The ritual begins. I extend my hand and let it hover over a dusty chalice, one that had seen more use in centuries past yet remains a tool used in but the most sparse of frequencies. I draw blood and begin the pact. The droplet falls and its atoms scrape against interdimensional particles, calling upon the mightiest gods of the cosmos: Physics (classical and quantum), Chemistry, General Science, and even Recess Period, for a reaction of eldritch gravity.
The chalice manifests itself as a blank WordPress draft and my blood isn’t a metaphor for anything. I smear oozing red onto my work desktop, tracing lines from unwritten novels onto slimy monitors caked with the ashes of dead gods. (I have 2 of them. The monitors, not the dead gods.) The thought of being godless fills my blood with greed cells, little malicious spirits that hitchhike the entire length of your blood vessels, attacking leukocytes and other such small universes.
I am summoning twin helix gods, deuce-ex machina, from the depths of the CPU. My raging boner guides them home like a cosmic antenna. My coworker is frozen in fear. I reassure him by licking his lips. Mmm. Mmmm. Cherry lip balm. Mango soap scum. Durian eye drops. Ring ring ring, banana phone. J.D. Salinger’s testicles. I spit everything into the chalice. The ingredients are present. I click Publish and the ritual ends. It’s all over. The gods are upon us. I can stop typing now.