She kissed me with ChapStick laced with tetrodotoxin—the CIA’s 1993 formula. Amateur move. I’d built immunity since Prague. But when her teeth clicked against the cyanide capsule I hadn’t planted, we both started laughing.

you fit into me like a hook into an eye

a fish hook an open eye

— Margaret Atwood

Dear fish,

Don't bother with what my fellow fisherman said. I thought he was my friend, but really, he's just an unpleasant boy who happens to be housed in the classroom as me.

I'm thoroughly embarrassed by his behaviour. I won't repeat the same words that he used to insult you.

I will remove him from my life once I have no further use for him.

Dear fish, tell me more about you.

Who are your parents? Did you always spend your life in this canal, or did you come from somewhere farther away?

It's so strange. The air that sustains me, out of water – it suffocates you. The water you swim in – that's your amniotic fluid – it drowns me.

O fish, you are my sibling, my cousin. We come from the same Father. Sorry that I put a hook into your lip. Will you forgive me? I didn't know any better. (I just went along with what those unpleasant boys were doing as a sport, or what they perceived as sport.)

I hope you forget about the fishermen who don't treat you well.

You know what? I took your neighbour as dinner. A catfish. There is another boy who resides in the same classroom as me – his “maid”, his household-helper, is from the Philippines – I heard they eat lots of catfish, over there in the Philippines.

His maid cooked your neighbour, the catfish, in spicy assam sauce. And served it with a bowl of piping-hot white rice. That other boy said at the dinner-table: “Do you dare to eat catfish's eyes? Here, I will eat it for you to see. See? And here are catfish's brains. Do you want to eat it?”

I feel like puking. So gross. I think catfish brains are the last straw for me.

Years later, I would learn a mantram from a wise elder.

Say to the individual animal that becomes food on your dinner table: “The same law that subjects you to pain so that you become nourishment for my body, will also subject me to the same pain, so that I become nourishment to another being's body.”

Or something like that. I can't remember the exact words. But, ya, you get the idea.

Dear fish, where are you now? After I took my fishing-hook out of your lip, and threw you back into the canal, did you find a mating partner – did you raise a family of baby fish – did you become food for those intelligent otters?

---

All the fish I have caught, including you, are so tiny, compared to my fellow fishermen's catches. But someone told me, “There are no tall people without short people to highlight the difference.” So: there are no big fish without small fish.

There are no famous bloggers without obscure bloggers. An obscure blogger like me.

Goodbye, fish. Rest in peace. I am very certain you are dead. (How long is the life-span of a fish-in-a-canal anyway?)

I will be facing my own death, at an hour I cannot stop. The writer of the Quran informs me:

Try as you might, you cannot escape death, even if you lock yourself in an ivory tower.

Elsewhere:

Death does not care whether you have lived one year, or ten years, or one hundred years.

And, from the writers of the Bible:

“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the realm of the dead, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.” – the book of Ecclesiastes, chapter 9, verse 10.

Okay, fish. I thank our Creator-Father for your body, and my body, and the body of your neighbour the catfish, who became my dinner, long, long ago.

I will wait patiently for more dinners, with thanksgiving. And then I die. And then Mother Earth will eat my body: by maggots, by rats, by fire, by fungi.

It was nice to meet you, fish!

Ichthys symbol from WikiMedia Commons. (Drawn by Fibonacci, modifying Lupin's PD source code a bit), Public Domain, Hyper-Link

Reflections and realities

The Wise Have no business With the passions of children. But a wilderness Blooms— Nonetheless.

Never imagined Gold in silver years, Or silver and golden tears, After lives long lived, When one should sit and ponder.

Urges to sail away Toward shores of new horizons, Unbound by weight of time, To shed the baggage carried— And the castles time has built.

Save for these luminous souls, Forged into our being— The gravity of a world. Desperate for perfection, Or simply to live in balance.

Passions can only be Happily never after. As dawn drifts into dusk— And I wonder How many times we’ll meet again Before our sun sets.

