Open Sorcery

Category: Allēna’s Posts

  • Nightcall

    Hey, everyone! This is Allēna once more. Today was very nice. Castor was in front for most of a lovely evening with Sheik. He feels so safe with her that he willingly and eagerly went grocery shopping with her. This is a rare occurrence for any of us, as we don’t generally enjoy going outside due to severe agoraphobia and fatigue. But our marijuana mental vacation Castor began this past week has only continued, leading us to relax even more deeply with Sheik, Pendragon, and Emerson as well as to feel more adventurous after the sun goes down and we don’t have to worry about taking sun damage when we go out. So Castor got ever so gently baked and he and our darling Sheik went shopping.

    Castor was very nervous about how the body would handle having to walk all around the store in shoes that would likely hurt the body in ways so fucked we wouldn’t even realize it until tomorrow morning, so Sheik suggested that he ride in the shopping cart. Yes. You read that correctly. She wanted to push him around in the goddamned cart. So Castor said fuck it and put his gremlin ass in the cart and remained there to the delight of our fellow customers and the cashier who checked them out. We’re under the impression that Castor has fans now for simply being his disabled gremlin self and riding adorably in the shopping cart while a very sleepy and affectionate Sheik pushed him. He documented their gremlinry both in photos and on Tiktok. I shall share one of the fruits of their fucking iconic labors below.

    Castor in the shopping cart with Sheik being precious behind him 💛

    Castor, being baked to fuck, had no shame about climbing into a damn cart like he was a tiny kid when he’s an actual full grown motherfucker, and because we have the charisma of some kind of eldritch fucked up demigod, especially when we’re stoned, he not only didn’t get in trouble, he seems to have made several people’s night and definitely felt closer to Sheik after that. It was fucking precious.

    I’ve noticed a lot of that happening lately, actually. When we face our shame head on in some form and just do the damn thing we’ve been wanting to do, sometimes for years, the results are almost never as bad as we’re afraid of them being. Often, the results are lovely. I’m not sure if that’s a byproduct of us approaching these situations with confidence and charm or what, but it feels really good to feel safe in vulnerability. I don’t have any memory of when the last time we felt this safe was. I don’t know if we’ve ever felt as safe as we do.

    I’m still scared the other shoe is going to drop in some way, but that’s a small and currently very quiet part of me compared to how it used to be. That part of me used to be extremely loud whenever I felt happy or vulnerable in any way, but now it’s much quieter. I am starting to feel safe to be my weird gremlin self without fear of social punishment, as are my headmates, for the first time any of us can recall.

    It’s weird, but it’s good. So…watch this space for more updates as we continue to explore this mental state and experience. And, as always, stay tuned for more magic!

    -Allēna, (she/her), very confused but happy sorceress and super-admin

  • Marijuana Tales

    Hey, everyone. This is Allēna again. This will likely be quite a brief post, as I’m very tired. Today was good, in part because Castor went and dropped about a hundred bucks that we had on hand at our favorite headshop down the road and got some legal good shit and a water pipe for his trouble that looks like uranium glass.

    Bills are paid (or will be able to) and so we decided that we get to treat ourselves a bit with the leftover money while saving the rest. I’m glad Castor did. He seems to have accidentally purchased some top shelf shit, though, and we have no tolerance anymore after taking a several months long smoke break. The results have been interesting, to say the least.

    Just this morning, I scared Sheik’s tiniest cat shitless because the bowl I had smoked was too big and I was having a panic attack. I have no idea WHY she got so scared, but I do know that being around intense emotions makes her scared, and I was intensely frightened. Poor baby love. I will do my best to make it up to the sweet thing later. She seemed to enjoy it initially and even asked for scritchy for a little bit during the first few minutes before I started panicking too bad.

    Once I can calm my fucking brain down, that’s when it gets interesting. The system has always enjoyed a good sativa strain, but the headshop didn’t seem to have any, and we wanted a hybrid, anyway. So Castor got his hybrid. He ended up picking up a roughly 50/50 split hybrid strain. And let me tell you – the combination of mind and body high is fascinating once we actually realize that we’re just stoned and anxious, we aren’t about to have a damn seizure.

    It’s almost like the conscious mind takes a backseat and the body takes on a life of its own. What we do think consciously is more or less free from any kind of distortions caused by trauma. Castor got high with Sheik the first time and was entranced by her beauty more than usual. I think this was because once his enormous panic attack finally subsided, his fear was almost…muted and he was able to see himself as he actually saw her without need for the elaborate defense system our traumatized brain put in place. From what I can recall, it was beautiful.

