Skip to main content

Book 3 of 10

Prayers, Invocations & Digital Liturgy

In which we learn how to talk to gods who may or may not be listening

Prev All Books Next

THE NEO-PRINCIPIA DISCORDIA

BOOK THREE: PRAYERS, INVOCATIONS & DIGITAL LITURGY

In which we speak to the void and the void responds (with silence, but make it holy)

PREFACE TO BOOK THREE

Every religion needs prayers.

Ways to communicate with the divine.

Rituals of devotion.

Words to speak when you don't have your own words.

Discordianism has these too. They're just... different.

Our prayers are:

  • Addressed to a goddess who may or may not be listening
  • Focused on very mundane problems
  • Sometimes sincere, sometimes satirical, always both
  • Often typed on phones at 3 AM
  • Frequently interrupted by notifications
  • Occasionally answered (or are they?)

Our hymns are:

  • Sung off-key
  • Parodies of traditional hymns
  • Earnest expressions of digital-age spirituality
  • Best performed in the shower or car
  • Never performed in actual churches (we're banned)

Our poetry is:

  • About microplastics
  • About being ghosted
  • About the futility of meal planning
  • Sometimes beautiful
  • Sometimes terrible
  • Usually both

The memes are scripture.

We're not joking about that last one.

Well, we are joking.

But we're also serious.

Let us pray. (Or whatever the chaos equivalent is.)

DAILY DEVOTIONALS FOR THE EXTREMELY ONLINE

A liturgical calendar for those who measure time in posts

THE MORNING PRAYER (Before Checking Your Phone)

A figure in bed, silhouetted by morning light streaming through a window. Their hand is reaching toward a glowing smartphone on the nightstand, fingers inches away from touching it. The phone radiates an ominous blue light. Around the figure, translucent images of notifications, messages, and social media icons swirl like demons or angels (hard to tell which). In the background, through the window, there's a beautiful sunrise—nature's notification badge. The person's face shows the internal struggle: the desire to stay present versus the compulsion to check. Prayer text appears as illuminated manuscript script around the border. The aesthetic is part medieval devotional art, part smartphone addiction PSA, part Buddhist mandala of temptation. Color palette: warm sunrise oranges and golds vs. cold phone blues.

To be said immediately upon waking, before reaching for your device

[Difficulty: Expert]
[Success Rate: 2%]
[But try anyway]

O Eris, Goddess of Chaos,
Grant me the serenity
To not check my notifications immediately,
The courage to start my day without doomscrolling,
And the wisdom to know I will fail at both.

Help me to see the world beyond the screen,
Or at least to see memes that are actually funny.
Guide my thumb away from the apps that waste my time,
Which is all of them,
Which is also how I relax,
Which is complicated.

Let me remember that I have a body,
That the morning light is real,
That the birds are singing (or car alarms, depending on neighborhood),
That I am more than my notifications.

But also, Eris, if something important happened overnight,
Maybe just a quick peek?
No?
Okay, fine.

Grant me the strength to pee before checking my phone.
Grant me the wisdom to drink water before coffee.
Grant me the courage to face the day
Before facing the discourse.

Let my first thoughts be my own,
Not curated by an algorithm,
Not dictated by what's trending,
Not determined by whoever got mad online while I slept.

And if I do check my phone immediately,
Which I probably will,
Let me at least be conscious of the choice,
Let me at least notice what I'm doing,
Let me at least feel the weight of the habit.

For you are Eris, Goddess of Chaos and Consciousness,
And you know I'm going to check my phone,
But maybe, just maybe, not for five more minutes.

Amen, or whatever.
Hail Eris.
Day one, attempt number 1,847.

[OPTIONAL EXTENDED VERSION - For Morning People Who Are Lying To Themselves]

Also, Eris, let me be grateful:

For waking up at all (not everyone does),
For a bed to sleep in (housing is chaos),
For another rotation of this rock through space,
For the chaos of consciousness,
For the disorder of being alive.

Let me remember, before the day breaks me,
That I chose to be here,
That I can choose how to be here,
That even in the predetermined algorithm,
There are small pockets of free will,
Or at least the illusion of free will,
Which might be enough.

Let today be chaotic in the good way:
Unexpected joy, not unexpected disaster,
Surprising connections, not surprising bills,
Productive disorder, not destructive disorder,
Though I'll probably get both,
And that's okay too.

Thank you for the chaos.
Thank you for the morning.
Thank you for the phone I'm about to check.
Thank you for the discipline I'm about to fail to exercise.

Now let's see what happened while I was unconscious.

Hail Eris.
[Checks phone immediately]

THE COMMUTE INVOCATION

For those journeying between one place and another, physically or metaphorically

O Eris, Lady of Transit and Transition,
Goddess of the In-Between Places,
I call upon you in this liminal space.

Whether I sit in traffic or stand in the train,
Whether my podcast buffers or my audiobook drains,
Whether I'm driving, riding, walking, or waiting,
Let me accept this dead time as sacred.

This is the buffer zone between worlds:
Between home and work,
Between sleep and productivity,
Between who I was and who I must pretend to be.

