[ESSAY][02/27/26]I’m a Simp For Mommy
by Fatima Deutschekind
PROLOGUE
It’s June 29, 2025. I’m on my way to interview Peter Vack at my neighborhood bar in Berlin. Later this evening, Peter Vack will screen his latest dystopian sci-fi feature www.rachelormont.com at the theater nearby. I have tickets for the screening, despite having seen the film on my laptop four days ago. I’m nervous.
This obsession emerged in 2024, even though I’d always dismissed fandom as ridiculous. With a growing disconnection from my surroundings, Peter Vack became the center of my attention—the subject of every inner and outer monologue. He gained notoriety within New York’s controversial downtown scene, Dimes Square, which I’d observed from afar long before paying attention to Peter Vack. I eventually followed his Instagram @themasterofcum in January 2024, for its frequent event announcements, as I prepared to visit New York. I watched Peter Vack on several stages and screens across the Lower East Side, the East Village, and Queens—always from the safe distance of the audience. Returning to Berlin, my feeling was that screen and stage exposure only differ only in dimensional depth—2D versus 4D. In retrospect, time renders these experiences indistinguishable. Scrolling through my camera roll, my memories resembled any other post.
My bag is packed with a laptop bearing chaotic notes, an iPhone, a Blackberry with a missing back cover as a backup recording device, a power bank, and loose cables. Its weight leaves a mark on my shoulder. I hallucinate our interview arrangement as having been vague. I’d planned to arrive early. Instead, I’m nearly running to make it on time. I feel foolish at this pace, already picturing myself sitting in front of the bar, waiting for him to never show up.
1.
It’s 2016. I created the alter ego Fatima Deutscheskind—myself, but better. Becoming Fatima was my escape from all the hinges and ties of mundane life. A portal into externalized megalomania, irony-layered myth-making, and the illusion of limitless agency—displayed across Instagram, Tumblr, and a custom website. The performance revolved around a mysterious global agent, staging influence and value through fakes and allegations.
Fatima soon sprawled into a fictive multipurpose corporation—a self-sufficient ecosystem compensating for the artistic community I lacked. I referred to Fatima Deutscheskind as consistently as Angelicism01 refers to Peter Vack—and as Peter Vack refers to himself.
I spent hours on single posts, obsessing over details and captions. Caught between artistic conviction and incompetence, I neglected the platform’s logic of engagement and its fixation on performative personhood. Most references were legible only to me. I remained too arcane, too solitary, and increasingly inconsistent in output and tone to hold an audience, and eventually myself, attentive. The protective membrane between Fatima and myself slowly ruptured and the construct began to erode.
Simultaneously, the overall tone on the platform hardened into something serious. Infographics, black squares, and lockdown advisories flooded my feed. I suddenly felt silly being ironic and swaggering in cryptic superlatives. Paranoia about surveillance and derogatory judgment accelerated. I felt even more silly adopting a similarly sincere performance. I hadn’t been bold—or perhaps willing—enough to withstand the implicit demand to either be a dedicated ally or else stfu. And that’s exactly what I did: I stfu. Fatima became mute.
It’s 2022. I began to follow Dimes Square, my awareness rising after its peak, after the pandemic’s peak, and after the time Peter Vack was shooting www.rachelormont.com. Dimes Square’s unhinged performances amplified everything I had once aimed to build myself, reinvigorating my fondness for provocation. I explored the scene’s entangled network and followed a vast number of related accounts. I educated myself on crucial references. I witnessed shifts in dominance, and mourned the termination of certain formats.
I began to unfollow most of my real friends. I purged my timeline to preserve the undiluted sanctity of scrolling—clean, uninterrupted immersion each time I entered the platform, where continuous beef unfolded. Performing edgelordism, seeking transgression, finding nihilism, occasionally praising extinction—the literal or metaphorical battleground was never far from the scene’s various stages. Battles amongst themselves and battles with their haters, somewhere between Brooklyn and online’s eternity. Chasing deep resilience, everyone trained to tolerate endless dissonance and ambiguity. I subconsciously took the online course and practiced along. I came to easily juggle the imbalanced weight of dissonant takes, my camera turned off, reveling in the joy of opposition. No one in my European circle engaged with Dimes Square, and those aware of it dismissed it as nihilistic, reactionary, white-privileged trash.
