Chapter 1
While I adore mushrooms sautéed in some olive oil, with some salt, oh and a little bit of cayenne for some spiciness or oooooo even some mushrooms on some ‘za!!! And don’t get me started on all the vegan mushroom dishes out there ... actually where was I going with this?
Ah right as much as I love mushrooms, I don’t want to be one. How I ended up as one ... you know what I’m not saying correlation equals causation here but what if my love for mushrooms was seen by some fucked up god and choose this body for me as some sort of cosmic joke?
Do I believe in a god? Gods?
Well if you asked me that while I was still human I would have said fuck no and moved on with my day. Scoffing all the while at a dumb question. But seeing as my days now consist of sitting on a damn log everyday and doing jack shit as a mushroom, I’m starting to believe.
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Because I have all this anger and no one to direct it at, it only makes sense to direct it at some unloving fucked up god. Lashing out at myself does me no good and seeing as there’s no one to talk to as a fucking mushroom and even if there were, I have no vocal chords! — it seems I have no choice BUT to direct my anger at a god.
One thing — among many — I hate about being a mushroom is that I can’t see. No eyes remember? The only way to sense my surroundings is by growing my mycelium. Which is practically useless because all I could sense is rotting wood. Which is fucking disgusting!!
I mean as a mushroom this stuff is actually delicious. Not that I can taste, mind, I just feel nourished as hell whenever my mycelium consumes a bit of the surrounding rotting wood.
But as a human? Well I guess it’d be more accurate to say as a human living as a mushroom, with human sensibilities. Whatever you know what I mean! It’s gross.
Thinking on it more though, didn’t my high school biology teacher say that mushrooms can feed off of excrement too? So I guess I’m lucky I got stuck on a log.
Reframing my situations into a positive, heh my therapist would be proud.