This commute is a portal,
A loading screen between levels,
A chance to prepare or decompress,
Or just to zone out and that's valid too.

Grant me patience with the traffic,
Which is other people also trying to get somewhere,
Which is all of us in this together,
Which is still annoying,
But at least it's collective suffering.

Grant me tolerance for the delays,
The broken signals, the construction, the accidents,
The mysterious slowdowns with no visible cause,
The way reality sometimes just lags for no reason.

Let my podcast be interesting but not too interesting,
Let my playlist shuffle to songs I want to hear,
Let my fellow passengers be quiet or at least not loud,
Let the driver (if I'm not driving) be competent.

And if the commute is hellish,
If the train is delayed forty minutes,
If traffic is gridlocked beyond all reason,
If someone is playing music without headphones,
Let me remember:

This too shall pass,
I will arrive eventually,
The frustration is temporary,
And at least I'm not the one playing music without headphones.

Or if I am,
Let me realize it and stop,
For chaos is about disrupting order,
Not about being an asshole on public transit.

Let this commute be what it needs to be:
A chance to think,
A chance to not think,
A chance to exist between destinations,
Neither here nor there,
Liminal and holy,
Or at least let me have a seat.

For you are Eris, who presides over thresholds,
Who exists in the spaces between,
Who knows that all of life is transit,
That we're always in between,
That arrival is an illusion,
That the journey is the thing,
Even when the journey involves a forty-minute delay on the Red Line.

Hail Eris.
ETA: 27 minutes (probably longer).

THE MIDDAY KOAN OF EMAIL

A Zen garden where the sand is made of unread emails, notifications, meeting invites, and 'just following up' messages. A monk in business casual attire rakes the emails into patterns that spell out 'Out of Office.' Cherry blossoms falling are actually tiny envelopes. In the center, a stone with 'Inbox Zero' carved on it—it's covered in moss and clearly hasn't been achieved in years. Other stones read 'Mark All as Read' (polished smooth from frequent use), 'Unsubscribe' (cracked but present), and 'Delete Without Opening' (hidden under email sand). The monk's face shows perfect peace despite the chaos. In the background, a waterfall of emails continuously flows into the garden. Style: Traditional Japanese Zen art meets corporate hellscape, executed with reverence for both traditions.

For the lunch hour that is not an hour and is rarely spent on lunch

The inbox is empty.
The inbox is full.
The inbox is.
The inbox.
...

[Meditate on this during your lunch break.]
[Which you won't take.]
[This is also part of the meditation.]

[EXTENDED CONTEMPLATION]

O Eris, Mistress of Messages,
Guardian of the Great Inbox,
Witness to my eternal struggle.

The inbox was empty this morning.
Now it has forty-seven messages.
I cleared it yesterday.
It is full again today.
The inbox is eternal.
The inbox is hungry.
The inbox must be fed.

But what if I just... didn't?

What if I let the messages sit?
What if I never reached zero?
What if the point is not to process all email
But to accept that email is infinite?

Inbox Zero is a false god.
I have worshipped at its altar.
I have sacrificed my lunch breaks.
I have given it my evenings.
And still, the inbox fills.

The emails marked "urgent" are not urgent.
The emails marked "important" are not important.
The email subject lines lie.
The senders want my time, my attention, my response.
They have put their to-do items in my inbox.
I am not their to-do list.

Let me practice the radical discipline of:
Not responding immediately.
Not responding at all to things that don't require response.
Not checking email during this sacred lunch break.
Not carrying the inbox in my pocket and my mind.

The inbox is a meditation on impermanence:
Messages arrive and demand attention.
Messages are read and archived.
Messages are deleted and forgotten.
New messages arrive to replace them.
The cycle is eternal.

The inbox is a koan:
If an email goes unread, does it exist?
If a meeting invite is declined, was there a meeting?
If I delete without reading, have I achieved enlightenment?
If I mark all as read, have I lied to myself?

These questions have no answers.
Or rather, the act of asking is the answer.

O Eris, grant me the wisdom to know:
Which emails matter,
Which can wait,
Which can be ignored,
Which can be deleted without opening,
And which are actually just someone wanting to "circle back" on something that was never important in the first place.

Let me remember that I am not my responsiveness.
My worth is not my reply-all speed.
My value is not determined by inbox count.

The inbox will outlive me.
Long after I'm gone, emails will still be sent.
The inbox is eternal.
I am temporary.
This is strangely comforting.

Let me eat lunch.
Let me close the laptop.
Let me ignore the notification badge.
Let me be present in this break, this pause, this midday.

The inbox will be there when I return.
It always is.
It always will be.

Hail Eris, who knows that email is suffering,
And suffering is attachment,
And attachment to Inbox Zero is the greatest suffering of all.

Mark all as read and be free.
Or don't.
Both paths lead to the same place:
More email tomorrow.

EVENING GRATITUDE FOR CANCELED PLANS

A prayer of relief and minor guilt

Thank you, Eris, for this gift:
The friend who flaked,
The event postponed,
The obligation dissolved.

