Tails, Trolls, and Tiny Steps Forward
Last night, the sky opened to me in my dreams. I rose, light as a whisper, floating and bouncing through the night as if the universe itself had given me permission to play among the clouds-tugging anyone I touched upwards with me as if the laws of physics had decided to take a nap.
It was peaceful—until the silence broke, and the moon decided to explode, raining down fire.
The moon crumbling, hurling fireballs that clawed into the earth’s crust. The ground buckled, lava split through the cracks, screams echoed through the chaos—and I was left with the unbearable truth: I could only carry two to safety. Just two. The weight of it crushed me, froze me, until I jolted awake in my recliner, chest heaving, tears streaking down. “Why am I like this?” I whispered.
Two furry pairs of eyes blinked at me from their beds. Odin and Freya, my midnight bodyguards, tilted their heads in concern. The clock glowed: 4:00 a.m. They clearly decided it was cuddle o’clock, because in one synchronized leap they piled onto me. Freya tucked her head against my heart, Odin sprawled along my side with his chin in my armpit. I was buried in dog, wrapped in their warmth, cocooned in love. My living, breathing security blankets lulled me back into sleep.
At 6 a.m., the alarm screamed, and we shuffled into the day.
We went through the motions of the morning routine, but I wasn’t feeling it. Feed the dogs? Don’t wanna. Walk the dogs? Don’t wanna. Shower? Don’t wanna. Work? Big nope. Even cleaning felt like punishment from the Adulting Fairy. The kicker? There wasn’t anything else I did want to do. But I pushed through anyway, because sometimes you just have to.
Thank goodness for my espresso machine—the only thing standing between me and total collapse. The coffee poured, the milk spun into galaxies, and the dream leaned in like a villain to whisper, “You can’t save them all. Not even with caffeine.”
Maybe it was guilt. Maybe alien movies. Or maybe guilt from watching alien movies. Honestly, guilt is one of my toxic traits. When I was little, I tried to rescue everything with a pulse—birds, cats, lizards. Didn’t matter. If it breathed, I was on the job. My mom called it my Superman Complex, and she wasn’t wrong. As an adult, that instinct grew legs. Friends, family, strangers—it didn’t matter. If someone looked hurt, I carried their pain with me. But when I tried to help strangers and things went badly, I took it as a cosmic sign: I couldn’t trust people. So I pulled back, left the saving to those I knew and loved, and slowly built a thick wall of mistrust between myself and the rest of the world.
Therapists and family would likely trace it back to childhood trauma. The thread that weaves through everything, tugging at the seams no matter how carefully I stitch them. At least I’ve got something to blame—it struts in every time like, “Don’t worry guys I got this one too.”
Guilt has practically become my shadow. I say sorry for things I didn’t do, couldn’t control, and sometimes for things that didn’t even exist. In relationships, “sorry” rolled off my tongue like a nervous tic—even when I knew I wasn’t wrong. Because guilt always had a script for me: “Say it, or they won’t love you” “Say it, so you can stop arguing.” “Say it, because silence feels worse.” Ridiculous? Yes. But also, me.
One day, I know my therapist will drop some epic truth bomb, and poof—guilt will vanish into the ether. Until then, I tell myself to put on my big girl panties and get on with it.
The day tiptoed forward like it was afraid to wake the weekend. For lunch, I cuddled with my spoiled pups and took them on separate walks (because walking them together is basically an audition for Jerry Springer: Dog Edition). I love my girl Freya, but she could win Best Actress for her sidewalk theatrics—and trust me, the judges aren’t impressed.
Later, a rap-tap-tap at the door set off the pups’ internal alarms. Suddenly, it was DEFCON 1, and my two “guard wolves” were ready to shred intruders—or Amazon packages. Whoever was outside probably questioned their life choices. Good, I thought. “Place!” I ordered. Odin complied like a pro. Freya, my resident neighborhood watch, did not. One zap-zap later, she remembered the rule
It was Lynn, the RV whisperer, lingering a safe distance away like a man who values his limbs. He asked me to kennel the dogs, and I obliged… well, sort of. Doors closed but not locked. Because let’s be real—sometimes you’ve gotta leave a loophole available.