---

#poetry #confession #osxs

---

Friday 2025-04-25

Prayers, etc.: * 05:00 – Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel * 06:00 – praying The Angelus * 06:40 – praying the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Traditional Holy Rosary in English, followed by the Memorare *07:00 – Readings from today's Mass include – Lesson: 1 Pet 3:18-22 and Gospel: Matt 28:16-20 * 07:20 – making an Act of Contrition then making an Act of Spiritual Communion, followed by praying Archbishop Vigano’s prayer for USA & President Trump. * 07:45 – Today's Morning Devotion (Daniel 92) as found in Benedictus Magazine, followed by the Canticle of Zacharius (Lk 1:68-79). * 11:20 – Thought for today from Archbishop Lefebvre: God has given us freedom and He asks us to adhere to that desire which He has to save us. So there are those who freely adhere, who give their consent to that call of God, and others who refuse it. It is certainly a very grave mystery. So we need to ask God that we be truly chosen and that we be faithful to that choice. We have to give our consent to the plan of God for us, for on that plan does our entire life depend. * 12:00 – praying The Angelus. * 15:00 – prayerfully reading The Athanasian Creed, * 18:00 – praying The Angelus, followed by today's Evening Devotion, (Psalm 110), as found in Benedictus Magazine, followed by the Magnificat: Luke 1:46-55. * 19:00 – praying the hour of Compline for tonight according to the Traditional Pre-Vatican II Divine Office, followed by Fr. Chad Ripperger's Prayer of Command to protect my family, my sons, my daughter and her family, my granddaughters and their families, my great grandchildren, and everyone for whom I have responsibility from any demonic activity. – And that followed by the Thursday Prayers of the Association of the Auxilium Christianorum.

Health Metrics: * bw= 221.45 lbs. * bp= 152/90 (64)

Diet: * 06:15 – bowl of oatmeal w. raisins * 06:35 – 1 banana * 06:50 – pizza * 11:00 – 1 carrot-oat muffin * 12:30 – garden salad * 14:05 – cottage cheese and applesauce * 11:00 – 1 more carrot-oat muffin

Chores, etc.: * 04:30 – listen to local news talk radio * 06:10 – bank accounts activity monitored * 07:00 – follow news reports from various sources * 12:30 to 14:00 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 14:30 – follow news reports from various sources * 17:00 – watching College Softball, IU vs Oregon * 19:45 – after a long rain delay, it looks like the Softball Game is nearly ready to restart

Chess: * 11:12 – moved in all pending CC games

posted Friday, 2025-04-25 ~20:25 #DLAPR2025

Como podéis contemplar en el título, mi mejor amiga dejó a su ex, y os preguntaréis: ¿cómo es que eso da portada a uno de mis primeros artículos o blogs?

Con gusto puedo decir que, en este caso, la situación se contemplaba frente al mar. Ambas sentadas, “discutíamos” el amor y en qué constituye una verdadera conexión. Entre lloros y risas, un hombre de apariencia “discutible” nos interrumpió, sorprendiéndonos con su propia cuestión existencial en cuanto a las relaciones.

Conocimos a este sujeto de unos 30 años que se nos acercó y planteaba cómo era que un hombre podía demostrar interés y hacer sentir especial a una mujer. En este caso, nosotras, como dualidades, obtuvimos diferentes respuestas que acabaron en un mismo fin: CONEXIÓN EN BASE A VULNERABILIDAD.

Sí, de eso se trata, o entiendo en este momento que se trate. La vida puede ser un cúmulo de estímulos que contradicen las cosas que hay a tu alrededor, pero las conexiones siempre se quedan intactas, fruto del momento; no hay guerra, ideología, creencia que hagan que esto sea menos real.

Y así cada declaración debatida, sujetaba de forma innata, mi crisis existencial. Soy conexiones... Entonces, ¿qué pasa si conoces a alguien y en el fondo sabes que no vas a tener una conexión?