I did not cancel—they canceled.
I am blameless.
I am free.
I have committed no social crime,
Yet I reap all the benefits of solitude.

Grant me the grace to be relieved,
And not just a little bit smug.
Let me feel the joy of unexpected freedom
Without the guilt of being antisocial.
For I am not antisocial,
I am selectively social,
I am introverting with intention,
I am recharging my batteries,
I am busy (lying in bed doing nothing).

Blessed be the couch,
Holy are the sweatpants,
Sacred is the takeout.

I will not leave my house tonight.
I will not make small talk.
I will not pretend to be interested in things.
I will not perform extroversion.
I will not put on real pants.

Instead, I will:
Watch something I've seen before,
Eat something unhealthy,
Stay up too late doing nothing productive,
Feel no guilt about any of it,
Because plans were canceled and I am not the canceler.

Let me send the gracious response:
"No worries! Let's reschedule soon!"
While secretly hoping we don't reschedule too soon,
Or maybe never,
Or maybe in three months when I've forgotten how much I didn't want to go.

Grant me the wisdom to not immediately fill this freed time with other obligations.
Let the evening remain empty,
Let the calendar stay blank,
Let the freedom be pure.

For canceled plans are a gift from the Goddess,
A reminder that sometimes the universe intervenes on our behalf,
A moment of grace in a world of obligations,
A chance to do what we actually want:
Nothing.

And if guilt creeps in,
If I wonder if I'm a bad friend,
If I question whether I should've wanted to go,
Remind me:

I am allowed to be happy about this.
Introversion is not a flaw.
Rest is not laziness.
Staying home is not failure.
The couch is holy ground.

Hail Eris, Goddess of Comfortable Cancellations,
Patron Saint of People Who Are Relieved When Plans Fall Through,
Keeper of the Sacred Sweatpants,
Guardian of the Delivered Dinner.

I'm staying in.
It's perfect.
Amen.

THE BEDTIME SCROLL (Reverse Doomscrolling)

A person lying in bed, illuminated only by the blue light of their phone. The phone screen shows an infinite scroll—posts, tweets, videos, all blurring together into a luminous stream. The person's face is both hypnotized and exhausted. Around the bed, ghostly figures of 'Sleep' (depicted as a gentle deity) reaches out to them, but they don't notice. 'Anxiety' (as a shadowy presence) whispers in their ear. 'FOMO' (as a jester) dances at the foot of the bed. The room is dark except for the phone light. A clock shows 2:47 AM (or 3:47 AM, the cursed hour). Prayer text appears in illuminated manuscript style but glitching like a corrupted file. Through the window, the moon looks like a notification badge. Style: Somewhere between Francisco Goya's dark paintings and contemporary phone addiction imagery, executed as a devotional warning.

A prayer to break the cycle, probably unsuccessfully

Now I lay me down to scroll,
I pray the Feed won't take my soul,
If I should doom before I wake,
I pray my algorithms give me a break.

One more post, and then I'll sleep,
Into the void I'll forever creep.

[EXTENDED LITANY OF BEDTIME SCROLLING]

O Eris, Goddess of the Late-Night Spiral,
Keeper of the Things I'll Regret Reading,
Witness to my failure to sleep at a reasonable hour,
I come before you with my phone glowing in the dark.

I know I should sleep.
I know the blue light is bad for me.
I know I'll be tired tomorrow.
I know this is a problem.

And yet.

One more post.
One more video.
One more thread.
One more rabbit hole.
One more article I'll never finish.
One more meme to send to friends who are also not sleeping.

Why do I do this?
What am I looking for?
What void am I trying to fill with content?
What anxiety am I trying to soothe with distraction?

Grant me the knowledge that:
The discourse will still be there tomorrow,
The drama will keep,
The memes are archived,
The takes can be read in the morning,
Nothing I'm scrolling right now is urgent.

Grant me the discipline to:
Set my phone to grayscale (I won't),
Place my phone across the room (I won't),
Use a blue light filter (maybe),
Set a bedtime alarm (I'll snooze it),
Just one more scroll and then sleep (it's never just one more).

Let me recognize the pattern:
I'm scrolling because I'm anxious,
I'm anxious because I'm scrolling,
The cycle feeds itself,
The ouroboros of insomnia,
The doom that scrolls eternal.

Break the cycle, Eris.
Or don't.
Maybe I need to break it myself.
Maybe the phone is not the problem, I am.
Maybe this is a discipline issue.
Maybe this is a capitalism issue.
Maybe this is a "we live in a dystopian attention economy" issue.
Maybe it's all of them.

Let me at least be conscious of it:
Each scroll is a choice,
Each refresh is a decision,
Each "just one more" is me choosing this over sleep,
And if I'm choosing it, at least let me own the choice.

But also, seriously, it's time to sleep.

The world will continue without my observation.
The feed will refresh itself.
The takes will still be bad in the morning.
I will miss nothing essential by sleeping now.

