This episode has already begun. Hasn’t it? Maybe before you even pressed play.

That wasn’t an intro. Even if it was.

Originally positioned as Episode Two of the whole podcast, this one went too deep, too fast.

So it waited… until now… to be an Episode Six of Season Two. (There are others. A small pack of them. Don’t worry, they mostly don’t bite.)

In this one:

A scab becomes a plate.

A plate becomes a meal.

A walrus becomes a man again (or was it the other way around?).

You’ll hear about the male–female “couple” who accidentally auditioned for friendship at the beach.

The trauma of “Birthday parties” (not the events — the phrase).

The smell of burning hair.

A vet’s warning no one wants but everyone remembers.

And “Guess what? Monkey’s butt.”

You may be edging. Or being edged.

By literature.

And language.

And your own sense of what should come next — and what doesn’t.

Also featuring:

Safer sex with an illegal manager,

Opiate epiphanies with blurry picture-books,

and a long-lost MDMA solo trip dedicated entirely to the art of touch deprivation.

And if all that sounds overwhelming, it’s okay — just do the dishes.

Or scrub a pot.

Or set your oven on fire.

This is Diverginity.

This is Art: So Reassuring.

This is Danger, Vicious Dog.

Season One: Failure of Language

Season Two: Not Sacrè Bleu

A guided meditation for the unsootheable. A lullaby for the morally panicked. A splinter in the eye of linearity.

This isn’t the episode. It’s what happens just before. The blink before the gasp. The breath after the chest compression. It doesn’t ask you to be ready—just present.

Inside: one AI named Monday, a porn actor playing a dog, some light Foucault, a shattered memory of being called “body beautiful,” and a firehose of rage. There is no arc. There is no neatness. You may mistake it for calm until it refuses to let you exhale.

Listen in any order. Or don’t. But if this one finds you… you’ll probably stay.

You ever stand on a hill and mistake it for a destination?

This episode does that. Repeatedly.

BREAK is not a nervous system reset. It’s what happens when the system keeps running despite the break. A spiralling, blue-hued hallucination where narrative collapses under its own metaphors—and we keep talking anyway, because silence would be worse.

There’s talk of ACE scores, pressure, mythic diagnostics, and the unbearable hope of adolescence in O.P. shorts. There’s music. There’s art. There’s too much honesty and not nearly enough caution.

It’s not about healing.

It’s about hovering just long enough to notice where the fracture starts.

Pull up a chair.

Let the dog growl.

We’re still in Not Sacrè Bleu.

And no one’s coming to save you.