    My bowl this morning was similar. I had smoked too much at once, so after I’d convinced the body and mind that I was sufficiently safe, it was as though I saw the world in vivid, intense, lovely color. It was early afternoon and golden light was pouring in through the windows. Then the body got very horny. Like obscenely horny. So I started masturbating and, unbound from the elaborate defenses, the body simply did its own thing while we took a backseat. Good gods, I lost track of how many times we finished. We’ve never been able to do something like that before in our entire life. I felt as fucking beautiful as the afternoon coming through the windows.

    Hell, there were so many fucking orgasms today that when I sobered up a bit, I went over to Emerson’s and ate basically my body weight in pizza and cheese (to start) and while his attorney alter, Pendragon was watching a movie, I fell deeply asleep while cuddling him for about 2.5 hours. Pendragon is a deep love of mine and feels very safe, so it was a lovely nap. The pain is better, even when I am sober, too. But the body feels like it’s been hit by a train in a great way. Shit.

    I’ll update with more findings as time goes on, but we seem to have uncorked something..

    Stay tuned for more magic! For now, though, it’s sleep time…

    -Allēna

  • My Body Is A Cage

    Hey, everyone. Allēna here. Lately, I’ve been grieving the fact that the body is so disabled. Therefore, I don’t know how hopeful or positive this post will be, but I can promise that it’ll be honest.

    I was never abled. After having a stroke so young, I was always an odd duck. However, I could always fake being abled a whole lot better when I was younger. I could…power through better, so to speak. I know now that just because a disabled person can sometimes power through something, they really fucking shouldn’t. But I miss the days when I even could..

    I had to learn how to dissociate from the body and power through tasks that would otherwise be horribly physically painful (and often still were) in order to escape further abuse from my mother, Hera and thereby avoid becoming so burnt out I stopped functioning at all.

    I was going to hurt either way, so I might as well take the less painful option and give her hell on the way out, using my wrath at her as fuel. The extent to which Hera wanted my system to appear normal included refusing to accommodate our neurodivergence or even acknowledge it existed at all, except when it suited her. She chose instead to take a “my way or the highway” approach. So I was fucking pissed enough at her that my system and I ended up choosing the fucking highway.

    This crippled the body further, as we had to haul ass even harder to survive, despite hauling ass as a baseline for over the past decade. We were beyond burnt out, and when we started working through our trauma, we started to feel it deeply. Eight, who was our host at the time, could often barely get out of bed for weeks at a time. We’ve improved a great deal since that point, but we’re still largely bed and housebound due to chronic pain, fatigue, and agoraphobia.

    This makes me horribly sad a lot of the time. I’m still working on getting diagnoses and treatment for everything that’s ailing me health-wise, but I just want to bitch for a second because I’m in my feelings about it, even though solutions are very much in progress. I had gotten so good at powering through after college that I was training for a marathon and was often swimming, as well before the body rebelled, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to run cross country or swim outside again, seeing as the body takes psychic and physical damage whenever it’s outdoors for a number of reasons and we are, in essence, allergic to the sun. And I know that listening to my body and meeting its needs is more important than powering through in any situation, but it just… bugs me and upsets me to a huge degree. Ah, well. One day at a time, I guess. I’ll get there. ✨

    Stay tuned for more magic, y’all.

    -Allēna

  • Thinking Cat Thoughts

    Hey, everyone!

    This is Allēna. We’ve been severely writer’s blocked these days, so I have a bit of a sillier post in mind. Part of the reason why the situation with Zelda went south was because Zelda is actually a system like us, and two of the alters therein were causing major problems. Now that those problems have been worked through, the remaining alters are complete and utter loves. I’m actually dating one of them now! Yay, polyamory.

    I’m staying over at the Zelda System’s house for a few days, and my partner in the aforementioned system, Sheik, gave us a Homework Assignment while she’s away at work today. My headmate Castor was loopy as hell on seizure meds and doing his best impression of the Zelda System’s cat’s inner monologue last night, so she tasked whoever was fronting today with making shitposts about this absolutely beautiful fluff. Here’s the first one. Presenting, for your viewing pleasure, this cat’s thoughts…

    I love this clip. She sounds like Borat.