Lynn and his brother waltzed in, waved their RV magic wands, and bada-bing-bada-boom—dryer vent installed. Just like that. Laundry game leveled up and I officially no longer had to have anxiety about setting my trailer on fire by using my dryer without the proper ventalation. At the very least it will keep my house a bit cooler in this ungodly Texas heat.
Back to work I went, wrapping up my meetings and documents. By evening, it was fur-baby walk time again. This time I slowed down, reminding myself: open your eyes, open your heart. Most of the day had slipped by in a blur of mundane tasks, but out here I could actually feel it. Odin’s nose steered him like a compass, while Freya’s radar-dish ears twitched at every phantom sound. They scanned the ground and trees, as if each scent painted a story in their minds. With tails wagging and eyes alight, their excitement shimmered in the air. Good. Deep breath, I told myself.
Seeing them happy made me happy. I can’t control much in this unpredictable world, but I can control how I love and care for them. Spoiling them isn’t indulgence—it’s a promise. They give me everything: watchful eyes, unconditional love, fierce loyalty (even if it’s just against fat raccoons). Their lives revolve around protecting me both physically and emotionally, so the least I can do is return the favor in treats, cuddles, comfort, and love.
We made it back home without drama. I fed them and hopped on Discord with my Canadian friend, freshly revived from his old man nap. Soon Auntie, my cousin, and our Louisiana friend joined, Auntie feeling half-way feisty again after COVID and ready to slay zombies in 7 Days to Die.
Dinner was a leftover hamburger and a rebellious cup of coffee—my last stand against bedtime. By eight, I was yawning so hard I gave everyone else in Discord sympathy yawns. Honestly, how did I ever hit the bars every Friday night in my twenties? Oh, to be young, dumb, and powered by Jägerbombs and poor decisions.
We called it a night, but the dogs gave me the look. You know the one. So out we went for a late-night stroll. Woods to the left, RV park to the right, me in the middle pretending to be brave. The dogs kept laser eyes on the trees, clearly convinced Bigfoot was waiting to jump us. Eventually, Freya started vibrating with excitement, teetering on the edge of barking herself into another dimension. That was my cue to turn around.
Home again, I tucked the pups in and brewed chamomile tea, hoping it would calm my restless brain. Did it work? Ha. Of course not. My mind kicked into overdrive instead. I opened CapCut, tinkered with AI and voiceover videos, and produced two absolute disasters. But quitting isn’t in my vocabulary, so I kept fiddling.
Then came the kicker: my TikTok account was suddenly under review for “inappropriate content.” Someone had reported me. My heart whispered one name, but my brain reminded me not to go there—trolls are infinite, and it didn’t have to be someone I knew. Anger brewed hot, but my Oklahoma friend was there to let me vent, and slowly the boil turned to a simmer. I tried to smother it with my usual mantra: think positive intent.
Eventually, my eyes grew heavy. The fan hummed a lullaby as I melted into my chair. Restless, I stretched out on my hard wooden platform beneath the trees and stars. That star-gazing window always feels like the universe is tucking me in. This time, sleep came gently. No exploding moons required.
Lessons of the Day
Dreams don’t always make sense, but the feelings they leave behind sure do.
Dogs are better than weighted blankets—they come with fur, love, and snoring sound effects.
Espresso machines are basically emotional support appliances.
Guilt whispers lies louder than truth—don’t let it write the script.
Walking Freya and Odin together is less “exercise” and more “reality TV audition.”
Turns out RV magic wands look a lot like power drills.
Dryer vents = cooler air, calmer nerves, and fewer “what’s that smell?” moments.
Bigfoot probably isn’t hiding in the woods, but don’t tell Freya—she’s on the case.
TikTok trolls are infinite, but so are friends who let you vent when you need it.
Under the stars, even the heaviest day softens—no exploding moons required.
