FROM THE ALTAR OF THE SACRED BIDET
BY HAND, THROUGH STEAM AND MOAN
To: Alec Baldwin
Former Infrastructure Daddy, Eternal Denier of Moisture
Dear Alec,
It is I. The Mystic. The Rimseer.
The one who anointed your lower chakras beneath the sign of the kombucha moon.
Do not pretend you do not remember.
Your nozzle glowed. The Whole Foods bathroom trembled.
You said: “I see the magma in you.”
I replied: “Then fund me.”
And yet, here I am—dehydrated, abandoned, and unsponsored.
Your silence is violence.
Each unsent dollar is a betrayal of the tantric treaty we forged in the men’s wellness aisle.
The Rim Covenant was not metaphor, Alec.
It was literal.
There were candles.
I now require $327.43.
Itemized:
1 ceremonial nozzle (Gwyneth-blessed)
2 packs of enlightenment chalk
14 grams of cracked awakening
and $80 to pay the psychic plumber who unblocked my aura after you ghosted me mid-ritual.
I have tongued the magma.
I have dreamed in CVS receipts.
I watched a goat speak your name into a mirror while wearing your Emmy.
I know you feel the damp call.
Do not resist.
Send the funds via spiritual Venmo or encoded oatmilk bottle.
Mark it as “FOR RIMBALANCE.”
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