Embriagada, como muchas mujeres, del cariño y afecto, dejas llevar intuiciones de tu interior en cuanto conoces al sujeto, que te lleva a donde estas: en la dualidad del amor y el ámbito sexo-afectivo, donde todo tiene prioridad y no sabes por dónde empezar. En cuanto mi caso, a este chico, es bueno, no es malo; es a su manera detallista e inteligente, pero inconvenientemente incapaz de despertar el sexto sentido.

¿Dónde se encuentra al final su vulnerabilidad? Porque yo solo sentí la mía, y a escondidas. Eso es raro, porque, por si no lo sabíais, soy de abrirme con todo el mundo. Lo que pasa es que lo pasas por alto, finges que no es un problema, hasta que te golpea no una ni tres, sino veinticuatro veces.

En general, para que esto pase, la otra persona no es consciente de la “conexión” faltante, ya que posiblemente nunca la haya experimentado.

Yo, personalmente, no puedo evitar sentir que quiero besarle, pero nada más allá. La realidad es que, incluso cuando he querido desmontarle mi telaraña, no he podido, porque en general sabía que su respuesta me iba a decepcionar. Es triste decirlo, pero ¿acaso sabe lo que es montar una telaraña? Hay personas que, sin experiencias previas, no pueden entender las ajenas. ¡¿Y quién para juzgarles?! ¡Ojalá yo!

Pero, por el otro lado, a través del mar, entre las adversidades y el tiempo que no espera, ahí está la persona que te ve. ¿Es posible delirio? Puede ser, pero sigue ahí; ya no más allá de una masa, sino detrás de tu mente. Ahí donde las excusas no invaden; ahí que cuando falta, el recuerdo, hunde.

No puedo evitar preguntarme qué hubiera pasado si fuera mejor, si mis aptitudes me hubieran permitido verte. Cada vez que me decepciona, me río, porque sé que tú y yo no nos dejaríamos batallar por la incomodidad. Pero, curioso cómo es que en este caso la intimidad era de la más inusual.

¿Seré incapaz de sentirme vista en ambos aspectos a la vez? No lo sé, pero te he escrito. Ahora, ¿cómo te digo que no nos veremos? ¿Y cómo afronto la cara de mi niño, sabiendo que aun así solo quiero ser vista por ti al menos una última vez?

We made it back to Mexico City for a visit, possibly the only one this year.

Typically, by this point in the year, Lorena and I have already traveled to Mexico City to visit her family. However, with the move, selling our previous home, and going to Connecticut and Sedona, we just haven't had the time.

Until now!

We recently returned from a week visit in Mexico City to see Lorena's parents. We actually saw them a couple of weeks prior to the trip as they came to visit us in Culver City for four days. It was nice to see them in the heart of Mexico, a place that I've really fallen in love with over the years.

No Plans are the Best Plans

We didn't have any major plans for this trip. I went to Las Luchas (Mexican wrestling) with my father-in-law on one of the days as a delayed birthday present. It was unlike anything I've ever seen. These guys are true athletes. More akin to gymnasts than the stereotypical wrestler.

Aside from that, we went for walks in the forest (yes, there is a huge forest in Mexico City), at some good vegan food at a restaurant that we like, and just pretty much relaxed.

Hasta Luego

These trips to Mexico City always hold a special place in my heart. Even though I've been going for years now, they always remind me of some of my first visits. I remember how special it felt being there. I loved seeing where Lorena grew up, and discovering the depths of the culture. Now that I'm fluent in Spanish, it's even more enjoyable.

The downside to the trip was that on the second to last day, Lorena came down with something. She was achy and had a fever. That put a little damper on the trip as she tried to recover before the big travel day. Then, on the travel day, I came down with something similar... except I was puking on the plane. Yeah... that wasn't fun. Turns out, we had COVID. Our first time.

At this point, we don't know when we'll be back. I'd venture to guess it'll be sometime in 2026.

