The Path to Primrose Cohen: Debaucherous Discovery

Unabashed enthusiasm is all too often ridiculed. The woman who laughs at a lame greeting card, the boys and girls who cheer when their characters pass a savings throw, and the grown man who cries at seeing a young Luke Skywalker depicted on the screen are all summarily slapped should their joy go public. Each sardonic self-congratulator sounds his trumpet as he assigns himself judge, jury, and smashocutioner. The followers like and pile on as the innocent and completely self-unaware joy is crushed beneath the feet of a grape-dancer who hates wine. This is the way of the world. Perhaps it always has been.

To be sure, I have had my own days of bawdy celebrations and gawdy displays of superiority. Like many others, I have lavished in the luxuriousness of my superiority and finesse. Yet, few have looked inward as I have only to spy the Rolex watch of divine virtue and took comfort in the seeming reality that I did not need to steal the treasure as it was already mine. I am no mere epic. I am opus. Homer can only wish that he could have sung me. Or so I have at times believed.

Yet, how under-appreciated have I been? Especially when my light shone most brightly, and the perceptions of my critics proved to be so dim. I cannot help to recall my time on social media. My days suffering the keystroke indignities of Twitter are torched into my hippocampus. I dug, slogged, and declared in my pursuit of and defense of truth and justice while I was continuously and fervently blanketed with the soot and gore of incivility. My spirit tattered, I slogged on without recognition or reward until I had enough.

Oh, the cyber-humanity!

I unraveled. I failed to unplug. I was undone. I traveled to the now defunct The Esoteric Order of Snotra.org. How I stumbled into that site is difficult to say as it involved an obscure Reddit thread and an immoderate dosage of extra añejo tequila. The experience was rapturous although mostly absent from my memory. I awoke at 2:15 PM on a Tuesday with GNOME Web opened the Snotra.org welcome page. After clearing my vision and changing my underwear, I investigated this fascinating discovery. Much of what I discovered there is now secretive and arcane enough to be as proprietary as an occult porridge recipe, but I was moved, changed, transformed like the common carp who shifted into frog-hood.

Despite my metamorphosis, I was tepid. I joined; I knew not why. I read the bylaws. I devoured threads. I shuddered as I clicked “like.” I regretted the click. I slinked about the site, the pain in my chest informing me of my hope that no one would notice. I spoke aloud to myself for several minutes. I questioned both my sanity and my brevity. Was I Danforth and the contents of this site mountains of madness?

Patti Smith's “Horses” leapt from my computer speakers. I fell backward, sprung to my feet, and did jumping jacks until the song was over, and I was tired. I recalled that the song was my email notification. I questioned that choice. I questions several other choices. I hushed my gasp as I read the name of the sender, "Primrose Cohen of The Esoteric Order of Snotra.org." I paced and snorted. “How did he know my email address?” As my heartbeat slowed, I realized that I had provided my email address when I joined the site. I forced my eyes to focus on the message.

“You're here. That's all that matters. Take heart and relax. You will learn, and all will be well. Yours truly, Primrose Cohen.” My panic turned to relief. I realized I had been pressing my fingernails into my palms. I noticed the blood and wiped it with a dirty napkin. I felt the warmth in my belly that comes from the realization that doom is not near and people aren't judging you. Residual effects of the Agave and exertion overwhelmed me, and I greeted darkness with a toothy gratitude.