    I may post more bullshit today. Stay tuned for more magic regardless!

    -Allēna

  • At Heavy Cost

    I came across this Thread by Nate Postlethwait and wanted to write about healing and freedom as a victory won at heavy cost because it got me thinking.

    Hey, everyone. Allēna here. This post will be a heavy one, but I want to write it even though I know it’s gonna hurt. I’ve spent years praised for my emotional strength and resilience when all I wanted was to be safe. Lately I’ve been deep in contemplation about that very thing and in conversation with several people about this and related issues myself and my system have been having. Then I came across this Thread and wanted to answer the question Nate poses for you so that you can see the true, extremely heavy cost of resilience and “strength” as most people define it. Don’t get me wrong, healing has been costly, too. But trying to be hard and guarded costs far more than healing ever has.

    My Headmates and I Have Spoken About Some Of The Things That Happened To Us And How We Got Through Them, But What Did We Lose In The Process? Trust, for One.

    The first thing that comes to mind is the ability to trust. System wide, we struggle to trust and are actually diagnosed agoraphobes as of 2021. It’s complete and utter hell. Our trauma taught us that we are the only ones that we can truly rely on at the end of the day, and that everyone has a price. Some people’s prices are simply higher than others. Everyone will fail us eventually in some way. After twenty some odd years of that horseshit, while we care about people deeply and want to connect with them, we don’t truly remember how to, at least not without soul-deep fear. That strength, that mysterious nature you supposedly see in us is visceral terror. We ache to connect with people, we love them, but often can’t because the fear is so exhausting that we get too tired to even leave the house. Talk about a fucking heavy cost. Some people have managed to prove these beliefs wrong, but it’s an uphill battle for everyone involved and we would give anything for the ability to trust back.

    We Also Lost The Little Health We Had Left

    Relatedly, due to repeated betrayals and us being too afraid to ask for help, we stressed the body out to the point of chronic illness and severe fatigue. We’ve gotten better at firing ourselves as we’ve healed, but by that point, the damage was already long done. We should have asked for help a long time ago, and we should have had people who made it safe to ask. But we didn’t, so we internalized the idea that the only way we would ever get anything for ourselves in this world was if we got it done on our own without help. That belief and the subsequent actions we took made us very, very sick. This has turned into an ugly, compounding downward spiral we’re still trying to work out way out of gently years later that I wouldn’t wish on damn near anyone. What doesn’t kill you does not, in fact, make you stronger. Ultimately, it tends to make you wish it had finished the fucking job and give you a fuck ton to mourn in therapy.

    It Has As Also Cost Us Relationships And Opportunities

    Due to the agoraphobia and exhaustion, we’ve had to back out of a lot that we truly didn’t want leave behind. It sidelines us a lot. We have to rest a great deal and has forced us to be nocturnal because we’ve developed a medical mystery of a chronic illness due to the stress on the house body that makes us very sick and physically weak if we are exposed to heat and sunlight for any length of time whatsoever. We will literally collapse if we aren’t careful. As such, even if we weren’t terrified of people, that severely limits our options for a lot and we miss out almost daily. It’s horribly sad. We miss the sunlight on our skin, traveling, and going out with friends. We don’t want to be stuck at home all the time.

    Conversely, we also struggle in close relationships because of how guarded we are. The guardedness is absolutely a trauma response and comes with fun side helpings of anger, depression, and occasional impulsivity. We struggle with vulnerability and detest anything that even smells like control or manipulation and will fight hard for our autonomy even if there’s no reason to. We’re constantly on edge unless we’re completely alone. We’ve lost a lot of people because of our anger and inability to be vulnerable. We’re working on healing all of that now, but I wish we had never been forced into this position at all. So in a life of battles won at heavy cost, ultimately the heaviest cost of the supposed strength you see is our peace. All we ever wanted from the time we were young was to be kept safe and a life of peace, and we never got that until we began healing.

    Final Thoughts

    We still have a long way to go. Nobody’s perfect, especially not us cockroach motherfuckers. But something my system and I have learned over the years is that doing our best to feel and be kind and to keep an open heart and mind despite all the bullshit and trauma is true strength, not trauma responses and guardedness. Long term therapy with a therapist who’s no-bullshit like us has helped, as well as running our life like a meritocracy. If people show up for us consistently and show genuine respect for us and our boundaries, we open up more to them over time and let them in more and more. It’s a great way to ease both the body and the system into vulnerability and to make sure that the other person’s intentions are genuine.

