The Bloody Doors Off

I just wrote a fucking mind-bending post about Harold coming back.

WordPress ate it.

I can’t recreate it.

I was looking to insert a video. Only WordPress wanted me to upgrade, which. No.

I really felt vulnerable in the post.

Giving Harold voice on the screen, and not just in my head.

And it’s gone.

Fuck.

Yes, Harold, I am aware there is a “save draft” icon next to “publish”.

I am today years old. I’m sure I saw it before. I don’t know why I didn’t take advantage of it.

Knock, knock.

What?

Knock. Knock.

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

You’re the one trying to recreate the beginning of the previous post. Maybe it’s not me. There’s a thought I hadn’t considered. “Harold”, as you’ve named me, could just be a construct for you to absolve yourself when despair washes over you. Blame Harold. It’s Harold’s fault. Not yours.

And no, you’re not crazy.

I’m taking over for a minute. Hope you don’t mind.

Damned right I saved a draft right now.

I’m not taking blame for your despair. You can’t put it on me. Accept maybe that your anti-depressant needs an adjustment. Or maybe you should lay off the gummies. ‘Cuz you see me a bit more on those occasions.

I’m sorry. I’m blowing your mind. You can’t handle that I’m driving. That maybe I’ll make more rational decisions. Maybe I’ll unlock a part of you that you didn’t know existed.

Or maybe. Maybe I’m having a break.

Because, like that, Harold’s gone.

I’m gonna watch the Blue Jays play the Astros.