2019
One humid yet emotionally cold afternoon, I was missing someone more than usual, even though it had been months since our bridge burned. And then I remembered it was that person’s birthday. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to send a simple, casual greeting for the occasion, so I pulled my phone, quickly texted it, and went on with my normally depressing day.
Past midnight, after pigging out on my third plate of baked macaroni in four hours, I took my nightly medicine and dozed off. There, I was teleported to a part of dreamland I’d never been before, and I’m a pretty vivid dreamer. I entered this almost-vast coliseum-like courtroom with chains covering the ceiling, and people were in their chairs like confident judges. After a minute, my eyes became much clearer: the ones in their seats were alternate versions of me.
I knew because most of them were either wearing variations of my skull mask or a covering that hides their mouths. One of them had a white covering that hid the upper part of his face down to the nose, which reminded me of Matt Murdock’s early days as Daredevil, one of my favorite Marvel superheroes.
One of them stood up from his seat. He had the same black-and-white skull mask and biker jacket, only inverted to white-and-black. He also had his hands taped with white athletic tape marked with X, which reminded me of one of my favorite professional wrestlers, CM Punk.
“Hello, Earth-I Dewey. Welcome to the Council of Deranged Writers.”
I quipped, “I noticed.”
“You are brought here by the council because…”
I interrupted with, “No. Stop. Let me ask first, Dewey Punk.”
He chuckled, “Okay. Go on, Earth-I Dewey.”
“If I’m from Earth-I, which designation are you from?”
“I’m not far off, actually. I’m from Earth-II.”
“All right. Thank you for answering, Earth-II Dewey. Now, please continue.”
The man with the white-and-black skull mask proceeded after I interrupted him earlier. “Okay. You are brought here by the council because you need a Notes to Self.”
I was surprised. “Oh. Well, I’ve been having a hard time restarting my blog, so I need content…”
He shook his head in disagreement. “We didn’t say you’ll be blogging about this today or even this year. You need a reminder for yourself, not for your blog.”
Puzzled, I asked, “Huh. What’s the reminder about?”
Earth-II Dewey answered, “It’s about what you did earlier. Lights, please.”
The entire area went black, then I heard something mechanical, something being brought down. Then a big screen lit up the arena, and there I saw their Notes to Self for me (in Noto Serif font, just the way I like it):
People who left you at your worst don’t deserve to be chased.
After reading that, I only said these words: “So, you were referring to the birthday text. What’s wrong with a casual greeting?”
Earth-II Dewey explained, “It’s not casual. Of all the Deweys in the multiverse, you’re the first and most emotional. Normal men say, ‘I miss that person,’ and mean it. You don’t. You miss people very much. The birthday celebrant was no different.”
I rolled my eyes. “I have a feeling I will hear the word ‘but.'”
The lecturer continued, “That’s correct. Please don’t interrupt me.”
Annoyed, I closed my eyes while shaking my head for a few seconds, but I listened anyway. Besides, if I were him, I would ask the same not to be interrupted.
“You miss that person very much, and there’s nothing wrong with greeting someone a happy birthday. But knowing you as the most emotional among us, you will try to reconnect with that person. But let me remind you, sir: that someone you sent a birthday text to almost left you for dead months ago. You were in one of your worst states, and you were abandoned. Don’t you realize how cruel that was?”
I’m still silent, but those words went straight through my heart. Earth-II Dewey was right. I was abandoned in my worst state at that point. I shouldn’t have sent that text, knowing that would only lead to hope for the impossible.
An alternate Dewey (the most obese of them, stomach hanging from the leather belt, and the mask almost torn because it couldn’t fit his head) shouted from his custom extra-large seat with the deepest voice, “Have some self-respect, Dewey.”
Then I suddenly woke up with a jolt from my first meeting with the Council of Deranged Writers, and my phone lit up with a notification. It was a reply from the birthday celebrant.
"Thanks."
That may be a casual reply to some, but with our past history and bridge burned, that message sounded as cold as stone. Generic. One word with a period. No exclamation points. No endearing words. No chance of reconnection. No slightest remorse for the abandonment committed. After reading that and being reminded of the cruelty, I swore to never contact that person again. Never again.
I must admit. After all these years, I still miss some people who are no longer in my life, and they are not even dead yet. But some people left me when I was at some of the lowest points of my life, and they are not even remorseful about it. Those people who left me at my absolute worst don’t deserve reconnection or to be chased. I cannot, and I don’t want to rebuild bridges that they burned in the first place.
Header image: Christian Wasserfallen of Pexels. Edited in Adobe Photoshop 2026.
The Diary of The Deranged Writer 