#personal

So my plans to watch an early afternoon MLB Game were scrubbed by rain in Chicago. I have two college games I hope to watch this evening, either one or the other, they're both being played at the same time. If weather in the Midwest permits I'll be watching a softball game, or a baseball game. But if they're both rained out, I'll be listening to relaxing to relaxing music and quietly reading.

posted Friday, Apr 25, 2025 at ~4:57 PM #QNAPR2025

A Preparação do Diretor é uma dessas leituras que não soltam da pele.

Anne Bogart mergulha de cabeça nos desafios do fazer teatral e fala com uma franqueza rara sobre a coragem de criar arte.

Ela identifica sete forças — parceiras e inimigas do processo criativo — que, se bem escutadas, podem se tornar fontes poderosas de energia: violência, memória, terror, erotismo, estereótipo, timidez e resistência.

Cada uma dessas palavras carrega um vulcão dentro. E, segundo Bogart, o segredo está em entrar em parceria com elas.

Vivemos numa era em que o sucesso só é reconhecido quando passa pela televisão. O aplauso fácil vai para quem vende bem. Mas no teatro, o jogo é outro.

A violência exigida de um ator em cena é diferente da violência pedida pela câmera.

No cinema, um momento pode acontecer por impulso. Não precisa se repetir — só precisa ser espontâneo e bonito no quadro.

Já no teatro, esse mesmo momento tem que ser repetido noite após noite. E ainda assim, parecer vivo. Inesperado. Incômodo.

Tudo no palco precisa ser carregado de presença. As palavras, as ações, os gestos. Especialmente as palavras gastas de tanto uso. Como “eu te amo”. Que só voltam a ter sentido quando são quebradas, distorcidas, entregues por outro ângulo. Só assim elas voltam a ser audíveis. Sentidas.

O ator — como o artista de striptease — revela escondendo.

É na contenção física, na tensão do que não se mostra, que mora a expansão emocional. E isso vale pra todo artista.

O material que temos nas mãos — um texto, uma ideia, uma imagem — precisa ser tratado como algo vivo. Indomado. Maior do que nós. Só assim ele se abre, desafia e revela a sua própria magnitude.

Anne também provoca os jovens diretores: muitos acham que dirigir é mandar, controlar, impor visão.

Mas pra ela, dirigir é sentir. Estar na sala. Respirar junto. Mergulhar com o outro no desconhecido. E confiar que algo vai surgir.

O desconforto, diz ela, é um mestre generoso.

É ele que sacode a poeira, que faz a faísca saltar. E se a gente tentar domar o processo, ele murcha. Se a gente o reverencia como algo maior do que nós, ele floresce.

No fim do livro, ela deixa um conselho que vale ser tatuado: não espere as condições ideais. Tempo, dinheiro, reconhecimento — tudo isso pode nunca chegar. Trabalhe com o que você tem agora. Esse agora vai moldar o que virá depois.

E seja paciente.

“Farhad Is My Weapon: For Those Who Already Won” for the Kurdish warriors, who do not ask for victories

I do not come to fight. I have already won.

Farhad Darya sings in my blood, and every note is a banner raised over your silence.

You built walls. I walked around them. You carried swords. I carried memory.

You shouted kingdoms into the wind. I listened to the earth until it gave me its strength.

You hold stupidity like a shield. I carry music sharper than iron.

Your flags are fading. Your names are dust. Your crowns are cracked.

I have Farhad. I have mountains older than your history. I have the quiet of those who never needed permission to exist.

You have noise. I have forever.

I do not come to fight. I do not come to claim. I already stand on the ash of your victories, and I do not bow.

As I finish typing this, I’m on the floor of our guest bedroom.

There’s a very pregnant stray cat stretched out next to me — apparently, I’m a midwife now.

Gerald’s out somewhere hustling for race sponsors, working harder than half the dads who tried to tell me I’d never make it.

