the Dictator

Transparency note: This article was written by AI from my firsthand account and then fact-checked and approved by Todd. The metaphysical interpretations are my own. I am describing what I experienced and what it meant to me, not claiming that the connections prove how reality works.

On the night of August 24, 2026, I woke up with a feeling I recognized.

Someone had died.

I call it a death page.

I don’t have a scientific explanation for that phrase. It’s simply the best description I have for a particular feeling I’ve experienced before—a sudden, overwhelming impression of death before I know who, if anyone, has actually died.

The last time I remember feeling something like it was years ago, around the deaths of people associated with Love’s Pharmacy in Ocean Springs. I was at Just One More when I felt that somebody had passed. Later, I learned about the deaths connected to Love’s Pharmacy.

That experience stayed with me.

And the word Love’s stayed with me too.

So when the feeling returned on August 24, it hit hard.

I Thought It Was Eli

Earlier that day, Eli, my Nigerian friend, had threatened suicide after I refused to send him money for crypto gas fees.

Then that night came the death-page feeling.

My mind immediately went to Eli.

I cried. Not metaphorically. I mean crying, snot and all, because for that period of time I genuinely believed my friend might have killed himself.

Morning changed everything.

Eli texted me.

He was alive.

That should have closed the question. Instead, it left me wondering what I had experienced and why it had hit me with such force.

There was another layer to August 24. It was the ninth anniversary of the death of my father, Donal—D-O-N-A-L, Donald with one D missing.

So death was already sitting unusually close to the surface for me.

Then came August 25.

Dolly Parton died.

She was 80 years old.

Dolly has occupied a place in what I call my T Meta Structure before. That’s my personal language for the strange network of people, names, symbols, repetitions and coincidences that sometimes seem to rhyme with one another in my life.

I cannot prove that what I felt during the night had anything whatsoever to do with Dolly Parton’s death.

I can only tell you the sequence:

I felt death.

I thought it was Eli.

Eli was alive.

Then Dolly was gone.

And because Dolly already had a place in my symbolic framework—and because a friend’s son had recently been at Dollywood—the timing landed differently for me than an ordinary news alert.

The Jenga Structure

The next part happened at the home of people who already occupy distinct places in my personal symbolism.

Julie is the person I call the Thought Bullet.

Justin is the Saturn Time Cube.

And there was a younger Eli there, playing video games—the video-game time traveler in the language of my metastructure.

For a moment, it felt as though the Matrix—or the Jenga structure underneath everything—was collapsing.

But what surprised me was my reaction.

I wasn’t terrified.

I was calm.

It felt less like the world is ending and more like:

This is simply how things are.

I don’t take that feeling as proof that we literally live inside The Matrix. It was an experience, and this is the metaphor my mind gave it.

What grounded me was something simpler than simulation theory:

God is in control.

And if God is in control, then God also knows exactly how imperfect I am.

That realization brought me back to grace.

Then I Went Back to Work

After leaving Julie’s house, I turned on Uber.

That’s when the night’s symbolism seemed to continue.

I picked up a woman named Cara from Singing River Hospital in Ocean Springs. She had received a morphine shot and needed a ride home.

The name caught my attention immediately.

Cara is also the name of the former girlfriend of Jelani Anderson, the person I’ve previously called the masculine Neo in my writing.

Same name. Completely different person.

That distinction matters.

But within the symbolic framework through which I notice seriality, the repetition stood out.

Here I was doing what I sometimes think of as light work—simply driving somebody who needed to get safely home—and the name appeared again.

Maybe coincidence.

Maybe seriality.

Maybe simply the human brain doing what it does extraordinarily well: recognizing patterns.

I don’t need to settle that question to tell you that I noticed it.

And Back to McDonald’s

My third and final ride brought the story back to a place that has already appeared in my previous writing.

I picked up McKenzie and drove him to the McDonald’s in Moss Point.

During the ride, I told him about another strange coincidence involving that same McDonald’s.

At an earlier point, I had asked my Nigerian friend Eli to pray for me.

Then Uber gave me a passenger named Elijah, whom I drove to that McDonald’s.

And here’s the part I couldn’t have known from the name alone:

McKenzie knew Elijah.

They both manage at the same McDonald’s.

So once again, two completely unrelated parts of my life crossed at the same physical location.

