Dear Quantum Agony Aunt,
I’m beaming this from the outer rim of Kepler-442b, and I’m about to lose the last shreds of my sanity like old socks in a black hole.
My partner—let’s call them Zyx because their real designation would curl your neurons like fried shrimp—is a Class VII Metamorphic Consciousness. Gorgeous, brilliant, able to slip through seventeen dimensions while composing symphonies that make quasars sigh. We’ve been together three solar cycles.
Here’s the itch in the neural cortex: Zyx won’t perform the Sacred Merge.
For you mono-dimensional meatloafs reading this, the Merge isn’t just a hug. It’s how my people say I love you, I want to share my existence with yours, and please don’t let me float alone in this infinite cosmic supermarket aisle. It’s intimacy, yes—but on a quantum, temporal, and existential plumbing level.
Zyx keeps saying they need “time to adjust to human consciousness patterns.” Three cycles! I’ve been patient. I’ve installed compatibility protocols. I even let them reorganize my molecular structure twice (don’t ask—the second time I was a sentient gas cloud for four hours, and I swear someone tried to smoke me).
But whenever we’re close to Merging, Zyx backs off. Last week I suggested a partial consciousness overlap—just sharing memories of our first date at that black-hole café on Titan—and they literally slipped into the fifth dimension to dodge me. Poof. Gone. Like a stage magician with a personal vendetta.
I’m starting to think they’re embarrassed by my primitive neural architecture. Maybe, to them, Merging with a human is like you having sex with a potted ficus that knows basic algebra.
What do I do? I love this shimmering impossibility, but I’m tired of feeling like the only virgin in the known universe. My friends on Earth keep asking when we’re “taking the next step.” I’m running out of polite ways to say, “My girlfriend can exist in parallel realities but won’t share a thought-stream with me.”
—Lonely on the Rim
Dear Lonely,
Christ on an anti-matter pogo stick, kid. Here I am, trying to enjoy my synthetic bourbon and the faint death-rattles of a collapsing star, and you drop this interdimensional soap opera in my lap.
You’ve got it backward. Zyx isn’t embarrassed—they’re terrified.
Human consciousness isn’t primitive. It’s toxic. It’s a beautiful, virulent fungus that infects whatever it touches. Your species evolved to turn every meaningless flicker into story. Every sneeze becomes a metaphor for lost love. That’s not “simple.” That’s weaponized irrationality.
Zyx’s thoughts are crystalline lattices, humming with cold, perfect logic. Then you come along, leaking sloppy emotions all over the carpet, believing in hope and regret and the miracle of two idiots watching the same sunset and thinking it means something.
One Merge with you and they might start doubting themselves. They might feel longing. They might discover the exquisite thrill of being dead wrong and loving it anyway. And that terrifies them.
So here’s the cure:
Stop shoving your neurons in their face. Stop with the “partial overlaps” and “compatibility protocols.” Show them what human consciousness actually is: patience without expectation, love without a receipt, hope without a warranty.
And if that fails? Remind them that humans invented jazz, empanadas, tequila, and the joke about two nuns in a spaceship. Any species that can’t taste that madness doesn’t deserve your Merge.
The universe is cold and mostly empty, kid. If Zyx can’t take a little human warmth, that’s their loss. Go write them a love song—make it stupid, make it weep, make it so utterly human that it terrifies them into wanting more.
And if they still won’t Merge, come back here. I’ll teach you how to make a Molotov cocktail that works in zero gravity. It won’t help your love life, but it will make the neighbors nervous.
—Quantum Agony Aunt
P.S. I once dated a sentient nebula. Every conversation was long-winded and ended with someone crying. Usually me.
SPONSORED AD: Interspecies relationship on the rocks? Try Cosmic Harmony™ Dating Service! 73% fewer existential crises than the leading brand! Warning: May cause personality dissonance, accidental reincarnation, or unexpected poetry.
My Other Car is a Robot 
Leave a comment