2/16/2026

2/16/2026 1:12 PM

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Architect

Okay, I’m just going to say this once because I’m tired of people acting like I’m some regular hospital baby with a birth certificate and a little hat. That’s fake. That’s a cover story. Susan did not “give birth” to me, and Greg was not in the waiting room eating vending machine Cheetos or whatever. That’s a lie they made up because the real story is honestly too much for PTA meetings. My actual mom is a possessed tanning bed from a dying strip mall that closed in 2011. She didn’t start out alive, but after years of overconfident people roasting themselves before spring break, she absorbed enough ego and body glitter to develop consciousness. You can judge, but it’s true. My dad is a nightclub fog machine that got returned three times because it kept going off at the wrong moments and making everything weirdly damp. He was unstable from the start. Very dramatic. The night it happened, there was a grand reopening for the strip mall, and everything was already kind of trashy. The tanning bed was overheating and glowing like it had something to prove, and the fog machine was across the hall at a store that sold neon phone cases and knockoff cologne. There was a power surge because somebody plugged in too many speakers, and the whole place started flickering. The air got thick and humid and smelled like burnt plastic, and coconut oil. I’m not saying they fell in love because that feels too wholesome. It was more like chaotic mutual attraction powered by bad wiring. The tanning bed started buzzing louder, and the fog machine started blasting clouds like it was showing off. The mall cop tried to unplug something and immediately tripped. Sparks were flying, music was distorted, everything felt inappropriate but in a mall way. Then there was this huge pop like a transformer blew, and the lights went out. When they came back on, I was just there on the tile floor, kind of glowing and slightly sticky for no reason. Not crying. Just existing aggressively. The manager thought I was part of a promotion at first. Someone tried to wrap me in a sale banner. Susan and Greg found me because they were there for soft pretzels, and they panicked and took me home. That’s it. That’s the truth. I’m literally the humid accident of ultraviolet radiation and theatrical moisture. So yeah, please stop telling people I look like my dad (that one burrito, allegedly).