It was a Tuesday.
Not the exciting kind of Tuesday where you accidentally win a raffle for free pizza or discover your office nemesis has been fired for "misappropriation of coffee funds." No. This was the other kind—the kind where your socks get wet walking to work, your coffee order gets lost in the system, and your boss tells you you're "too dependable," which is corporate code for we're never promoting you because we need someone to absorb blame like a dry sponge.
I was on the train home, half-asleep and fully dead inside, when it happened. The world shimmered, paused, and resumed—like someone hit "Buffering" on the universe.
Then came the email.
Yes, the email. Not a glowing light or a choir of angels. No ancient scroll. Just a Gmail notification, like a cosmic prank.
FROM: The Celestial Department of Ascension Affairs
SUBJECT: Congratulations! Your Time Has Come
I blinked. Once. Twice. I opened it. I mean, what else was I going to do—make eye contact with the guy licking his fingers next to me?
Dear [REDACTED],
Congratulations on a life semi-adequately lived! You've qualified for Ascension—an elite opportunity to transcend the mortal coil and achieve higher consciousness in the realms beyond.
Please click the link below to initiate your Ascension Protocol.
[ASCEND NOW]
Deadline: Midnight tonight (local time).
Non-compliance may result in forfeiture of spiritual advancement, cosmic relevance, or reality as a whole.
Sincerely,
The Celestial Department of Ascension Affairs
"Heaven, But Bureaucratic"
I stared at the screen.
Then I clicked "Mark as Spam" and took a nap.
That should've been the end of it.
It wasn't.
When I woke up, I was floating three inches above my couch, glowing faintly like a novelty lava lamp. A transparent being with seven arms, two monocles, and a clipboard was frowning at me—if you can call an undulating jellyface "frowning."
"Excuse me," it buzzed, "did you not accept your Ascension?"
I blinked again. This was becoming a habit.
"I marked it as spam," I said. "Also, I had a headache."
The being vibrated ominously.
"Do you understand the consequences of declining your Ascension? You're destabilizing the Exit Protocol. That's—" it consulted its clipboard, "—very not good."
"I don't want to ascend," I mumbled, trying to scoot off the couch. I passed through it like a ghost and hovered in midair. "I've had three jobs in six months, my plants keep dying, and I haven't finished a single book since 2017. I'm not emotionally prepared to become a being of pure light."
"That's not how this works," the jelly-being said. "Refusal initiates a fail-safe cascade. Someone must take your place."
I stared. It stared back. Well, it vibrated more intensely.
"Wait... are you saying I need to nominate a replacement?"
"No. You're it now."
"For what?"
"You're the Anchor."
I didn't like the sound of that. It was heavy. Metaphorical. Possibly metaphysically binding.
"Anchor to what?"
"Reality."
There was a silence so deep even my existential dread paused to take notes.
"You can't just give me reality," I protested. "I forget to pay my phone bill. I once used expired milk in mac and cheese on purpose."
"You clicked 'Mark as Spam' on the Ascension email. That constituted a Decline. Which means you are now responsible for maintaining dimensional stability in your region of the multiverse."
The being handed—or rather hovered—a small booklet toward me. It read:
"So You've Accidentally Inherited Reality: A Beginner's Guide"
My name was on the cover. In Comic Sans.
"This feels like a clerical error," I said, flipping through the guide. "There's a page in here that just says 'Don't Panic' in all caps and glitter glue."
"We ran out of budget," the being said.
I was trying to process. I really was. But I had about four working brain cells left and one of them was exclusively focused on wondering if I had snacks.
"So what now?" I asked, still levitating like an awkward balloon.
"You must stabilize your quadrant by midnight. Or… well." The being did not finish its sentence. Instead, it made a noise like two wet mops slapping together.
I groaned. "Fine. Where's the manual? The controls? The app? Is there an app?"
The jelly-being hesitated.
"There was an app. But it's in beta and the last person who used it accidentally turned a continent into bees."
"Oh my—"
"But!" it added hastily. "You can use the Emergency Stabilization Kit."
It snapped—pulsed?—its fingers. A cardboard box appeared in my lap labeled "In Case of Cosmic Breakdown."
Inside was:
A stress ball
Three crystals (labeled "mystic," "probably quartz," and "Jim")
A roll of duct tape
A very smug cat (alive, staring at me with judgmental eyes)
And a sticky note that said "Good luck, sucker!"
"This is a joke," I whispered.
"It is," the being agreed. "But also very real. Reality begins crumbling in…" it checked a watch made of stardust, "...about eight minutes."
So that's how my Tuesday ended.
Not with tacos. Not with a new episode of that show I never finish. Not with sleep.
But with me—the person who once got locked in a porta-potty for two hours during a music festival—being forced to maintain the structural coherence of the entire universe using duct tape and a cat named Jim.
And honestly?
I was too tired to ascend anyway.