Dear reader,
…Everything feels off today, I’m not sure why. My dreams were assaulted by a weirdness so aberrant, my conscious mind was unable to grasp onto the specific images but did managed to hold the subtle, unnatural feeling that is, even now, clawing at my soul.
First stop on this crazy, whirring, train of unease in this very similar but still parallel and thus, incorrect 
dimension was a close, very close look at the conductor. You can tell, from the picture, that he was indescribably insane. He conducted my entire weekend (and so I’m convinced it was him that sent me so far off the beaten track today!) with his mood which is as changeable as the clichéd weather. Prone to rapidly alternating moods of possessiveness and compassion and patronizing condescension, he held the carrot over a sheer chasm. My unfaithful steed took the bait and we plummeted.
The train kicked forward, rushing to overdrive as the day crawled to my hour-and-a-half late lunch. I run to a Giant supermarket only to be assaulted as soon as I make it through the front doors.
“Would Bob Manly please come to the service desk! Bob Manly, please come to the service desk!” screeched across the loud speaker.
Who (in the fuck) names their kid “Bob Manly”? I brushed off my confusion—trying to focus on the task at hand, instead of pondering the ensnaring abnormality of the day. Acquisition of lunch foods led me close to the dairy isle where the managerial staff at my friendly local Giant supermarket has posted a picture of the Dairy Manager. His name, you ask. His crazy ass name was Harpo. My eyes stretched wide at the insanity of it all—that, or at the fact that he looked like Captain fucking James T. Hook (minus the big, black, curly wig). He’s even balding in the same ways. I can’t make out his hands in the picture, either because hooks don’t photograph well or Giant is afraid of Disney locating their runaway pirate captain.
Taking a deep breath and grabbing a sandwich, I glue my eyes to the floor until I made it to the self-checkout isle. My lunch slid across the scanner and I paid for everything, making sure to move double speed. Only, something drew my eyes before I quite made it out—right near the service desk.
Sure enough, that which drew my stare was Bob Manly. His name tag read: BOB in big, bold fucking letters. He was a middle-aged man—nothing too remarkable there except that he looks exactly like Duncan, Master at Arms from He-man (or Masters of the Universe starring Dolph Lundgren).
I averted my eyes, hoping he didn't notice me—in the event that his posse (probably consisting of He-man/Dolph, Teela, and maybe even Orko) are hanging around—and rush out the door.
It’s approximately a five minute walk back to work (give or take depending upon the amount of traffic and the then variable amount of time it takes to cross a town street without a crosswalk). Birds are chirping, the typical smell of smoldering cigarette smoke is absent, and perfect, white, poofy clouds pirouette slowly across a crystal, cobalt sky.
It is then that the realization hits me: I’m fucking dead. I must have died last night while gaming. It is the only explanation that makes any sense. At all. I had some sort of massive coronary whilst playing through the Tomb of Horrors. Acererak himself has condemned my soul to some godless prison—and to an eternity of weirdness—just for wishing his demise.
I’ve returned now to my cubicle…but it’s definitely not MY cubicle…
If, however, I manage to keep my head down and eyes closed, perhaps Wile E. Coyote’s Laws of the Universe will keep my soul from being trampled on at least, for a time…
*end transmission*
Clearly, we can all see that the long hair...is not very stylish for my box shaped head.
