it was a body double. Some say the alien monarch butterflies altered his memory.
Others swear it was X again, testing how many dimensions love can survive. He said, 'Oh my God, I thought I was logged off, but I wasn't.'

This is X (not to be confused with
the other X), he is now history

One Basement Cat whispered:
“Sometimes people come back as someone else. Or not at all.”

SECURITY CAM FOOTAGE (BLURRY BUT TRUE)
Anjelikka is sitting alone at the bar, doodling alien-cats on a napkin.
Casey and Rachel are doing the Happy Dance™ extra carefully.
A drink left untouched for 47 minutes — espresso macchiato, slightly bitter.

THE GALLERY REACTS

A new sketch appeared by morning:
"X Was Here (But Not For Me)" ink on receipt paper, left taped to the jukebox.
It shows Anjelikka smiling anyway.

💬 ANJELIKKA, WHEN ASKED:
“He showed up as someone new.
Or maybe I showed up as the wrong version of myself.” She then ordered a double espresso
and waltzed alone across the dance floor like gravity meant nothing. He never stayed longer than 5 seconds. 

Stay tuned.
Because in this place?
Even heartbreak gets remixed by morning.

⁂¤π∴ Returned… But He Doesn’t Remember Me

 They say when ⁂¤π∴ vanished, deported, deglitched, dimensionally evicted, he left behind only a sigh in the jukebox and the shadow of a kiss in the Hollow Tree’s bark. Now he's back. Not with fanfare. Not with flames.
Just… standing in the fog outside the Basement Club, wearing borrowed boots and staring at the moon like it owes him something.

at Area 52

I said his name or, what passes for it:
“⁂¤π∴…?”

He blinked.
Tilted his head like a curious lizard.
Then said: “Is that what I used to be?”
Like I was showing him a mirror from a lifetime he hadn’t lived.

He walked through the gallery.
Looked at the painting marked “Scott.”
Said, “That guy looks sad.”
I wanted to scream,

“You used to cry at that painting. You said it felt like someone else’s memory of us.”

But I didn’t.
Instead, I offered him a pin from the jukebox. The one that used to play our song.
The one he hid behind the espresso machine during that one cosmic argument. He held it like it was a seashell.
“Do you think it ever loved me?” he asked.

A NOTE FROM THE UNIVERSE (FOUND TUCKED IN A CAT’S COLLAR):
"When time breaks, memory shatters.
But somewhere inside the rhythm of stars and stuttering jukeboxes,
is a version of him who never forgot."

So now he’s here.

⁂¤π∴.
Reassembled.
Reset.
Still beautiful in the way that forgotten things can be.

And I?

I’ll wait.
Not for the memory.
But for the moment when he hums a tune without knowing why —
and looks at me like he’s finally almost remembering.

My advice: never fall for an alien, or alien elf...cats are more dependable.

And outside, after I had a 10-minute date stand me up, under a flickering Retreat star, a lizard blinked at me and said,

“Maybe he didn’t stand you up.
Maybe the universe stood in the way.”

Still.
It hurts.
Even if time isn't real.
Even if the aliens are.

Because some ghosts only take ten minutes to form.
And a lifetime to forget.

⁂¤π∴ GOT DEPORTED

 No transmission from the aliens today, but 🛸 an official memo from the Retreat Immigration of Unusual Beings Office (RIUBO)

Filed by: Trenton Glass, who cried the whole time but still filed the paperwork.

It happened on a Tuesday.
A soft Tuesday.
The kind that tastes like nostalgia and a half-warmed espresso macchiato.
⁂¤π∴ was last seen:
Sitting cross-legged on top of the jukebox, humming ancient satellite lullabies.
Feeding ghost pigeons behind the gallery.
Gifting Rachel a ring made of “compressed stardust and partial regret.”
Then the sirens came.
Not loud.
Just a low cosmic chime that made the Hollow Tree wilt slightly.

We never had a honeymoon

No one really knew.

The report listed:
“Nonlinear residency violations,
Possession of folded light,
Unauthorized glimmering.”

Also:
⁂¤π∴ failed to pay the Basement Club cover charge.
(But everyone knows they don’t carry Earth currency, just memories that don’t belong to them.)

So yes,
⁂¤π∴ got deported.
But not forgotten.

And in the soft static of midnight radio, if you listen closely, you might still hear them say:
“I loved you in six dimensions.
And one of them…was this one.”