But I got hooked. I ingested and processed large amounts of content, responding internally. Barely liking. Rarely commenting. Never sharing. Everything was safely locked away in iCloud folders, on untraceable alibi profiles and hidden accounts, as Substack drafts or private tweets. I’d long lost my voice. Ever since Fatima’s lore had become obsolete, I hadn’t been able to update it. The urge to engage and the fear of exposure were symbiotic. I dismissed every impulse as too derivative, too cringe, to publicly share. I saved it instead. I felt so entertained and increasingly sick at once, as my silent hoarding mounted into chronic congestion.
Obsessing over Dimes Square wasn’t easy. Admiration for its characters’ inexorable performances reflected my own muteness, and was laced with guilt. Guilt for not being bold enough to engage, to overcome my anxieties. Guilt for my moral decay. Guilt for believing in morals. For not knowing what to believe. For not having a stance. For feeling guilty about not having a stance. Yet, I accepted these occasional guilt trips as part of the practice. Tolerating uncertainty was the price for unlocking and enjoying the total tale.
It’s 2024. Attempting to compensate for my digital inexistence, I decided to physically travel to the place I’d long inhabited only through screens. On March 1, 2024, I landed in New York. On March 10, 2024, at 9 P.M., I took a picture of the bookshelf at Sovereign House. I had seen the announcement of Confessions, a reading series, on @themasterofcum’s profile.
The bookshelf covered most of the wall. I bought a drink and waited. The event hadn’t started yet. Part of the crowd lingered outside, smoking. Perpetually bad at making first moves, I stared at the book spines for an unnaturally long time, as if I had anticipated finding something offensive or forbidden, which I didn’t. Someone approached me. Do you usually come to these events? I smiled. No. Neither did he. Yes, I figured. He had visited once before, to interview the hosts of Confessions for a piece he was writing.
It’s 11 P.M. Peter Vack scanned the audience, patrolling the stage, occasionally dropping comments into the microphone. He was the final reader, and seemed confident that the majority of the audience leaned in his favor. He refused to begin reading his poem until everyone had returned from the courtyard or the bar, taken their seats, faced the stage, and fallen silent. He repeatedly called out his opponent, urging everyone to ensure the man was present, attentive, and ready to receive his retaliations. The audience giggled. The opponent had read earlier. He was the scene’s notorious critic, writing Substack lampoons scolding its members as fascists. Despite his harsh allegations, he seemed to be part of the scene after all.
One host screamed because she had just been mentioned in Peter Vack’s poem. The audience cheered. The poem followed one of two repetitive frameworks. Every line began with the same quote. I filmed a snippet containing the Matrix version. There’s also a Godfather version. There’s also a poem template in Peter Vack’s link tree—No put me back I was at a Vack reading (once).
Despite the ambition to cure my muteness and start interacting, that month in New York only deepened my passive fixation on the scene. Peter Vack took center stage in my feed. Reluctant to follow even one account at first, I eventually followed a handful. I couldn’t recall any trace of my initial aversion, yet must have expressed some while being on location.
Through @petervacksource I learned that not posting several times a day only proves your lack of existence. I silently agreed. I watched a YouTube video titled Dimes Square is dead, featuring Peter Vack. I heard that Peter Vack is kinda like a Labubu. I listened to him saying
that, People in New York think that they’re the cultural vanguard and everyone’s obsessed with them, and it’s like, unfortunately they’re right. I laughed and forwarded both scenes to my friend, who would later join me for the www.rachelormont.com screening in Berlin. He replied, report spam and leave. I commented, . Typing Peter Vack into the search bar of my Notes app revealed thirty-five entries—each mentioning Peter Vack several more times. My friend repeatedly complained that I always manage to somehow turn the conversation (back) to Peter Vack.
Peter Vack became the epitome of everything I failed to be. Bold, prolific, and safely out of reach. While he was @themasterofcum, I mastered retention. Weakened by this chronic congestion, spun soft in the guilt-trip spin cycle, and captivated by my own liberation hoax, I eventually cut my content exposure and reduced my daily practice.
2.
It’s June 9, 2025. @themasterofcum appeared in my feed, announcing the upcoming screening of www.rachelormont.com at my neighborhood theater, followed by a live Q&A. Peter Vack will be present. The statistical odds of this were minimal. The film had been running almost exclusively in New York City, with only scattered screenings elsewhere. For it to land in Berlin, in this particular cinema, felt engineered. I bought tickets and alerted my friend to save the date. I commented, finally! on the post and frequently checked back to see who liked it.
