#notesonthevoidofficial

[notesonthevoid-official]

Ent Zaddy Green Knight

[notesonthevoid-official]

Note: 987

Survived a crash, became a cryptid. I hand out hope like won theme park tickets & rescue turtles from highways. This is where I unpack the weird, the wild, and the raw. No fluff, just survival. Welcome to the void.

- Notes On The VoidRead on Substack

[notesonthevoid-official]

Ramblings or My Manifesto?

A year ago (but not today — maybe a month ago, give or take), I survived something. Something not quite real. Where two worlds met at the threshold — one life, one death. In fair Verona do we lay our scene? No. It was Western Virginia. Close enough.

There I was, Mountain Mama-in-training, just a severed head rolling down Country Roads — back to the place I allegedly belong. Jack fell down. Lost his crown. I came tumbling after. Except I lived.

And in the wreckage, the mists parted. Locals emerged like ancient spirits, murmuring something about “blessed be” and “you should be dead.” That’s when the Cryptid was born.

Maybe I was supposed to die. Maybe the prophecy got lost in transit. Maybe my soul got flagged for a random audit.

Either way — on the anniversary of that wreck, I gave a eulogy for my old name. I handed theme park tickets (won by a fluke at work) to a teenager at a fast food joint. Because hope is expensive. And kids should know what it feels like to win something weird and dumb in this capitalist hellscape.

I got chicken. It slapped. I had a plastic bag.

And on the rainy highway off-ramp, there was Franklin — a turtle on a suicide mission across four lanes of existential dread. I used the bag, scooped him up, and carried him to the other side like some weird highway Valkyrie.

And maybe that’s why I lived. Not because of fate. Not because I changed my name. But because a green guy needed help getting home, and I was there.

Full circle. No applause. Just echoes.

[notesonthevoid-official]

Note: 164

Be prepared for the worst. The time is now! To do what you ask? I don't know, but I can feel it in my bones. And as someone who listens to their intuition. You can find me in my closet with a tin foil hat, and a glass of wine, because I need my grown-up juice to get through this mess. You didn't expect me to white knuckle it for the next four years did you?

[notesonthevoid-official]

Welcome to Notes on the Void

Welcome to Notes on the Void, your friendly neighborhood hub for the beautifully unhinged and socially exhausted. I’m the local cryptid — you know, the one skulking around coffee shops demanding offerings of lattes and chocolate croissants like it’s an ancient ritual. Spoiler: it is.

If you’re here for warm hugs, look elsewhere — this is where existential dread meets snarky commentary and occasional art that might make you question your life choices. Expect real talk about things nobody wants to say out loud, sprinkled with enough sarcasm to keep you from crying into your third cup of coffee.

I’m probably hiding in some weird corner with a tin foil hat and a glass of wine, trying to figure out if it’s me or the world that’s completely off the rails. Spoiler: it’s both. But hey, if life’s a dumpster fire, consider this your front row seat — popcorn optional, but highly recommended.

So buckle up. Or don’t. I’m just here to document the chaos, roast the nonsense, and maybe, just maybe, find some weird magic in the madness.