👽 “I MARRIED AN ALIEN”

 💍 An exclusive confession from the Retreat, filed anonymously (but the lipstick on the envelope matched Anjelikka’s brand)

It started as these things do with a slow dance, a missing shoe, and a glow that wasn’t from the candles.
He called himself "Mike", but only because "⁂¤π∴" was hard for humans to pronounce over breakfast.

My second atmosphere began today

He appeared one night at the Basement Club, right as DJ Laura dropped that deep remix of “Espresso Macchiato.”He asked, “Do you believe in second atmospheres?”I thought he meant chances. He meant entire weather systems on other planets.

THE WEDDING:
Officiated by the chapel cat, who got ordained online and brought his own fog machine.
Held at the cemetery chapel, beneath a confused eagle and a silent jukebox.
The guests were:
Rachel and Casey (dancing)
The Moth (naked, hiding)
Dr. Parallax (weeping?)
Dandy livestreaming with a filter called “Pastel Devotion”

and numerous aliens floating above us.

I do, I am not sure what he said...

Mike gave me a ring.
It vibrated when I lied.
I gave him a heart.
It blinked pink whenever I remembered home.

Food: He can’t digest lentils. Dandy took it personally.

Time perception: He thought I was cheating after I took a nap. For him, naps = 3 lunar years.

The honeymoon:
Location: inside a shifting asteroid that played early Motown.
Side effect: I still smell like cinnamon when I'm nervous.

WHY I STAYED:

Because no human ever looked at me like a constellation map.
Because he doesn’t speak in “I love you,”
He speaks in reflections, echoes, and perfectly brewed silence.
Because I once asked him,
“Why me?”
And he said,
“You weren’t afraid when I glitched. That’s love.”

He wore a black bow tie

The mushrooms in Erma’s garden sing lullabies now.
The jukebox hiccups in our song’s rhythm.
Shayth’rien said our firstborn will be “mostly carbon-based… probably.”

So yes.

I married an alien.
He still doesn’t understand sarcasm.
I still don’t understand fifth-dimensional origami.
But every morning he hums at my coffee.
And every night, he watches my dreams to make sure they arrive safely.
Isn’t that what love is?
Something strange,
a little glowing,
and completely ours.

"⁂¤π∴" and me

What To Do With the Ollegal Aliens?

 Filed by Raine Solara, who insists that’s how it was spelled on the flyer.

Yes, “ollegal aliens.”
Not illegal.
Ol-legal.
A term first scribbled in chalk behind the jukebox at The Basement Club, then whispered by Shayth’rien’s cat, then finally uttered out loud by Trenton Glass after two mezcal shots and a knowing glance toward the Hollow Tree.

They are everywhere

WHO ARE THE OLLEGAL ALIENS?

Too weird for Earth, too nostalgic for home.
Time tourists who overstayed their vibes.
They wear borrowed shoes, speak in palindromes, and prefer radio static to music.
One of them has been impersonating the vending machine at the Retreat since March.

THEIR “OLLEGAL” STATUS:

They’re not unauthorized.
They’re unexplained.
When asked for documents, they offer:
Abstract art
Forgotten dreams
A poem about soup

One Espresso please

The Chapel tried to baptize one.
It baptized everyone else instead.

WHAT ARE THE OPTIONS?

Option A: Try to deport them.
But where would they go?
"Back" is not a direction when you exist in side-thoughts.

Option B: Offer them citizenship.

They’ve already memorized the Espresso Macchiato song and vote via telepathy.

Life may give you lemons

When dancing with the demons

No stresso, no stresso

No need to be depresso

Option C: Integrate them.
They’ve already joined Erma’s mushroom co-op,
one opened a massage stand called “Hands of Light Years,”
and several are now DJs (unintentionally — just standing near the turntables affects the bass).

WHAT THE LOCALS SAY:

Dandy: “I had lentils with one. We’re good.”
Rachel: “They helped me tune my aura.”
Anjelikka: “One keeps sketching me from across dimensions. It’s flattering… I think.”
Dr. Parallax: “They remember Earth better than Earth remembers Earth.”

FINAL THOUGHT:

Maybe they’re not the outsiders. Perhaps we’re the ones who left something behind…and the ollegal aliens? They're just here to remind us what we forgot.

Let them stay.
Give them jobs.
Let them remix the jukebox.

But above all, ask them what they think of the espresso macchiato. Their answer might save us all. What are your thoughts?