Pull up a chair. Wipe off the mysterious pub goo first, unless you want to lose a hand to the sticky abyss.
Settle in, because I’m about to drop a couple truth bombs with the grace of a Final Destination premonition meaning, zero grace, and a fuckload of broken glass.
So…
Final Destination: Bloodline. (Holy shit I can’t wait to watch it)
The franchise that’s been teaching us, since time immemorial (or at least since Devon Sawa was a thing), that DEATH is a petty, vindictive bastard with a flair for the dramatic.
You think you can outmaneuver the Grim Reaper?
Please…
You can’t even dodge a pool noodle at your nephew’s birthday party.
Death has rules.
Death has a list.
Death doesn’t care about your feelings, your TikTok, or your self care Sunday.
(Death probably is the algorithm, honestly. The original shadowbanned content creator.)
You know what else has rules?
This email list.
That’s right. Once you’re on, you’re on.
Blood pact. Digital soul-binding-cult-initiation or whatever…
You unsubscribe? That’s it. You’re dead to me.
Not in the “oh, I’ll miss your warm presence” way. more in the “your inbox is now haunted by the ghost of emails past and no, Karen, you can’t come back because you regretted rage-unsubscribing at 2am.”
And so with this here list here are some things:
- You sign up? You’re family. (The kind that might eat you if the apocalypse comes, but hey, family.)
- You leave? You’re gone. No zombie resurrection, no phoenix-from-the-ashes bullshit.
- (Fine, sometimes I let people back in. But only if you bribe me with artisanal gin/whiskey/cheese, a mixtape, and a signed confession that you once cried at a Fast & Furious movie.)
Why so harsh? Because rules are the only thing standing between us and total fucking chaos.
Look at Final Destination.
Every time someone tries to bend the rules, people end up as human origami in a hardware store.
You want that? I don’t want that.
Existential writing advice time (because I’m generous like that)
Death is coming. For me. For you. For that weird guy who always microwaves fish at work.
You can’t unsubscribe from mortality, either.
The universe is a vending machine filled with expired snacks and every slot is marked “SURPRISE BITCH.”
We’re all just meat puppets doing the cha cha at the edge of the void.
But I’ll let you in on a little secret:
If you’re gonna dance with DEATH. Or my email list. At least do it with style. Don’t unsubscribe. Don’t look back. Don’t try to cheat the system, because the system has teeth. And they’re hungry.
You stay, you get the goods. You leave, you get nothing.
And if you come crawling back, well…
Maybe I’ll let you in. Maybe I’ll send you a single, cryptic email: “Too late. DEATH’S already in your inbox.”
Now. Buy me a drink. I’m thirsty, and I hear the bartender’s got a mean existential crisis on tap.
Stay alive,
Stephen Walker
P.S. If you really need to cheat death, try unplugging your router and hiding under the bed. It won’t work, but hey. It’s worth a shot? Here’s the new trailer that dropped yesterday too for Final Destination: Bloodlines. It’s wild.