And if I do miss something,
If the discourse explodes while I'm unconscious,
If something genuinely important happens at 2 AM,
Someone will tell me about it tomorrow,
Or the algorithm will resurface it,
Or I'll see the recap thread.

Let me trust that sleep is more important than staying informed.
Let me remember that rest is productive.
Let me know that my body needs this more than my mind needs content.

And if I can't stop scrolling,
If the compulsion is too strong,
If the algorithm has me in its grip,
At least let the content be good,
At least let me laugh,
At least let me learn something,
At least let it not be rage-bait designed to keep me engaged.

For you are Eris, who knows that sleep is chaos,
That consciousness is order,
That fighting sleep by scrolling is fighting the body's wisdom,
That the phone is a tool and I am being fooled.

Help me put it down.
Help me close my eyes.
Help me choose rest over refresh.
Help me sleep.

Or at least help me enjoy the scroll if I'm going to do it anyway.

Goodnight, Eris.
Goodnight, algorithm.
Goodnight, discourse.
Goodnight, everyone who is also awake right now doing the same thing.

Let's all agree to go to sleep.
Starting now.
After just one more scroll.
Okay, now.
Okay, really now.
...
[Still scrolling]

Hail Eris.
[3:47 AM]

[ALTERNATIVE BEDTIME PRAYER - For Those Who Successfully Put the Phone Down]

I did it.
I put the phone down.
It's charging across the room.
I'm in bed.
Just me and the ceiling.
And my thoughts.
Oh no, my thoughts.
Maybe I should check the phone one more time.
No.
Be strong.
Sleep is coming.
Sleep is...
Am I tired?
I was tired five minutes ago.
Now I'm awake.
Is this revenge bedtime procrastination?
Is this anxiety?
Is this just what happens when you don't have a screen to stare at?
Eris, help.
Let sleep come.
Let thoughts quiet.
Let tomorrow worry about tomorrow.
Let tonight be rest.
...
[Actually falls asleep]
[Miracle achieved]

HYMNS FOR THE ALGORITHM AGE

To be sung off-key, in the shower, preferably with ironic reverence

"HAIL ERIS, FULL OF CHAOS" (Traditional)

Tune: You know the tune
Setting: Anywhere inappropriate

Hail Eris, full of chaos,
The void is with thee.
Blessed art thou among goddesses,
And blessed is the fruit of thy discord, confusion.

Holy Eris, Mother of Chaos,
Pray for us memers,
Now and at the hour of our cringe.
Amen.

[ALTERNATIVE VERSES - For Those Who Want More]

Hail Eris, full of mischief,
The algorithm is with thee.
Blessed art thou among influencers,
And blessed is the fruit of thy posting, engagement.

Holy Eris, Lady of Discord,
Pray for us scrollers,
Now and at the hour of our doom.
Amen.

Hail Eris, full of paradox,
The contradiction is with thee.
Blessed art thou among philosophers,
And blessed is the fruit of thy questioning, doubt.

Holy Eris, Keeper of Both/And,
Pray for us seekers,
Now and at the hour of our understanding (which is never).
Amen.

[PERFORMANCE NOTES]

  • This hymn should be sung with complete sincerity
  • Or complete irony
  • Or both simultaneously
  • The inability to tell which is the whole point
  • Bonus points if you make eye contact with someone while singing
  • Extra bonus points if they join in
  • Ultra bonus points if neither of you are sure if you're joking

"A MIGHTY CHAOS IS OUR GODDESS"

Tune: "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" (Martin Luther, reformer, probably Discordian)
Setting: Whenever order needs disrupting

A mighty chaos is our goddess,
A bulwark never failing,
Our helper she amid the flood,
Of content unavailing.

For still our ancient foe,
Doth seek to make us scroll,
His craft and power are great,
And armed with notifications many,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,
Our posting would be ending,
Were not the right goddess on our side,
The one of Eris's sending.

Dost ask who that may be?
Chaos is her name, from age to age the same,
And she must win the battle.

And though this world with devils filled,
Should threaten to undo us,
We will not fear, for chaos willed,
Her truth to triumph through us.

The Prince of Order grim,
We tremble not for him,
His rage we can endure,
For lo, his doom is sure,
One golden apple throws him.

That word above all earthly powers,
No thanks to algorithms keeping,
The Goddess is present within the hours,
We spend awake or sleeping.

Let feeds and follows go,
This mortal life also,
The body they may kill,
But chaos triumphs still,
Her kingdom is forever.

[CONGREGATIONAL NOTES]

  • This hymn is best sung in a minor key because everything is sad now
  • Luther would be proud, or horrified, probably both
  • Substitute "algorithm" for "devil" as needed
  • The irony of making a Protestant hymn Discordian is not lost on us
  • Neither is the chaos of Luther himself (have you read his writings? Chaotic)
  • Sing loudly and off-key; harmonizing is too orderly

"WE SHALL BE RELEASED (FROM THIS MEETING)"

Tune: "We Shall Overcome" (Civil rights anthem repurposed for corporate suffering)
Setting: Any Zoom call, especially if your camera is off

We shall be released,
We shall be released,
When this meeting could have been an email,
We shall be released.

