I was reading a blog, trying to find a recipe for lentil stew, but the story about the writer’s step-daughter’s missing slipper went on for so long that by the time I arrived at the ingredient list the building our apartment is in had been sold and resold and sold again, and even worse our kitchen had been replaced with a digital oven that turned all ingredients into different flavors of miniature muffins: tofu piccata muffins, charcoal fondue muffins, hillbilly elegy muffins, death metal NFT muffins, raspberry nepobaby marble dildo muffins. One day, I threw a muffin at the moon, and—to my surprise—the moon threw a muffin back. I told everyone in my activist Slack feed that this was a new kind of radical action, made more potent by its engagement in celestial intersectionality. Soon we were a whole movement of revolutionary bakers, a federation of militant muffin throwers designed to augment anti-capitalist baking with celestial praxis. Who could have known the muffins had other plans?

She’s crafting Purim cakes out of the blowtorched carcasses of last Thanksgiving’s turkeys, leading glow-up tutorials for itinerant mushroom clouds, gaining a following for her ASMR inspired parenting technique, redecorating her mud room using only syringes from defunded needle exchange programs. And yes, even if she failed to build a following for her hair shirt competitive Piloxing tournament, and her sext to her daughter’s college prof got leaked then turned into memes, you can’t minimize her success lipreading the habits of highly successful crustaceans, or ignore the admiration she earned after she— from the mouth of a live volcano— livestreamed giving birth to a dragon. When she traded her red handkerchief for the screech of a hawk, the chips on the table set fire. Have you ever considered that it’s your hair that’s burning? If so, please click here. A refund is on the way.

Your favorite childhood star sports a fuchsia goatee, an extra arm named Felix and a Hamburgler-shaped red cheek piercing. He once adopted a pet nation state, but he had to give it back when his life coach became allergic. No one knows who he is because his sunglasses are made of cracked cell phone screens. He knows who everyone is because he invested in yeti tech. If you were to spend your Sunday with him, you’d discover how much he enjoys lounging on his Kimberly Guilfoyle brand overstuffed settee, brunch with his ex and a walk around what used to be a soup factory but is now a luau themed co-working space. Despite a difficult decade where his heart was said to occasionally stop for 45 to 69 seconds, he has chosen to embrace the sunny side of the empty glass. Like many child stars, he is most happy when he’s asleep, clutching a stuffy with a face custom printed to resemble you, his most loyal fan.