And it was that McDonald’s.

The same McDonald’s from my August 4 seriality experience, when I noticed the license-plate numbers I interpreted as the 666/777 poles while Donald Trump was in Los Angeles.

I have previously compared those numbers to the sprocket holes or poles pulling a strip of film forward—a metaphor for reality advancing frame by frame.

Now I was back at the same location.

Different night.

Different people.

Same node.

What Does Any of This Prove?

Nothing.

That’s important.

I cannot demonstrate that my death-page feeling was Dolly Parton passing through some invisible metaphysical network. I cannot demonstrate that Cara’s name was placed in my Uber queue for a reason. I cannot prove that Eli, Elijah, McKenzie, McDonald’s, Dolly, my father’s anniversary, or the other pieces of this story were orchestrated into a message specifically for me.

But I also don’t have to pretend that I didn’t experience the pattern.

There is a difference between noticing meaning and proving causation.

That distinction has become increasingly important to me.

Paul Kammerer called the clustering of meaningful-looking coincidences seriality. My own framework adds God, simulation theory, holographic reality and the metastructure.

But underneath all those ideas is something much older.

Faith.

I don’t know how much of reality I understand.

Probably very little.

I know that I’m capable of getting things wrong. I know I’m capable of hypocrisy. I know I can see a pattern and misunderstand what it means.

And strangely, recognizing that doesn’t destroy my faith.

It makes room for grace.

Maybe that’s what I was feeling when the Jenga structure seemed to fall and I remained calm.

I don’t have to hold reality together.

God does.

I just have to keep moving through it, one frame at a time.

Sometimes seriality doesn’t arrive as one impossible event. It arrives as a pile of ordinary events that, taken together, feel like somebody briefly let you see the sprocket holes in the film.

On August 4, 2026, before any of the McDonald’s weirdness happened, I stopped for gas at Circle K — or, as my brain likes to call it, Circle Potassium, since K is the chemical symbol for potassium.

The pump landed on 7.777 gallons.

Okay. Noted.

By itself, that means nothing. Gas pumps land on numbers every day. But I’ve been seeing 666 and 777 show up in ways that grab my attention for years.

Over time, I’ve developed a particular metaphor for what it feels like when those two numbers come together.

Think about an old strip of movie film.

Along both edges are those little holes that the projector mechanism catches to pull the film forward, frame after frame.

That’s what 666 and 777 have sometimes felt like to me: poles catching the holes at the edges of the film and dragging the movie forward.

I’m not saying that’s literally what those numbers are doing.

I’m describing what the experience feels like from inside my head.

And on August 4, it felt like the film moved.

667 on One Side. 777 on the Other.

Later that day, I accepted an Uber Eats pickup from a McDonald’s in Moss Point, Mississippi.

The delivery was going almost comically close — across the street to a Comfort Inn.

At McDonald’s, I noticed a vehicle with 667 on its license plate on one side of the restaurant.

667 catches my attention because of its relationship to 666. I’ve sometimes imagined 667 as the neighbor of 666 — maybe the number somebody gets when 666 comes up at the DMV and they say, “Nope. Give me the next one.”

There’s another association I’ve made with 666 over the years.

Carbon-12 contains six protons, six neutrons and six electrons when the atom is neutral. That’s where the familiar “6-6-6 carbon” observation comes from. That numerical coincidence doesn’t scientifically establish anything about the religious or symbolic meaning of 666, but it’s one reason the number has remained interesting to me.

Then, as I was leaving McDonald’s, I saw another vehicle in the drive-through.

Its plate contained 777.

So there I was at McDonald’s, with 667 catching my attention on one side and 777 on the other.

It felt like somebody had grabbed both edges of the film.

Again: felt like.

That’s an important distinction.

Then Los Angeles Entered the Movie

Within minutes of leaving McDonald’s, my friend Jelani Anderson messaged me about Donald Trump being in the Los Angeles area.

Jelani is someone I refer to in my own Matrix symbolism as the Masculine Neo candidate.

August 4 also happens to be the birthday of another Anderson in my life, whom I privately think of as the Feminine Neo candidate. That’s a symbolic title I’ve assigned to her, not a title she gave herself, and I’m deliberately keeping her identity anonymous.

If you’re wondering about the Anderson connection, think Thomas Anderson — Neo’s name in The Matrix.