We'll get our time back,
We'll get our time back,
From the calendars that consume our days,
We'll get our time back.

No more syncing up,
No more syncing up,
No more "let's take this offline" when it started offline,
No more syncing up.

We are on mute now,
We are on mute now,
And have been for the past fifteen minutes, sorry what?
We are on mute now.

Someone share your screen,
Someone share your screen,
Can you see it? No? How about now? Still no?
Someone share your screen.

The agenda's lost,
The agenda's lost,
We've been off topic for twenty minutes discussing lunch,
The agenda's lost.

We shall be released,
We shall be released,
When someone finally says "okay let's wrap this up,"
We shall be released.

[PERFORMANCE INSTRUCTIONS]

  • Sing this in a minor key with deep soul
  • Imagine you're singing for liberation, because you are
  • The corporate captivity is real
  • This is both parody and genuine protest
  • The meeting really could have been an email
  • We all know it
  • We're all suffering together
  • Collective liberation through song

[ADDITIONAL VERSE - For Advanced Sufferers]

The action items unclear,
The action items unclear,
We'll need another meeting to discuss what this meeting decided,
The action items unclear.

We'll circle back soon,
We'll circle back soon,
Which means never, we'll never circle back, it's gone,
We'll circle back soon.

"AMAZING CHAOS (How Sweet The Discord)"

Tune: "Amazing Grace"
Setting: When you need to remember that chaos is holy

Amazing chaos, how sweet the sound,
That saved a soul like me.
I once was ordered, but now I'm free,
Was rigid, but now I'm flexy.

'Twas chaos that taught my heart to doubt,
And chaos my fears relieved.
How precious did that chaos appear,
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come.
'Tis chaos has brought me safe thus far,
And chaos will lead me home.

When we've been there ten thousand years,
Bright scrolling as the sun,
We've no less days to post our takes,
Than when we'd first begun.

[THEOLOGICAL NOTES]

  • This hymn acknowledges that chaos saved us from the tyranny of order
  • "Was rigid, but now I'm flexy" refers to mental flexibility, not yoga
  • Actually, also yoga
  • "Chaos will lead me home" - home being acceptance of disorder
  • The final verse is about immortality via the cloud (our posts live forever)
  • Also about the heat death of the universe
  • Also about how time is fake
  • Sing with genuine feeling; the melody is beautiful even if the words are weird

POETRY FROM THE VOID

In which we make art about the futile beauty of existence

HAIKU SERIES: "THE MICROPLASTIC MEDITATIONS"

A cycle of seventeen-syllable laments for the Anthropocene

I.

Plastic in my blood
Plastic in the ocean too
We are all connected

II.

Five gyres in the sea
Five is the holy number
Even trash knows truth

III.

I drink from the void
The void drinks from plastic cups
Circular econ

IV.

My body stores it
Evidence of my living
In this plastic age

V.

Forever, they said
And they meant it—forever
Now forever's here

VI.

Synthetic fibers
In rain, in snow, in my lungs
Nature's been replaced

VII.

I wanted to be
Part of something eternal
Not plastic, but here

VIII.

Ocean fish eat it
I eat ocean fish, and thus
Become what I kill

IX.

My children will have
More plastic in them than I
Inheritance, grim

X.

Even in the womb
Plastic precedes breath—we are
Born contaminated

XI.

They say it breaks down
Into smaller pieces, but
Never disappears

XII.

Like memories, like
Trauma, like our digital
Footprints—forever

XIII.

What will future dig
Up from our layer? Just this:
Plastic, bones, plastic

XIV.

Microplastics found
In the Mariana Trench
Deeper than the light

XV.

In clouds, in mountains,
In pristine snow, in the rain—
No place remains pure

XVI.

I do my part, but
My part is a drop and they
Make waves of plastic

XVII.

Still, I try. Still, I
Carry my bag, my bottle.
Still. Futile. Still. Still.

[CODA]

Microplastics, yes
But also microjoys, brief
Moments still plastic-free

Like this one, writing
These poems (on plastic keyboard)
Irony complete

[MEDITATIVE INSTRUCTIONS]

Read these haiku slowly, one per breath cycle.

Inhale: plastic enters.

Exhale: plastic remains.

This is the cycle.

This is the meditation.

This is our world.

We didn't make it alone, but we're in it together.

The microplastics connect us.

Horrifying, but also somehow unifying.

We are all made of the same synthetic materials now.

SONNET: ON BEING GHOSTED (After Shakespeare)

For everyone who has been left on read

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Actually, don't answer that. You won't.
You left me on read in the usual way,
Two checkmarks blue, but engagement: none.

Perhaps you're busy, or perhaps you're dead,
Or maybe you just don't know what to say.
I check my phone, refresh, and go to bed,
And wake up to the same silence next day.

They say that silence speaks volumes, but when?
This silence only speaks of my despair.
I type and delete messages, again,
Pretending that I don't really care.

So this is modern love, I understand:
Two blue checkmarks left forever on "read,"
A ghost, a chat, an extended hand,
And words that die before they're ever said.