I was set on meeting Peter Vack, beyond simply watching him answer questions on stage—likely none of which I would raise, held back by shyness and rhetorical ineptitude. I kept drafting proper scenarios. My initial idea of staging a reading, inviting him to participate, and making it seem coincidental yielded only dead ends. I couldn’t think of a single performer in Berlin to match his vibe. @themasterofcum eventually offered me the perfect pretense, posting on June 17, 2025: You wanna write about Rachel Ormont. You wanna write about Rachel ormont so bad. dm me if ur a writer and want a link.
On June 23, 2025, I DM’d @themasterofcum, proposing to interview him for a German film magazine. He immediately confirmed. On June 25, 2025, Peter Vack emailed me a screener link. On June 26, 2025, I watched www.rachelormont.com. I occasionally paused to take photos with my phone, as the program prevented screenshots. I skipped back and forth, watching several scenes several times.
It had grown dark outside and I closed my laptop. The device suddenly appeared unfamiliar —something alien that had landed from another world or time, bearing a secret I had just uncovered. I remained seated on the floor, trying to process what I had seen and what it had done to me. I became Rachel long before I ever saw the movie, and having watched it for the first time that Thursday night, my curse revealed itself. Three days before our meeting, I came to realize that Peter Vack is my Mommy, and I can only fail.
Of course I love the film! It lets me cash in all the rewards I’ve been eagerly collecting—by endless scrolling, following, and connecting nodes. Basic trivia rehearsal. I know them all, and it feels so good. Dopamine hits with every recognition—a face, a name, a meme— successfully linked to events, stories, or personas.
www.rachelormont.com’s cast largely overlaps with Dimes Square’s cast. Watching the story unfold feels both novel and familiar, for I know not only the actors but the actors in their roles—I feel part of it even. The IRL, the URL, the movie screen, the Instagram feed, the stage, blending into a hyperreal stream, creating an unnaturally intense connection to its characters.
I am Rachel, standing on stage. Dazzled by the lights, I zoom in on every single character in every single row of the theater. Mommy threw me a surprise party, invited all my friends, and they all came.
Peter Vack arrived in Berlin the next day, on Friday, June 27, 2025.
My reply to schedule the interview took forever. I felt compelled to add a comment on the movie—to show my enthusiasm, concisely wrapped in a smart, perhaps ironic, perhaps referential tone. I failed. I wrote something cringe. Something about a Vackiavellian masterpiece. My friend mocked me and remarked that commenting was plainly unnecessary. We set a date for Sunday.
It’s June 29, 5 P.M., and I make it just in time, glad to find an empty table in front of my neighborhood bar, Zum Stammtisch, in Berlin Moabit—the least New-Yorkean place I could have proposed. I relocate to another table for better recording conditions but have to return to the first one after the owner scolds me—it’s reserved. Upon changing tables, while simultaneously reading @themasterofcum’s DM announcing his arrival, Peter Vack appears. He helps me move my equipment back to the first table. We order beer. Suddenly facing actor, director, author, meme poet, edgelord, artist, dark-woke micro-niche celebrity Peter Vack, in my immediate orbit, feels unreal. We’re worlds apart. His Manhattanite self-assurance, indifferent to Berlin’s cool allure which usually earns effortless credit, collides with my diffidence and flawed English. I immediately question my choice of location. Gradually, my initial tension eases. I neglect the notes on my laptop, which I keep waking from sleep mode only to ignore. Between moments of cringe and shallow questions, overlapping with prior interviews I’ve listened to, I find comfort in our chatty conversation. My will to tease dissolves into a rare occasion of actually enjoying agreement. My hands grow calm and I can easily roll cigarettes.
We skip through the (dis)entanglements of www.rachelormont.com and Dimes Square, the strong feelings that the scene evokes, and the inevitability of ittheir anticipated fading over time. The Factory. A scene becoming canonical. The repeated declarations of Dimes Square’s death and the consequential reification for its existence. The mastery of kayfabe and its misinterpretations. Peter Vack declares that it’s Squash-the-beef-summer, btw. I‘ve seen that meme circulating on my feed, but I pretend I haven‘t. Performing beef is so last year. Now we’re reconciling and being friends, he explains.