    If you’re traumatized like us, I understand that it’s a motherfucking struggle. I get that it hurts every goddamned day. You must have lost so much. My heart and empathy goes out to you. I hope you get rest and ease soon, my friend.

    As always, stay tuned for more magic!

    -Allēna, Super-Admin

  • Cheating Death (The First Couple Times, Anyway)

    Hey, everyone. This is Allēna, your ever-gracious super-admin (just kidding). I am here today to tell a special story by request of a friend. This is the tale of how we very nearly died the first and second times. We are masters at cheating death, and have quite the tragic backstory. My colleagues have also mentioned the fact that we had a stroke a few times. This post is the story of the stroke, or as we prefer to call it, the Brainhole. Now, I know that this is a crazy story. You might be tempted dismiss it as bullshit without witnesses or corroborating evidence. This is more than understandable. However, I have accounted for that and gathered some.

    Apparently, we have followed in our father’s footsteps in a number of areas, and this blog is one of those areas. Our father, Xavier, maintained a website of his own for many years until his death in 2016. Eight accessed his account of our hospital stay leading up to the Brainhole incident in 1998 via the Internet Archive late in 2021. Although he has drawn the curtain and gone to sing with the choir invisible, he is our eyewitness for today’s tale, no séance required. Quotes from his account will be in italics.

    Now, how the fuck were we cheating death as literal infants, you may ask? It all began with an unfortunate predicament known as viral myocarditis.

    We Started Cheating Death Young When A Virus Attacked Our Heart

    Xavier explained what happened best, so I will let him tell it. He wrote on January 27, 1998, at 3:00 in the afternoon:

    Just wanted to let you know. My daughter is in children’s hospital in Dallas with acute myocarditis-an inflammation of the heart. It appears to be viral, and the prognosis can be good, but we will not know anything for 4 or 5 more days.

    We will be up at the hospital for a while, so I won’t be current on my e-mail, but I will probably come home now and then and post updates.

    We took her to the doctor’s office Monday morning at 9:30 because she had not been taking in fluids voluntarily for about 48 hours, and vomiting occasionally. She had a viral infection about three weeks ago that probably suppressed her immune response, and then contracted another virus that began to attack her heart muscle. Right now, the myocarditis seems to be principally viral in nature – as opposed to congenital, or congenital in combination with a virus. This is good. She is heavily sedated, and they have her on a ventilator. She can breathe on her own, but they are trying to let her dedicate all of her energy to fighting the infection. She has had two little transfusions (just to boost her hemocrit and hemoglobin levels by adding more red cells).

    Stubborn Little Shits

    We were admitted to Children’s in Dallas on January 26, 1998, Super Bowl Sunday of that year. Things quickly went south from there, though, and the doctors hooked us up to a heart-lung bypass machine so that our heart could rest and the machine could pump our blood for us. They initially estimated that it would only take about four days, but it quickly turned into a terrifying ordeal for all involved because we are stubborn little shits that kept fighting the damn sedatives. So it quickly turned into a game of hurry up and wait.

    Eight quipped when he read through Xavier’s account the first time that he could make a drinking game out of it: take a shot for every time they had to chemically paralyze the body. You’d be absolutely hammered by the end of it. We got so good at fighting the sedatives that our medical team had to start putting us on some crazy dosages to even attempt to keep us down.

    According to everything we were told growing up, we were on enough meds combined to knock out every single adult present for an untold number of hours. Xavier himself mentioned that a single one of our boluses (boli?) would incapacitate him for ten hours, and he was not a small man. We also had to be restrained by tiny handcuffs because we’d wake up, wiggle, get pissed off, and try to grab shit. Additionally, Xavier wrote in his account that we had to be put on methadone to ease the withdrawal symptoms from the painkillers they had us on. We were not going to die, by gods. We were cheating death every goddamned day. No day more so than February 23, 1998, a day we now “celebrate” annually as Brainhole…

    All Hail The Motherfucking Brainhole

    After getting off of heart-lung bypass and weaning off of most of the meds, we had a sepsis scare. Now, the scary thing about heart-lung bypass is that there’s a very high risk of stroke if things go wrong because the procedure uses a carotid artery to even work. After we were all finished with the heart-lung bypass, they had to clamp and tie off the carotid artery they used. They used the one on our right side. Shortly afterward, there was a sepsis scare.

