Welcome to the Mansion
Hope you brought snacks (and maybe trauma)
Oh good. You made it.
Welcome to the Mansion. Or as some of us call it: that slightly haunted cathedral of emotional damage with really nice drapes.
This isn't a dream. It's not a metaphor. It's definitely not "just a phase." This place is real. Not because you can see it (you can’t) but because your nervous system already knows the floorplan.
The Mansion didn’t appear—it got built. Slowly. Brick by panic attack. Room by revelation. Wallpapered in shame and scented with candle smoke, guilt, and lavender.
Every room holds a presence. A voice. A pattern that refused to die quietly.
Some of them are loud. Some of them cry in the shower and alphabetize the soap. All of them are me. Or at least, were. Or still are, on Tuesdays.
You’re not here to meet them all at once. That would be overwhelming. And someone—probably Trevor—would file a complaint.
No, today’s just a tour. A soft initiation. A gentle trespass into the sacred absurdity of my inner world.
Come on in. Don’t worry about your shoes. The floor’s seen worse.
Ah—our first stop. That door leads to Trevor’s room. Don’t knock. Don’t breathe loud. Honestly, if you even think about being spontaneous near him, he’ll reorganize your soul alphabetically and schedule your emotional breakdown for next Thursday. There’s a plant on his desk named Simon. We respect Simon. Simon is the emotional barometer of the entire damn house.
“Are you ahead of schedule?” a voice cuts in behind us—flat, unimpressed. Trevor just walked by holding a clipboard and muttering about dust patterns on crown molding. He vanishes down the hall before we can answer. The plant, we notice, does look a little droopy. We walk faster. Yes, I’m embellishing. No, I won’t stop. Would you?
Down the hall here—ah, yes. That breeze you just felt? That’s Nels. He’s probably burning incense again and whispering affirmations to the furniture. His room smells like forgiveness, brownies, and whatever the opposite of shame is. Don’t sit in the chair. It knows his body.
Keep moving. If you stop walking here, you’ll start feeling things. And we are not ready for that before snacks.
We’ve got a flight of stairs to walk and then across the veranda—watch your step, the stairs wind like a slinky unraveled by secrets.
Oh, here we go—Casper’s room. Don’t make eye contact with the mirrors unless you want to unpack your childhood kinks in surround sound. Smells like cologne, regret, and… is that crushed velvet? Yep. That’s velvet. There’s a swing. Don’t ask.
Suddenly he opens the door. “Thought I heard a new voice,” he says, leaning against the frame like a punctuation mark made of sex and sleep deprivation. Oops—omniscient again. I swear this place messes with my narrator permissions. “You touring? Cute. If you get overwhelmed, I offer private consultations.”
You don’t have to answer that. Please don’t. He smirks anyway and disappears into the shadows. Let’s pretend that didn’t just happen. Onward!
This? This is Dion’s wing. He doesn’t close doors. They just waft behind him like abandoned lovers. Don’t touch anything. Especially the robe. Especially if it’s moving. He will flirt with you. Just say thank you and keep walking.
We cut through a narrow hallway strung with fairy lights and crossed intentions. Halfway through, Dion glides past, shirtless as always, sipping something that’s definitely not tea.
“Tell them about the time I made the toaster cry,” he whispers with a wink.
We will not be telling you about that. And yes, I just slipped into my omniscient narrator voice again. Sorry. It happens when Dion’s around. Something about silk and ego makes me temporarily divine.
That door leads to Kurt’s room. We try to keep it closed or the whole place starts smelling like sweaty socks and crusty creatine. You can hear the punching bag crying in the corner. Kurt doesn’t yell. He just looks at you until you reevaluate your life choices. We love him. From a distance.
This is the kitchen. Didn’t get much use for a while, but lately things seem to be heating up—
[The narrator nudges your elbow. You pretend not to get the joke about the oven. He winks anyway.]
We'll take the back stairs—wide and slow like a spiral hug—and that music you hear? That’s Artie. The room with opera bleeding under the door. He’s probably painting a metaphor no one will understand and apologizing for it in advance. If he offers you tea, take it. It means he trusts you. Also, don’t touch the brushes. Someone did once. We had a vigil.
Past this tidy little alcove with perfectly folded towels and the smell of warm bergamot—that’s Cyril’s domain. If he raises one eyebrow at you, it means he’s already solved three of your emotional dilemmas and booked you a follow-up session with your inner child. He’s terrifying. In a good way. Like a well-organized thunderstorm.
That last door? That’s Lenny. Don’t ask questions. He’s watching. He’s always watching. The clocks in his room tick in different time zones but somehow all strike the same silence when he walks in. If you lie near him, he’ll know. So maybe just… don’t.
He’s the Mansion’s memory vault. The quiet librarian of every breakdown and revelation. If you’ve forgotten something important—something soul-deep and time-warped—Lenny hasn’t. He remembers it all. Not to punish you. Just in case you ever need it back.
Oh, and through this back hallway—follow the string lights—you’ll find the basement speakeasy. Password changes weekly, depending on who last cried during karaoke. It’s where we go when we need a break from the heavy. Where wine is poured, secrets are half-told, and Dion performs dramatic readings of everyone’s repressed memories.
Out past the conservatory, if you follow the mosaic path, there’s a swimming pool. Saltwater. Warm. Designed for gentle movement and slow surrender. You can float without explanation there. Sometimes we do.
So why was the Mansion built, you ask?
Because I needed somewhere safe to come undone. A place where every broken piece of me got its own room, its own flavor, its own strange little altar.
This isn’t a fortress. It’s a theatre. It’s a bunker. It’s a fucking love letter to survival.
Here, nothing gets exiled. Not the horny. Not the sad. Not the analytical or the over-functioning or the guy who can’t stop lighting ritual candles for emotional closure.
This is where the myth lives.
This is where I meet myself.
Welcome to the Mansion. The floor remembers you. And Dion already set out wine. He says it pairs well with chaos.
Now that you’re here, might as well tell us:
Which of them is already living rent-free in your psyche?
Who do you want running your emotional control room… and who’s clearly been pressing buttons unsupervised since 2005?
Comments are open. Velvet robes encouraged.
And no, Dion—flirting with the readers does not count as community building.
If you made it this far, you’re either curious, chaotic, or already emotionally compromised.
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We light the candles. You bring the feelings.
Systems in the wild. Always catches me off guard. Thanks for letting us in. I didn’t take off my shoes, but I did put slippers instead. Ours holds in the most empty publication we have yet. You’ll recognize it.