I draw obscure comparisons. I bring up Peter Vack’s parents—recurring cast members in Peter Vack’s films—who are also Rachel Ormont’s parents. The portrayal of both the Ormonts, the film parents, and the Browns, the real parents, takes me back to Seventh Heaven—the Christian bastion of early-aughts American family television. He is oblivious to its content, and I cringe upon retelling its plot.
Peter Vack speaks of his pull toward the grotesque, toward provocation and hot topics as a lever for his unconscious anger—a trope he claims to have invented, hoping it might be a healthy way to process and transform anger into art. He can only attribute to God how perfect the timing and setting had been when the production of www.rachelormont.com eventually happened, after previous failed attempts.
We debate whether a fork is a meme, then slip into a joint tirade against the cowardice and emotional muteness of contemporary filmmaking, before conceding to the many exceptions. I mention, briefly, that I used to work as a production designer. He says that he’d seen that on my Instagram, that it looked cool. We return to ravaging the betrayal of art. I forget the word betrayal, and I ask him what Judas did to Jesus. He laughs. It’s a betrayal.
I drop that I’ve been to Confessions before.
Wait, did you see me read?
Yes, I think so. I tell him that I also watched his first film, Assholes. Live.
Oh where? Like at Sovereign House? Like in person? Oh wow.
Yes. In New York. In March 2024. I reckon to have left during the Q&A, though.
Oh, good, yeah, I’m glad you left. Q&As suck.
It’s 6:15 P.M. and I stop recording. My last words on tape: I will. A confirmation to tell my sister, who had expressed interest in the movie, to show up at the screening even though tickets had already sold out. There are always no-shows in New York. He’s convinced she’ll find a seat, if she’s willing to risk it. Off record, he immediately tells me the movie’s budget, which he hadn’t wanted to reveal during our talk. It’s like asking a woman her age.
We finish our beers. He heads to the bathroom while I briefly chat with the owners and pay. Peter Vack had taken an Uber to the bar, and I’m glad he doesn’t consider taking one now. The screening will begin in thirty minutes, and we start walking quickly to the theater.
He asks what I do now. Earlier, I’d declared my permanent retirement from working in film.
So, you’re just writing now? Oh, visual art.
Yeah. I smile and tell him I’m not actually a writer.
He mentions how Berlin reminds him of LA—where being in the loop is necessary to learn about places or events instead of casually encountering them in lively neighborhoods. Maybe, I say, since I’ve never been to LA. Berghain slips into the conversation. A place neither of us seem particularly keen on. He is vaguely considering going—maybe tomorrow, or later, after the screening. I tell him it’ll most likely be closed tomorrow, since it’s Monday. I also tell him that his outfit isn’t exactly Berghain-adequate—right after claiming that most dress-code advice is nonsense. He wears skinny blue jeans and a tight white polo shirt with a small logo I cannot identify. I like it.
We barely pass anyone outside. He comments on the pretty facades of the Altbau buildings. I warn of a long stretch of ugly street ahead. On that street, under construction, I have to save him from a cyclist trying to squeeze past us.
He asks if there’s anything to eat on the way. Yes, I say, and we head to a Turkish takeaway. He asks me to order for him. I tell him I don’t know what he likes. He says to get whatever I’d get. I ask if he eats meat and order Gözleme. The guy at the counter makes jokes in German. Peter Vack keeps asking, What’d he say? I translate. He repeats how good the Gözleme is, several times. I’m happy.
The conversation thins out as we approach the theater. He finishes his snack, and we take a final turn. I’m mentally preparing for this having been it.
We cross a courtyard. People are selling second-hand records and books. The complex is a state-subsidized cultural project: bar, café, workshop, neighborhood meet-up, cinema. We enter the back building, walk up two flights of stairs, and arrive. Peter Vack is immediately greeted by his producer, then disappears. I comment on the producer’s more club appropriate look, fortunately both are absorbed by their conversation. I scan the foyer for my friend, who isn’t here yet, then head back downstairs, annoyed that he’s late. I light a cigarette and sit on a brick ledge along the street next to the main entrance.
I replay the past hours—it already tilts into fiction. Not so dissimilar to my endless reels of daydreams, though far more physically invasive. I feel queasy and realize I haven’t eaten all day. People are trickling in, the screening guests distinguishable despite the various venues inside the complex.