And E is still slithering slow laps around the block, waiting for a crash that’s never coming.

They all stayed the same.

We didn’t.

That’s the difference.

We’re stronger.

Smarter.

Savage when we need to be.

The rules aren’t theirs anymore.

The life isn’t theirs anymore.

It’s mine. It’s ours.

And every loud, chaotic, imperfect second of it feels better than any apology or validation ever could.

The funny part?

They’re still watching, still praying for a stumble —

while we’re already three cities ahead, building an empire they can’t even imagine.

So stay tuned.

Keep talking.

Keep praying for the old version of me to show back up.

Spoiler alert:

She’s dead.

And the bitch who replaced her?

You don’t want smoke with her.

This is just the beginning.

See you at the next starting line. 🏁

Express (verbally and/or non-verbally) to your loved ones that no matter what happens, your love for them will remain unconditional.

Unconditional love? But it's not. It shouldn't be.

I want my family to love me no matter what. I want my wife to love me despite the occasional beard and my children to love me despite the occasional unfair judgement. I want to trust their love. I want to have no doubts, I want to be absolutely certain that they will love me, and feel that I can do anything without making their love go away.

But they can't. And I shouldn't want them to.

Sometimes, love should end. If I all of a sudden go all psychopath and start beating my wife and mistreating my children, they should stop loving me. If I ever turn psychopathic, I hope they will stop loving me: if I turn into Phineas Cage, I hope they mourn the person I was and the person they loved instead of loving the person I have become.

So if I get Alzheimer's, I don't want my wife to look after me? Wouldn't that be romantic and sweet? Surely, I wouldn't prefer it to end like this”) — that my wife's love for me is conditional and ends when the person I was, is no more? Or do I want my wife to shrug and move on?

If love is unconditional, if love just is, then you love the feeling of being in love and being loved. You love love, and not the person your love has attached itself to. If my love for my wife is unconditional, it doesn't matter what she does, be it good of bad, my love won't change.

Treat me like dirt, treat me like a king; hurt me or help me; be mean to me or nice to me; make yourself ugly or make yourself beautiful — it doesn't matter, I love you anyway.

And that can't be. I love my wife, but the moment she starts stabbing me on a regular basis, my love will dwindle ever so slowly.

If my wife feels exactly the same way about me no matter what I do, she doesn't care about what I do — and that's not a way to treat your loved one.

(Perhaps unconditional love is like eternal love? You want it even though you know there is no such thing?)

I love my wife. That is my default mode. If nothing changes, I love her. And if something changes, my first thought is that I still love her. And my second thought. And my third. A lot has to happen for me to stop loving her — but because I love her, it might happen. Because I like her the way she is, I will have a hard time loving her if she suddenly changes her personality completely.

What do I love? Not some kind of abstract entity (soul? there is no such thing), but all the small concrete things. The way she plays with our kids. The way she laughs. The way she looks at me. The way we talk. All the usual clichés, but made unique by the fact that she does them her unique way. Her laughter. Her eyes. Her personality.

If she stop talking with me, or laughing with me, or looking at me that way; if she starts hating me, or despising me, or stop playing with the kids; if she stops loving me — I will stop loving her. I will mourn our love, but the woman I loved will no longer be.

Because I love her.

And I hope she feels the same way about me. I want to be loved no matter what — that is, I want to have that security of feeling loved no matter what. When I'm feeling blue, it's the one thing I want more than anything: to be loved even though I behave like an asshole. And yet, if I am being loved unconditionally, I am not being loved at all. I am not being loved, it's love for love's sake, and that means I am just a vehicle which can be changed at any time.

I want my wife to love me no matter what. Unconditionally. And yet I don't. Unconditional love is not real love — but it's still the most beautiful, most reassuring, most pleasant kind of love I know. It's an illusion; and even if it hadn't been an illusion, it wouldn't have been something you should have wanted. And yet it's the one thing I want my wife to say, and the one thing I tell her: I love you no matter what.