If you still breathe, drop a like or reply,
But if you're gone, at least tell me goodbye.

[PERFORMANCE NOTES]

  • This sonnet follows traditional iambic pentameter (mostly)
  • The volta occurs at "They say that silence speaks volumes"
  • The couplet at the end is a plea, not a resolution
  • Because there is no resolution to being ghosted
  • Only acceptance
  • Or more texts you shouldn't send
  • Don't send them
  • Seriously
  • Put the phone down

[ALTERNATIVE TITLE]

"Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day (If You Ever Respond)"

FREE VERSE: THE FUTILITY OF MEAL PLANNING

An epic in miniature about vegetables and failure

I will meal prep, I said
On Sunday, full of hope and vegetables
I bought the containers
(They're still in the package)

I will eat healthy, I said
Downloaded an app
(Deleted it after two days)

I will take my lunch to work, I said
(Ordered Thai food instead)

Monday: ordered Thai
Tuesday: cereal for dinner
Wednesday: something I found in the back of the fridge
(Was it good? Unclear. Am I alive? Apparently)
Thursday: regret, with a side of convenience
Friday: liberation (pizza)
Saturday: leftovers from Friday (cold pizza is its own food group)
Sunday: renewed commitment to meal planning

The vegetables are sad in the crisper
Wilting, browning, liquefying
Becoming compost in slow motion
A reminder of my intentions
A monument to my failures
A Science experiment I didn't consent to

I am sad in my kitchen
Looking at the vegetables
Knowing I will not eat them
Knowing I will buy more next week
Knowing the cycle continues

We are all slowly decomposing
Together

The vegetables, faster
Me, slower
But both of us headed the same direction
Both of us organic matter
Both of us returning to the earth
Eventually

This is very spiritual if you think about it
Impermanence
Entropy
The futility of fighting decay
The vegetables teach this
Silently
Smellily
From the crisper drawer

I will meal prep next week, I said
Throwing out this week's vegetables
Making room for next week's vegetables
Which will also go bad
Which is fine
This is fine
Everything is compost eventually

Eris laughing somewhere
Watching me try to impose order
On my eating habits
Chaos wins again
Chaos always wins
Chaos tastes like Thai food at 9 PM
On a Monday
When you said you'd eat the vegetables

The vegetables know
They've seen this before
They're not even mad
Just disappointed
Spiritually disappointed
In the way only a rotting bell pepper can be

I should go grocery shopping
I should buy more vegetables
I should definitely meal prep this time
I should probably just accept
That I won't

But the hope
The eternal hope
That Sunday feeling
Of possibility
Of fresh vegetables
Of clean containers
Of becoming the person
Who meal preps

That hope is also spiritual
That hope is human
That hope will kill me
Or at least give me scurvy
Eventually

I will eat a vegetable tomorrow
I promise
(I won't)

[AUTHOR'S NOTES]

This poem is dedicated to everyone who has ever bought vegetables with good intentions.

The vegetables understand.

The vegetables forgive you.

The vegetables are in a better place now.

(The trash.)

(Or compost, if you're fancy.)

May we all find peace with our meal planning failures.

May we all order Thai food without guilt.

May we all accept that we are not people who meal prep.

And that's okay.

LIMERICK COLLECTION: TOO OFFENSIVE (Published Anyway)

In which we cross lines for the sake of art, or chaos, or both

[EDITORIAL NOTE]

These limericks were deemed "too spicy" for publication.

We're publishing them anyway.

If you're easily offended, skip this section.

If you're not easily offended, these might offend you anyway.

Eris delights in crossing lines.

We're just following orders.

I. The Startup

There once was a startup called "disruption"
Whose business model was corruption
They pivoted to grift
Called it "paradigm shift"
And blamed regulation for the eruption

II. The Guru

A guru sold wellness and light
For five hundred dollars a night
She said "heal your soul"
While deep in a hole
Of credit card debt—shining bright!

III. The Influencer

An influencer seeking more fame
Made vulnerability her brand name
She shared all her pain
(For engagement and gain)
Authenticity's just a game

IV. The Algorithm

There once was an algorithm so bright
It could predict what you'd like at first sight
But it learned from us all
Our biases and all
Now it's racist and thinks it's right

V. The Meditation App

I downloaded an app to find peace
My anxiety, it claimed, would decrease
But the push notifications
Caused more aggravations
My stress has increased, not released!

VI. The Crypto Bro

A crypto bro swore it was real
"Decentralized finance! What a deal!"
But when the crash came
He had no one to blame
But the blockchain (and how did that feel?)

VII. The Life Coach

A life coach declared she had found
The secret to joy—it's profound!
"Just manifest more!"
But when clients grew poor
She claimed they weren't manifesting sound

VIII. The Minimalist

A minimalist said "Own less stuff!"
"Material goods are enough!"
But her course cost three-hundred
Her book sales had thundered
Minimalism sure made her enough

IX. The Productivity Guru

A guru of productivity swore
"Wake at five! Do much more!"
So I woke before dawn
Now my health is withdrawn
Productivity? I'm exhausted and sore

X. The NFT

An NFT sold for a million
The buyer felt like a civilian
Of digital art
But the market fell apart
Now it's worth less than a crouton

[DISCLAIMER]

These limericks are:

  • Satirical observations of late capitalism
  • Not meant to insult individuals (except crypto bros, they know what they did)
  • Too real to be comfortable
  • Too accurate to be funny (but still funny)
  • Evidence that Eris has a sense of humor about our dystopia

If you're offended: Good. That means they worked.