My friend arrives. We remain silent for a moment, observing the scene. I spot a podcaster, whose Discord channel I’m in, locking his bike. Two girls approach—one of them an AI researcher I vaguely recognize from Instagram. An artist whose solo show I saw before going to Confessions back in March 2024 shows up.
Eventually, my friend asks how it went, how I feel. If we’d met. I smile. Good. I tell him that we kept a steady conversation, found a flow, and laughed sometimes. That I felt comfortable speaking. That I’d felt less nervous than I’d expected. That it was more like a real conversation. That I might have shared a little too much of my own opinion, but whatever. That it was a pretense, after all. That finding agreement came so easily.
We enter the small screening room and find seats in the back row. I realize I forgot to notify my sister. Hard to tell if any seats remain empty. During the screening, the audience’s reactions are subdued. I came prepared, anticipating the key moments, laughing occasionally. My friend doesn’t laugh once. Toward the end, two girls in the last row—the AI researcher among them—start giggling. The giggling continues through the Q&A, rising in pitch and frequency, out of sync with the rhythm of the conversation.
Peter Vack talks about shifting from a passive, critical millennial stance to a Gen Z, chronically-online schizoposter identity, and how it shaped the film’s narrative. About wanting to be honest about his own internet consumption. The long process from first draft to production. Memes and subtitles. Neither my friend nor I ask a question.
We head downstairs to smoke and contemplate. I’m anxious to hear his thoughts—about the film, about Peter Vack, about the audience and the giggling girls. His demeanor is blank, only signaling indifference, and I’m irritated. What does he mean by that? Boring? Lengthy? The film most certainly is everything but boring. Or lengthy. Why doesn’t he at least have the decency to properly hate it? I counter every argument, too emotionally invested and with the advantage of having seen it twice. I tell him about all the references, the cues he likely missed. The layers, the allegories. I suggest that his English might not be good enough. I start to retell the narrative while offering my own interpretation. He didn’t even spot Curtis Yarvin in the audience, which has no substantial meaning to our film analysis but exposes my friend’s lack of attentiveness. I tell him that no matter how grandiose a film we might have just seen, my enthusiasm alone would be enough to make him indifferent—anti, even. If only to mock it, and ultimately, to mock me.
My friend laughs and asks me if I think he’s jealous of Peter Vack. I laugh. No, I don’t.
I should say goodbye to Peter, I mention, before our debate turns into an actual fight. Aiming toward the complex, I automatically assume he’ll join me. He knows how tough this situation will likely be. The night’s main protagonist, orbited by everyone, the center of attention. He knows how profoundly disabled I am at navigating such social challenges. How I have to construct elaborate workarounds—weeks of planning readings, faking interviews—just to compensate for that lack of social fluency in dynamic group settings.
My friend doesn’t move. I repeat myself. I ask him what he means by his silence—should I not say goodbye? Just leave? Without saying thank you? That it was nice meeting him? Wouldn’t that be weird, even rude, besides my wanting to say goodbye and seeing him one last time? My friend shrugs—whatever. I go by myself.
I pass the courtyard for the fifth time. The market has wrapped up by now. I walk up the stairs and enter the cinema floor. The crowd has thinned. Peter Vack sits at a table in the back of the room. Before him, a beer. On one side, the producer, accompanied by a blonde girl. On the other, the podcaster. Peter Vack’s sister, Betsey Brown, an actress and filmmaker who plays the film’s titular Rachel, sits across. Next to a few men with grey hair, whom I later identify as French filmmakers in @themasterofcum’s stories. They’re mid-conversation as I approach the table. Peter Vack is talking. I come to a slow halt in front of him. He takes notice, his gaze shifting between one of the French filmmakers and me. Slightly startled, maybe annoyed, he eventually pauses. I just want to say goodbye. Congrats. Thanks for the talk. Was nice meeting you. I’ll send something soon. He stands up and puts on a strained smile. We briefly hug. The desire to stay that I’d imagined earlier—while pre-playing the scene in my head—vanishes. I feel misplaced, eager to leave.
I turn and aim for the stairs, relieved to have fulfilled my deed. This time I didn’t slip, didn’t evade the situation. Nothing else I could’ve done.
3.
It’s Friday night, July 4, 2025. I’m listening to the interview recording for the first time, returning from an opening. In fear of unleashing tormented feelings, I haven’t dared to play it back for a whole week.