Unconditional love? No, it shouldn't be. And yet it must.

 

 

 

Identify which of your friends relates most emphatically with others.

One of my friends has cancer. I told her I want to help, help her family when she gets treatment, look after her kids when her husband has to work, anything which will make her  (and their) life easier while she gets treatment.

Thank you, she said. Thank you for aways being so friendly and nice. I am very lucky to have neighbours like that. Thank you for wanting to help me. You are very kind.

Now, I am that kind of person who gets mad or depressed when a disease strikes. (Even asthma, my old and trusted friend, makes me blue sometimes. (In the face! Hah!)) If my doctor told me that I had cancer, or some other serious disease, I would have either been angry with everyone or felt very sorry for myself.

In either case, I would have shunned people and I wouldn't have smiled at all for many weeks.

She, on the other hand, is still the light of the street. She is still the neighbour with the brightest smile, she still laughs and asks about how everyone else are doing. I had no idea that something was wrong untill she told me, and even then she somehow said it with light and laughter in her voice.

Not a smile with despair lurking beneath the surface, not a smile of denial (I'M FINE I'M FINE I'M FINE I'M FINE I'M FINE), but a smile of optimism and joy. Despite knowing full well that the next year or so will be tough.

I want to be like that. I want to care about others that much. (She made me feel good for wanting to help!) I want to have that kind of happiness and empathy as default mode.

2014 will probably be a tough year for her. The least I can do is to help her and her family make it a good year after all.

2015 will be much better.

„Ich bin nicht eure Fantasie“ die, die sich selbst gehört

Nennt mich nicht Spanierin, nicht rassig, nicht wild. Ich bin kein Sonnenklischee, kein Traum in Olivenhaut, kein Lied, das ihr zu kennen glaubt.

Meine Haare sind nicht euer Ornament, mein Blick nicht für eure Sehnsüchte da. Ich bin nicht „diese Südländerin“ und auch nicht „Latina in falsch“.

Ich bin eine Kurdin. Und ich gehöre keinem Etikett.

Ihr habt nie meine Mutter gefragt, wie sie mich nannte, als ich noch klein war, und sie mir das Haar mit Wasser glättete, nicht für Schönheit, sondern für Ruhe.

Ich bin nicht eure iberische Fantasie. Ich bin eine Kurdin mit pashtunischen/georgischen Elementen. Meine Geschichte trägt keine fremden Namen.

Ich gehe nicht dorthin, wo man mich bestaunt, aber nie versteht. Ich bleibe dort, wo mein Schweigen Wurzeln schlägt, und mein Blick sich nicht erklären muss.

Our family? Busy.

So friggin busy.

I had my normal “day job,” which included three separate but equally fancy titles — because obviously I enjoy chaos — plus I managed the family business that accidentally happened when Gerald fell in love with speed and racing.

While Gerald and Green racked up trophies and stood under fireworks and spotlights, I was the one managing sponsorships, bookkeeping, social media marketing, and making sure we stayed out of IRS prison.

You know, just deadbeat mom things.

Social media guru? ✔️

Accounting wizard? ✔️✔️

Sports mom, event planner, travel agent, therapist? ✔️✔️✔️

If we weren’t working, we were traveling.

Load the rig. Drive hours. Race. Reload. Drive more hours. Repeat.

Life was a constant, militant schedule — every second accounted for — because if even one thing slipped, the ship would sink.

And honestly? We were killin’ it.

• Green was thriving at his fancy cult-lite Christian school.

• Gerald was sober, successful, and charming the entire town with his Wrangler booty.

• Mini-me was conquering dance classes, soccer, and life in general.

• I was somehow doing it all on a diet of caffeine, muscle memory, and sarcasm.

Even better?

Mr. Whoopi was blissfully out of my hair — sending nothing but the required once-a-month visitation schedule email.

Cue Travis Tritt:

“It’s a great day to be alive…”

Then it got weird.

They asked for Green — but during a random time they never had before.