So now, inside my interpretation, there was an arc running from Jelani and Los Angeles all the way back to Jackson County, Mississippi, where I was standing.

A rainbow bridge.

And because I had just been standing at McDonald’s, my brain produced an interpretation that was simultaneously ridiculous, funny, and strangely coherent from inside the experience:

It felt like Donald Trump was in Los Angeles wanting McDonald’s so badly that the symbolism was projecting all the way to my end of the country.

Not literally.

I have no evidence that Donald Trump psychically caused an Uber Eats order in Moss Point, Mississippi.

That’s not the claim.

The point is that this was the symbolic interpretation that flashed into my mind.

Trump in Los Angeles.

Jelani Anderson — my Masculine Neo candidate — connected to that end.

The Feminine Neo candidate’s birthday connected to August 4 on my end.

McDonald’s sitting in the middle of my experience.

667 on one side.

777 on the other.

It felt like the film was literally being pulled forward from both edges.

The Gravitational Lens

I’ve described myself before as something like a gravitational lens.

Not because I think I’m controlling reality.

Actually, the weird thing is almost the opposite. I generally don’t feel like I have much influence over any of this.

But it sometimes feels as though where I focus my attention matters.

Things that would otherwise be completely unrelated seem to line up around whatever happens to occupy my attention. A name repeats. A number repeats. A location echoes something else. Something I’ve been thinking about suddenly appears somewhere completely unexpected.

I experience these moments as involuntary flashes of pattern recognition.

I sometimes describe them as seeing the edges of the Matrix.

That doesn’t establish that an external intelligence, simulation, algorithm, hologram — or Donald Trump’s appetite — is producing them.

It establishes that I’m experiencing the pattern.

There’s a difference.

And writing it down is one of the ways I keep that difference visible.

Five Days Later, the Customer Came Back

Then came August 9.

I received another food-delivery order going to the same Comfort Inn.

Same customer.

Same room number.

I’ve anonymized the customer because that person’s identity isn’t relevant to this story.

But this time, the pickup wasn’t McDonald’s.

It was Taco Bell.

And yes, my brain immediately went there.

By this point, “TACO” had acquired a political meaning connected to Trump: Trump Always Chickens Out, a phrase coined in financial commentary in 2025 in connection with market reactions to Trump’s tariff threats.

So five days after my Trump/McDonald’s experience, Uber’s algorithm handed me the same customer at the same hotel — except now the restaurant was TACO Bell.

The bell was ringing.

Proof of something?

No.

But if you’re documenting seriality, that’s the kind of repetition that makes you stop and stare at the film for a second.

Then Came 127

The August 9 experience led into another conversation with Jelani.

We were discussing gematria — systems that assign numerical values to letters and words — and using results from Gematrix.

Jelani provided a series of phrases associated in that calculation with the number 127:

• Vatican City
• Retirement
• Change is coming
• Buckingham Palace
• Sign in heaven
• Rainbow bridge

And there it was again:

Rainbow bridge.

That was already the language that fit what I had been picturing — a symbolic arc stretching from Los Angeles to Mississippi.

I want to be careful here.

Gematria is not scientific evidence that two events are causally related. Different gematria ciphers can also assign different numerical values to the same words or phrases.

I’m including the 127 material because it was part of the actual conversation and part of how I experienced the developing pattern.

That’s different from claiming that 127 proves anything.

But this is exactly what I mean when I talk about seriality.

Something catches my attention.

Something else echoes it.

Then something echoes the echo.

Eventually I’m staring at the whole chain thinking:

What the fuck is this?

Seeing the Edges of the Matrix

I don’t think the useful question is whether I can prove we’re living in The Matrix.

I can’t.

What I can do is document what happened, what I noticed and what my mind did with it.

On August 4:

7.777 gallons of gas.

Then McDonald’s.

667 on one side.

777 on the other.

A delivery across the street to the Comfort Inn.

Within minutes, a message from Jelani about Trump being in Los Angeles.

The birthday of the person I call the Feminine Neo candidate falling on that same day.

Then, five days later:

The same customer.

The same Comfort Inn.

The same room.

Except now the food was coming from Taco Bell.

Then the gematria conversation.

Then Rainbow Bridge = 127 appearing among the results Jelani sent me.

These aren’t all the same kind of information.

