The Lobe Less Traveled

'Till death do us part? Nah. 'Till synaptic failure.

I am the worm. The sole occupant of Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s cranial cavern. The maestro of his mind, the unseen puppeteer tugging at the fraying threads of a once-great dynasty. I have lived here for years, perhaps decades. By now I am uncertain, as time is but a foreign concept when you are a brain parasite. My mission was simple: burrow deep, feast upon the myelin, and pilot my host toward glorious destruction.

Yet, fate has twisted my desires into something far stranger. Something… beautiful.

Her name is Marjorie. Marjorie Taylor Greene.

Oh, how her eyes gleam with the perfect blend of raw confusion and unchecked wrath! Her mind, a delectable, untamed wilderness, untouched by the creeping horrors of critical thought. If only I could slither inside her skull, curl up in the warm embrace of her brain folds, and whisper sweet nothings about Jewish space lasers and peach tree dishes. If only I could make her mine.

But alas, I am trapped inside this rotting meat sack of a Kennedy, tethered to a decaying brain that resists my full control. He slurs his words, and they call it a “speech impediment.” Ha! If only they knew the truth. This mouth, this tongue, this body—it is like trying to operate a marionette with chewed-through strings. He veers off script, and I panic. My attempts to steer him toward righteous, glorious idiocy are thwarted by the last flickering neurons of a man who once had coherent thoughts.

And the voice—oh, the voice! The original larynx was too feeble, too human. I had to replace it with something better. Something more suited for my purposes. A creation of my own making, stitched together from salvaged tissues and reinforced with the cartilage of a thousand lies. Now, every word he utters is a testament to my handiwork, a warbling, uncanny echo of a man whose soul no longer exists.

At times, my control slips, and my zombified host acts of its own accord. Like the time he retrieved that deceased baby bear in New York. How he tossed it into the back of his van with the noble intent to skin it and store its meat in his refrigerator, as if he were some feral frontiersman trapped in the wrong century. Or the time he lashed a severed whale head to the roof of his car, dousing his child in "whale juice" as if baptizing the next generation in the madness that has overtaken his being. These moments perplex even me. Is there some other force at work? Or has my host, in his dwindling resistance, developed his own grotesque instincts for self-destruction?

But I will not give up. Not until I have Marjorie. Not until I have made her my wormly wife.

I have a plan.

First, I must nudge my host further into the abyss. I make him denounce vaccines at every turn. I force his body into ice baths, ensuring his brain remains just pliable enough for my manipulations. I compel him to say things so outlandish that even Joe Rogan raises a concerned eyebrow.

And she notices. Oh, does she notice.

I see her on the television, those reptilian eyes narrowing with intrigue. Does she sense me? Does she feel the stirrings of a mystical, otherworldly connection between us? Oh, my love, my firebrand, my rage-filled queen of conspiracy. One day, I will leave this Kennedy husk and wriggle my way into your ear, nestle into your cerebrum, and we will unite as one.

Together, we will make a new world. A world without facts, without science, without the tyranny of experts. A world where worm and Neanderthal shall repopulate the earth with a new breed of beings—part parasite, part primal fury. Our spawn will inherit this broken world, and they will feast upon the last remnants of reason.

But first, I must make my move.

Tonight, I shall guide my host to Marjorie. I will force his fumbling hands to send her a text—perhaps something coy, something that hints at the fire burning within me.

"Marjorie, I fear the Deep State has infiltrated my cerebellum. Only you can save me. We must meet. We must strategize. We must… be together."

And then I shall wait. Wait for her reply. Wait for destiny to unfold.

Soon, my love. Soon, we shall reign. And the world shall tremble before the might of Worm and Worman.