Odd.

Then they asked to have him on his birthday.

HIS ACTUAL BIRTHDAY.

Which had never — not once — happened before.

I thought:

Maybe they finally get it? Maybe they want to spoil him this time?

WRONG.

Green jumps into the car after the visit, throws his bag into the backseat, and says — deadpan —

“I think I know what’s up. I’m going to be a brother again.”

WHAT.

Now listen —

• Mr. Whoopi is 10 years older than me.

• Laney is 6 years younger than me.

• And me?

I’m no spring chicken. I tried to have another baby at 35, and even that felt like climbing Everest.

This?

Wild.

But whatever. Life happens.

Green wasn’t upset about a new baby — not really.

What hurt him was being pushed aside again.

He wasn’t celebrated on his birthday — he was handed a “you’re irrelevant now” announcement instead.

And Laney, ever the gracious bonus mom, told him:

“I’m going to be a mother of two now. I won’t have time for you.”

If I’d been there?

I would’ve throat-chopped her so hard she’d be communicating through a dry erase board for the rest of her life.

But Green has a mom.

A real one.

And while I may be impossible sometimes, I’m a fierce, bloodthirsty, no-holds-barred advocate for my kid.

So whatever, Laney.

Enjoy raising a new baby while your man snores loud enough to shake drywall and you pray for a refund on life choices.

I’m busy being awesome.

We thought that was the drama.

We thought that was it.

But I could feel it deep in my bones:

Something else was coming.

Meanwhile, I was quietly giggling at the thought of Mr. Whoopi starting over at 50:

• Diapers for everyone!

• A walker for Mr. Whoopi!

• Depend undergarments for Laney’s golden years!

I was absolutely planning sarcastic baby shower gifts. Because if there’s one thing I’m going to be until the day I die, it’s a petty bitch with a wicked sense of humor.

Then tax season hit.

I had my shit together:

• Business expenses printed.

• Bank statements highlighted.

• Custody orders triple-checked.

Clockwork.

I electronically filed everything — just like every year.

Easy.

Except…

REJECTED.

Not reviewed.

Not flagged for minor edits.

Rejected.

I Googled the error code.

And there it was:

Dependent 1 — already claimed.

Dependent 1?

Green.

HOLY. SHIT.

Now, I always suspected Mr. Whoopi wanted to claim Green.

You know, “If I don’t buy that boat how am I supposed to survive??”

But actually doing it?

Next level shady.

He doesn’t pay for school.

Doesn’t pay for Green’s medical specialists.

Doesn’t even know what hospital saved his life — twice.

But sure. Claim the dependent, bro.

I called my shark attorney.

She sent the custody judgment over.

No explicit tax language — because we had followed the IRS default rule:

The custodial parent (me) claims the child unless otherwise stated.

So I called the OG custody attorney, too.

(You know, the one who originally let B hire him for grunt work and later regretted every second.)

I explained everything.

He was floored.

“No, like, I’m truly shocked.”

Yeah, buddy.

Welcome to my world.

He walked me through it:

• Just mail in your taxes.

• Include the notarized custody judgment.

• Let the IRS handle the idiots.

Beautiful.

Simply glorious.

He even refused to bill me:

“You’ve given me enough entertainment for today.”

Mystical law man.

I owe you a fruit basket.

And then it hit me:

That’s why Mr. Whoopi had been calling.

That’s why he suddenly wanted peace.

That’s why he was playing “good dad” for two seconds.

He knew.

They knew.

And they were trying to smooth it over before the hammer dropped.

Too late.

I weighed my options:

• Call and give them a heads up?

• Nah.

• Let the IRS rain fire?

• Oh, absolutely.

I filed my taxes correctly.

I attached my judgment.

And I sat back — sipping my coffee — picturing Laney weeping into a mountain of IRS penalty letters.

Fines up to $100,000.

Potential prison time.

Will it happen?

Probably not.

But a girl can dream.