What begins with a man whispering reverently to a bag of baby carrots unfolds into a surreal, tender, and razor-sharp meditation on survival, safety, and snack-based spirituality. Carrot Communion is a love story—but not the kind that ends in rings or redemption. It’s about the quiet holiness, the absurd rituals that keep us alive, and the grief of wanting to stay in something broken just because someone finally remembers your stuffed animals’ names. It’s funny. It’s fucked up. And the carrots were, allegedly, really good.

It was supposed to be a vape hit. Just a little buzz. Instead, it was a one-way trip to hell via mystery cartridge, sticker projects, and full-body ego death. Facedown, Judged by a Pop-Tart is a cautionary tale of modern hubris, cursed inhalants, and the kind of neurological collapse that ends with your ass in the air and your only emotional support coming from a plush breakfast pastry. It’s grotesque. It’s hilarious. It’s sticky.

This isn’t just a story about a burger joint. It’s about devotion. Delusion. And one woman’s multi-year pilgrimage to earn her rightful place in a fast-food commercial that quietly died while she was still ordering garlic fries. It's a tragicomic elegy to expired promotions, chrome-era nostalgia, and the kind of heartbreak only a seasoned manager named Thomas can deliver with a cheeseburger and sincere regret. Nine years of loyalty. Thousands of points.

She just wanted to annoy her son. Instead, she uncovered a digital time capsule of weaponized childhood chaos. The Groan Tube Files is a feral audio whodunnit featuring cursed toys, ambient trolling, and the kind of maternal love that Googles “worst sound ever” for revenge. What she found: three groan tube recordings, uploaded by someone with her son’s name… when he was three years old. It’s not a parenting story. It’s a feedback loop of noise, memory, and accidental mythmaking—with 700 strangers downloading the scream.

In a town where Jesus mowed the lawn and authority wore orthopedic shoes, one feral middle schooler discovered the unholy power of a No. 2 pencil. Technically Anonymous is a battle cry for the gifted-and-grounded generation: part artistic sabotage, part piss-soaked comedy, and fully a middle finger to small-town delusion. She didn’t name names. She didn’t have to. The drawings did that for her.

A childhood memory of exorcisms, misunderstandings, and unintentional blasphemy. The Crown is a story about velvet bags, spiritual confusion, and the fragile dignity of a ten-year-old princess in a tent revival.

Welcome to the Ambien hour—a time when burritos become ritual, plushies broker snack treaties, and your ice machine might be God. Ambien Hour is a surreal, unhinged descent into late-night delirium featuring emotionally volatile stuffed animals, gastrointestinal dog warfare, and the unbearable wisdom of a strawberry Pop-Tart. It’s not a story. It’s a vision. It’s snack justice.