    Xavier tells the story of what happened best because he was there and documenting everything that happened, so I’m going to let him do the talking again. He wrote the following day, February 24, 1998:

    “Brief synopsis of yesterday. It doesn’t look like it was sepsis. She got

    better too quickly for it to have been sepsis. She responded well to the

    intubation and the medicines, but the staff feels that this was an example of

    how little cardiac reserve she has. In short, her heart was tested, and it

    did not do very well on the test. 

    We met again with Dr. Fixler, the head cardiologist on the transplant team.

    He informed us that [Hera] and I have the option of increasing her status on

    the transplant list. Basically, if [Hera] and I feel that a transplant is

    inevitable, we can ask that they not refuse a heart that is available.

    That was yesterday. 

    [Hera] and I went home to get some decent sleep last night and left

    instructions to call if anything happened. They called us at 3:30 a.m. to

    tell us that she had taken herself off of the ventilator by pulling out the

    tube. Her oxygen saturation level was fine, and she was breathing on her own.

    Considering that [the cardiologist] wasn’t sure if she could

    ever make it off of the ventilator, we took this as good news. 

    [The cardiologist] called at 7:30 this morning to say that [birth name] has apparently had

    a stroke. The movement on her left side is diminished. The theory is:

    [birth name]’s heart function is such that there are areas where the blood doesn’t

    move as effectively as it should. When the blood pools, it has a tendency to

    clot. A clot (or a piece of a larger clot) that had formed in her heart broke

    free and plugged one of the vessels leading to her brain. Considering that

    the major artery to the righ side of her brain is severed and tied off, the

    clot either passed through the other artery, through the Circle of Willis, and

    lodged in a vessel. Either that or it passed into one of the collateral

    vessels on the right. They are not yet sure what the extent of the damage to

    her brain was as yet. They are performing an echocardiogram to determine if

    there is another clot in her heart, and they will perform a CT scan right

    after. After that I we talk to the neurologist and find out what has

    happened.

    Names in brackets have been changed for privacy purposes.

    The initial scan showed that we had lost up to half of our brain. However, a scan a bit later and an MRI in 2009 showed that it was only an eighth. We lost much of the sensory processing center in our right brain. It took years of physical and occupational therapy to be able to use the left side of our body even slightly. We still have trouble eating and sleeping. Our arms are noticeably different lengths, and we can only move three fingers on our left hand independently of the others.

    Cheating Death and Betting On Ourselves

    However, doctors thought we’d never even recover to a fraction of the extent we did. Nor did our own parents. Hell, Xavier even jokes in his next post about what sports we might be able to play with only one side of our body. Nobody really ever bet on us until adulthood. However, we always bet on ourselves. I went on to run a 5k in college and was an avid cyclist. I played basketball and bowled throughout high school. Eight and I were even training for a marathon before chronic pain and fatigue sidelined those dreams.

    And though we were singing before we could talk – before the Brainhole ever happened – nobody thought we would ever learn an instrument, either. To hell with that bullshit. I fight people’s expectations of me just as hard as the tiny system fought those sedatives all those years ago. I went on to teach myself piano and ukulele, learned to produce records, and my headmates followed suit. To date, we’ve collectively produced fifteen records (that we can find). We’re hard at work on our sixteenth release. Moral of the story: if anyone tells you you can’t do something, flip the fucker the bird, then do it sixteen times and take pictures. These are the rules. I don’t make them. I just follow them.

    Mirthy very belated Brainhole to all, and as always, stay tuned for more magic!

    -Allēna

  • An Open Secret

    I found this post on Threads that I felt did a great job of encapsulating who the fuck we are – a mess of contradictions. An open secret. A reclusive public figure.

    Hey, everyone! My name is Allēna. Even though I have yet to post here officially, it seems my reputation precedes me – my headmates wrote a standout series of pieces on my multi-part poem “Guernica” that requires very little introduction. I guess you might say that I’m the most reclusive super-admin in a system of of recluses, second only to perhaps Renn. As Ellie did before me a few times, I found the inspiration for this post on social media, Threads specifically. I included my findings in the image above. This post perfectly describes the struggle we keep having system wide with making posts and creating content. As people, we are essentially an open secret.