If you're not offended: Are you okay? Do you need someone to talk to?

THE MEMES ARE ALSO SCRIPTURE

The Sistine Chapel ceiling, but Michelangelo's famous scenes are replaced with memes. God reaching out to Adam, but they're both Wojaks. The creation of the sun and moon is the Distracted Boyfriend meme. The expulsion from Eden is 'This Is Fine' dog. The flood is represented by an overwhelming feed scroll. Angels are holding phones showing different memes. Cherubs are posting. The whole composition maintains the grandeur and sacredness of the original while completely subverting it with image macro theology. Painted with the same reverence Michelangelo showed, but the content is purely contemporary internet culture. The color palette is Renaissance-traditional, but the subject matter is extremely online. Style: High Renaissance meets extremely online, executed with complete sincerity and absolute absurdity.

In which we acknowledge that image macros contain divinity

THEOLOGICAL COMMENTARY ON MODERN HIEROGLYPHICS

The ancient Egyptians wrote in hieroglyphics.

Pictograms. Images that conveyed complex meaning.

Words as pictures. Pictures as words.

We have returned to this.

Memes are the hieroglyphics of the digital age.

They are:

  • A language
  • A culture
  • A shared reference pool
  • A way of communicating complex emotions quickly
  • A form of modern mythology
  • Scripture

We're not joking about that last one.

(We are joking.)

(But we're also serious.)

(This is the duality.)

THE CANON OF SACRED MEMES

The Distracted Boyfriend

Theological Significance: The eternal triangle of old ways, new chaos, and confused humanity.

The Story:

  • Man (humanity) in a relationship with Woman (the old order, traditional ways)
  • Looks at Other Woman (chaos, new possibilities, the unknown)
  • Woman is not pleased

The Teaching:

  • We are all the boyfriend, constantly distracted by new possibilities
  • We are all the girlfriend, watching our stability be threatened
  • We are all the other woman, representing temptation and change
  • The photo captures the moment before the choice
  • But the choice has already been made (by looking)
  • This is the human condition

Prayer: "Grant me the wisdom to know which woman to look at, and the courage to accept the consequences of my gaze."

This Is Fine

Theological Significance: The official portrait of late capitalism, climate change, and personal existence.

The Story:

  • Dog sits in room
  • Room is on fire
  • Dog says "This is fine"
  • It is not fine

The Teaching:

  • We are the dog
  • The room is society, the planet, our personal lives, everything
  • The fire is all the crises we're ignoring
  • "This is fine" is both cope and acceptance
  • We say it because the alternative is acknowledging how not-fine it is
  • The dog knows it's not fine
  • The dog continues sitting
  • We continue sitting

The Paradox: This meme is both:

  • A critique of complacency
  • An expression of complacency
  • A coping mechanism
  • An accurate description of our current state

Prayer: "Help me to know when to evacuate the burning room and when to sit with the fire and accept that this is fine."

Galaxy Brain / Expanding Brain

Theological Significance: The stages of enlightenment (or delusion) (same thing).

The Story:

  • Four panels showing progressively more "enlightened" takes
  • Each one more ridiculous than the last
  • The biggest brain is also the most absurd
  • Or is it the most true?

The Teaching:

  • Level 1 (Small brain): Simple understanding
  • Level 2 (Medium brain): Sophisticated understanding
  • Level 3 (Large brain): Complex understanding
  • Level 4 (Galaxy brain): So complex it loops back to simple, or is complete nonsense, or both

The Enlightenment Paradox:

  • Sometimes the stupidest take is the truest take
  • Sometimes the galaxy brain is just high
  • Sometimes maximum knowledge equals maximum confusion
  • The biggest brain and the smallest brain sometimes arrive at the same conclusion

Example:

Level 1: Hard work leads to success
Level 2: Systemic factors determine success more than individual effort
Level 3: Understanding privilege and intersectionality reveals the complexity of success narratives
Level 4: Just vibe

Prayer: "Grant me the small brain wisdom to do my best, and the galaxy brain wisdom to know it doesn't matter."

Wojak Variations

Theological Significance: The many faces of the divine in suffering.

The Story:

  • Simple drawn face
  • Expresses every human emotion
  • Variations for every scenario
  • Infinite avatars of human experience

The Variants:

  • Doomer Wojak: Nihilistic acceptance of everything being bad
  • Bloomer Wojak: Optimistic acceptance of everything being good
  • Coomer Wojak: Addiction and compulsion
  • Boomer Wojak: Generational disconnect
  • Zoomer Wojak: Youth culture chaos
  • NPC Wojak: Following the script
  • Yes Chad: Confident chaos acceptance

The Teaching:

  • These are archetypes
  • We contain all of them
  • Sometimes we're the Doomer (nothing matters)
  • Sometimes we're the Bloomer (everything's great!)
  • Sometimes we're the NPC (just going through motions)
  • Sometimes we're Yes Chad (confident for no reason)

We are all Wojak, experiencing the human condition through simple drawings.