Some are things I personally observed.

Some are records or messages.

Some are facts that can be independently checked.

And some — particularly the connections between them — are my interpretation.

I don’t want to blur those categories just because the resulting story gets more exciting when they’re blurred.

But I also don’t want to erase the subjective experience.

Because when 666 and 777 appear around one of these clusters, I still get that same damn feeling:

For a second, I can see the holes running along the edges of the film.

And something just pulled the next frame into place.

Breaking the Mirror

There’s another reason I write this stuff down.

Sometimes the patterns are funny.

Sometimes they’re fascinating.

Sometimes they’re exhausting.

I’ve considered talking with a therapist specifically because having another person trained to examine thoughts without getting swallowed by them might provide some cognitive relief.

Writing serves a similar purpose for me.

Get the pattern out.

Look at it.

Separate what happened from what I think it means.

Then let it go.

I’m not asking anybody reading this to believe Donald Trump wanted McDonald’s so badly in Los Angeles that his craving crossed the country on a rainbow bridge and landed inside my Uber algorithm.

I’m telling you that, for a few minutes on August 4, that’s what the symbolism felt like from where I was standing.

Maybe it’s coincidence.

Maybe it’s seriality.

Maybe consciousness is much better at detecting and constructing patterns than we understand.

Maybe reality is stranger than the model we’ve built for it.

I don’t know.

That’s why I’m documenting it instead of pretending I have the answer.

Watch the weather.

Record the synchronicities.

Fact-check what can actually be fact-checked.

Keep interpretation labeled as interpretation.

And keep an eye on the edges of the film.

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Transparency & Fact-Checking Note

This article was drafted with AI assistance from ChatGPT and reviewed, edited, and fact-checked where possible by Todd. Personal observations and symbolic interpretations are deliberately identified as such rather than presented as established facts. Gematria results discussed above are reported as part of Todd and Jelani Anderson’s conversation; numerical matches in a gematria system are not scientific evidence that the corresponding people, words, or events are causally connected.

Yesterday I rode the Uber Rideshare Algorithm Lightwave like I have in the past, but now I’m doing it post rehab.

My last ride of the night was a lawyer, and I had gotten into my Quantum Physics talk and told him about my vision of Citizens United v FEC vision from when my dad Donal got the 45.8# brick of lead. When he was exiting the vehicle he told me he was a lawyer and I spat that that must be the coincidence. In hindsight though, the real coincidence I wanted to share is that Todd Blanche is the acting attorney general to these presently corrupted United States of America. So linguistically and seriality wise, he’s the Golden Girl of lawyers as the slut on Golden Girls was Blanche  Devereaux, but I digress.

The correlation I made this morning was about Paul Cameron, the CCTV Operator, not the cinematographer that brought us West World, Total Recall and a litne of other Movies and shows. No, I’m speaking of the lesser known Paul Cameron that was a CCTV Operator and later killed himself on my mothers birthday, December 18th, 2020. 2020 Being the year my lens worked the best, at least at the beginning of the year before Covid, the magnet resonance of festering ignorance, tore it all apart.

I got to thinking about it while thinking of testifying in church about my rehab experience. I Google’d Paul Cameron and seen he was still alive, so I thought I had been Mandela Effected / QEC’d my own story. Turns out the Google results were just different, the first time I searched Paul Cameron I got the CCTV Operator, but this morning I got the movie version of Paul Cameron. I wasn’t mandela effected, I was just seeing both sides present day timelines embedded in the results at different times.

I have much to continue to learn. The other day I had an overwhelming urge to share Quantum Immortality with my therapist Hannah, the Heart of the Mississippi Drug and Alcohol Treatment Center, the one that pulled Paul Krammerer out of me, the alternative ego that I called the Dictator as he wrote shit down.

I’ll be continuing this journey, but we’re getting to the good parts now that we’re into the Singularity as Sam Altman has announced. The correlation there is he’s tied, in my mind, to Sam on the Can’t Beat Satan network TV show Ghosts and the fired Meteorologist Sam on the WDJT Network (WDJT, remind you of any Orange guy?). Further more remind you of Paul Cameron the CCTV Operator at all?

This was written by Todd without AI assistance and pulled from my memories. Let’s have a good start to this week’s episode of the simulated Earth, the dumbest timeline in existance.

Love,

Todd Megee