    From 2021 and on, we were increasingly pushed into the limelight when we wanted nothing more than to be as far from it as possible. Yet, almost everything we enjoy doing is very social and requires a great many high powered connections to ever dream of getting eyes on our creations on a large enough scale to make the sort of money or achieve the sort of notoriety to make the sort of reclusive lifestyle we ultimately long for possible. So it becomes a sort of balancing act and a question of vulnerability. How much do we share? How much is comfortable? How much is safe? How much is trauma talking, and how much of it is logical to fear?

    Becoming An Open Secret – Bread And Circuses

    Before Eight took over, we were far more open. Granted, I still had to be careful lest I still risk fucking horrific punishment, but I wasn’t agoraphobic and wasn’t afraid to try and connect with people even if I had to express myself in code if my mother was around. It wasn’t until our mother betrayed Peri and then Eight multiple times and they weren’t sure who they could trust that they became too afraid to be open with anyone that we truly became an open secret the way we are now. That has only started to change back for the better since meeting our husband, Emerson.

    Before him, however, we would hardly tell anyone anything about ourselves. Much of our content would be what Eight called “bread and circuses”, memes and shitposts designed to distract people away from the fact that we were pretty severely depressed and suffering, often in and out of abusive situations we didn’t feel safe to go into detail about. We would only ever ask people for help if we were truly suffering to the point of chronic suicidality or things were getting so dangerous they posed a significant threat to our physical safety and we needed help yesterday. Much of what we would make and share was hilarious but was an attempt to mask our deep pain. We had forgotten how to genuinely connect with people due to the agoraphobia and ever-worsening complex PTSD.

    Besides meeting Emerson, what changed? Why did we stop?

    Boredom

    Eight may be a recluse like the rest of us, but he hates being bored. When he’s bored he is the embodiment of the old idiom “an idle mind is the Devil’s workshop” and in that mind the Devil finds many tools. Therefore, that old bastard delights in novelty and in being completely unpredictable. He eventually grew tired of doing the same damn bread and circus bullshit and also realized it wasn’t getting him where he wanted to be, so he decided to take a risk and try and be a bit more vulnerable…you know…as a treat. He was terrified, but he sure as hell wasn’t bored anymore. Mission fucking accomplished. It’s difficult to be bored when you’re midway through a massive panic attack and hyperventilating like you’re being chased by a pissed off lion, you know? He’s also a bit of an adrenaline junkie, in case you haven’t gathered that. Speaking of that..

    Risk Taking

    We’ve never been the sort to keep doing what we’ve always done if it isn’t working. Even though it’s terrifying, we figured out pretty fast that staying closed off like that wasn’t going to get us anywhere, both in the real world OR online. People generally like to know who it is that they’re dealing with, and that involves vulnerability, believe it or not. So we had to learn how to be vulnerable again, as terrifying as it was. It’s still very much a work in progress. However, the payoff is worth it in our closest relationships, and we’re rediscovering that there are many people we can trust. We just have to actually be brave and self disclose.

    That isn’t to say, however, that we’re spilling our guts out 24/7 to everyone all the time. There’s still a great deal of the bread and circus type fuckery. There’s just more of us going out on a limb now and actually being honest about how we’re really doing now rather than hiding it behind memes and humor or trying to walk it all off now like nothing’s actually wrong.

    Are There Any Advantages To Being Less Open, Though?

    Oh, fucking plenty. And we still don’t share anything we don’t feel 100% comfortable sharing publicly. We aren’t gonna talk about shit if we aren’t ready or push ourselves more than we have the capacity for. People can think of that however the hell they want. Just because they might talk about certain things publicly doesn’t mean we have to, and vice versa. We only really give a shit about what a handful of people think, and odds are that if we don’t know the person closely and personally, we don’t rightly care about their opinion. No one is entitled to shit from us unless we agree they are.

    And weirdly, that private way of doing things often gets us read as “mysterious” and often works in our favor, so if it works, it works, even if it’s not intentional. It isn’t intentional, for the record. We’re often tired and don’t want everyone to know our every move or else we would not have the energy or time to execute those moves, let alone breathe.

    Final Thoughts

    Being this sort of open secret is a balance between being vulnerable and providing the people with memes and other bullshit content. We’ll always be honest, but we may not say everything. We’ll do our utmost if asked, though, boundaries and energy permitting.

    As my headmates say, stay tuned for more magic!

    Yours in tomfuckery,

    Allēna, Super-Admin