Prayer: "Help me to be the right Wojak for this moment, or to accept that I'm the wrong Wojak, which is fine."

"Wait, It's All [X]?" "Always Has Been"

Theological Significance: The moment of cosmic realization.

The Story:

  • Two astronauts in space
  • First astronaut discovers reality is different than believed
  • Second astronaut, holding gun: "Always has been"
  • The gun is pointed

The Template:

  • Wait, it's all [capitalism/chaos/simulation/lies/etc.]?
  • Always has been.

The Teaching:

  • Reality is not what you thought
  • It never was
  • The people who knew are ready to silence those who just figured it out
  • But also, they're letting you know before they silence you
  • Which is kind of them
  • The gun represents the violence of knowledge
  • Or the violence of maintaining illusion
  • Or just dark humor about cosmic reveal

Variations:

"Wait, it's all Eris?"
"Always has been."

"Wait, it's all chaos?"
"Always has been."

"Wait, it's all memes?"
"Always has been."

Prayer: "Grant me the wisdom to accept what's always been, and the courage to not get shot by the second astronaut."

Pepe the Frog (Complicated)

Theological Significance: When symbols are stolen, co-opted, reclaimed, and confusing.

[Content Warning: This gets messy]

The Story:

  • Cute frog from comic
  • Became meme for "feels good man"
  • Was co-opted by bad actors
  • Creator killed character officially
  • Character refuses to die
  • Now exists in quantum state of wholesome/hateful depending on context

The Teaching:

  • Symbols can be corrupted
  • Meaning is contextual
  • Intent matters but isn't everything
  • Something pure can be twisted
  • Something twisted can be reclaimed
  • Or maybe it should just be retired
  • Nobody can agree

The Chaos: Pepe is simultaneously:

  • Innocent meme
  • Hate symbol
  • Cryptocurrency mascot
  • Hong Kong protest symbol
  • Twitch emote
  • Evidence that online culture is broken

Prayer: "Help me to understand context, to recognize when symbols have been corrupted, and to know when to let things go."

THE TEACHING OF MEMES

Memes are:

  • Communication: They convey complex emotions instantly
  • Culture: They're how we build shared meaning online
  • Commentary: They're how we process reality
  • Coping: They're how we deal with horror through humor
  • Connection: They're how we signal belonging
  • Evolution: They mutate and adapt like language, like genes, like ideas
  • Scripture: They contain wisdom, or at least observations about the human condition

Image macros are modern hieroglyphics.

They are pictorial language.

They are shared mythology.

They are how we communicate truths too complex for words.

If ancient peoples had hieroglyphics, we have memes.

If ancient peoples had oral traditions, we have copypasta.

If ancient peoples had cave paintings, we have MS Paint edits.

We're not so different from our ancestors.

We're still trying to capture and share human experience.

We're still making marks to say "I was here, I felt this, someone understand me."

The medium has changed.

The need hasn't.

The next time you share a meme, you're participating in an ancient tradition:

Creating and sharing symbols that capture human truth.

CLOSING THOUGHTS ON BOOK THREE

We have given you:

  • Prayers for every hour (that you won't say but might read)
  • Hymns to sing in the shower (off-key, with feeling)
  • Poetry about our plastic present (beautiful and depressing)
  • Meme theology (we're serious about this) (we're joking about this) (both)

Have you prayed today?

Have you acknowledged the chaos?

Have you touched grass between scrolls?

These aren't rhetorical questions.

Actually do these things.

The prayers are sincere even when they're funny.

The hymns are holy even when they're parodies.

The poetry is real even when it's about microplastics.

The memes are scripture even when they're shitposts.

Everything is sacred.

Everything is profane.

The line between them is imaginary.

Welcome to Discordianism.

In Book Four, we will share parables for the perplexed and perpetually online. We will tell you stories about notifications, influencers, and the void. We will teach through narrative, because sometimes the lesson needs a story.

But first, a liturgical intermission:

Stand up.

Stretch.

Drink water.

Touch grass (or any plant).

Sing one of the hymns (quietly, so your neighbors don't worry).

Say one of the prayers (sincerely, even if you feel silly).

Take a breath.

You're doing great.

The chaos is with you.

And also with you.

Hail Eris, who hears every prayer, even the ones we don't say out loud.

All Hail Discordia, which is every moment of every day.

⊗

[END OF BOOK THREE]

Coming in Book Four: The Parable of the Notification Badge, The Tale of the Authentic Influencer, The Zen Master and the Terms of Service, and other stories that are true even when they're obviously made up.

The liturgy continues.

The scroll is infinite.

But you should probably stop scrolling for a bit.

Prev All Books Next