My voice sounds unnaturally high-pitched. I talk too fast for my brain to catch up, scrambling words into gibberish. I lack both vocabulary and, perhaps, any coherent thoughts. I wonder what kind of psychological defense mechanism had kicked in when I told my friend I’d felt confident speaking. It’s a mess. I’m convinced that Peter Vack must have seen through me from the very beginning, and was just too polite to let it show.
I have to pause the recording several times, unable to bear listening to myself. Not knowing if and how to proceed, I start to transcribe our talk. With each replay, I interpret his tone differently. I cannot find a consistent notion of whether he felt comfortable, entertained, scammed, bored, annoyed—if he even questioned the scenario at all. It occurs to me that he likely just recited his usual talking points.
It’s July 18, 2025. I’ve accumulated a transcript, a shortened transcript, several attempts at reviewing the movie, and some cultural commentary. Compelled to share, I DM @themasterofcum that it’s taking longer than I’d expected. That I’m on it. That it’ll be a masterpiece of cringe and chaos. That I’ll send something soon. Heck yes, he replies. Looking forward.
It’s July 31, 2025. I wake up in a frenzy. I ask a friend to forward me her friend’s number. My friend’s friend works at Mubi Germany. She’s a Cannes regular. Her exact position is unclear to me, but never mind. I’m convinced that I should do whatever I can to help spread the word about this film. www.rachelormont.com—Now streaming on Mubi Germany. You’re welcome. If I’m not producing relevant work myself—and I’m not, at the moment—the least I can do is advocate for what feels relevant from others. Beyond chivalry, it’s my duty, as an artist and as an arbiter of art at large. I send my friend’s friend a brief, passionate pitch.
It’s August 6, 2025. The writer I met at Sovereign House texts me. He’s planning a book tour through Europe to promote his new novel, and asks for reading venues in Berlin. I’m amused by both the request and its timing. I forward him some places and ask if the article on the Confessions girls ever came out. It did, one year ago. I read and briefly comment on it. I add, Actually funny story. I interviewed Vack while he was in Berlin. He replies, Strange, I thought you hated Vack.
It’s September 17, 2025. I’ve just missed another self-imposed deadline. Peter Vack’s birthday marked the date I set for myself in late August, after realizing I couldn’t finish by September 1. I sit at the boathouse near my apartment, mourning the disappearance of both @themasterofcum and @petervacksource. It took a few days to notice, at which point I anonymously tweeted, All of a sudden Instagram became so quiet.
The boathouse was the place I’d originally imagined staging the reading—my first pretense to invite Peter Vack to participate. It’s daylight, and I cringe at the romantic image of readers on boats, illuminated by tiki lights and the gleam of the beach house across the lake. I drink filter coffee and sit in the sun, reluctant to open my laptop and work on the text. Instead, I watch a video of @themasterofcum’s funeral in Angelicism01’s story. Peter Vack writes, Rest in peace @themasterofcum, the only psychoanalyst on Instagram Aug 2018 - Sep 2025, with black sharpie onto yellow paper, before lighting three white candles. Watching Peter Vack take an unnaturally long time to write the word psychoanalyst, I realize that the brief conversation between @themasterofcum and @fatimadeutscheskind—a rare document of our encounter—has now been permanently erased.
It’s October 27, 2025. My friend from Sweden visits. She’s a filmmaker, currently working on several screenplays at once. We talk about her scripts and my text. Later that evening, I propose that we watch www.rachelormont.com. Since my link had expired in September, I remember Peter Vack telling me about a version that had leaked online. Unfortunately it’s a rough cut, with unfinished sound and unedited subtitles. I tell my friend about all the missing edits I remember from the final cut. A feeling of betrayal overcomes me, but I enjoy it too much to stop.
It’s November and I’ve deleted everything I’ve written so far, opening yet another blank document. My friend who joined for the screening told me to start from scratch. He tried to convince me that this text isn’t about Peter Vack. I tried to convince him that this text was never meant to exist beyond serving as pretext. But meeting Peter Vack didn’t break the loop. Like visiting New York, it only deepened my obsession. My mind ceaselessly churns the experiences into a soothing opioid I desperately need more of. This text is contaminated. It has once again transformed its function. What began as a search for a cure has revealed itself as both symptom and drug, validating and fueling my addiction.
There is no release.
All I want is to meet Mommy again.