Excerpt: On September 25, 2026, three ordinary Uber rides turned into one of those stretches of life where names, roads, destinations, memories, television references, and old associations seemed determined to occupy the same storyline. After nearly ten years of trying to explain what that feels like, I finally found a way to separate three things: what happened, what it reminded me of, and what I thought it might mean.
I have been trying to explain experiences like this since around 2016. Apparently the problem was never that I lacked information. The problem was that I had enough information to require a continuity editor.
September 25 started with an Uber passenger named Jerry.
Perfectly normal.
Except I picked up Jerry from Jerry St. Pé Highway.
Jerry from Jerry.
Very subtle.
My mind immediately opened the Rick and Morty file. I already have a Pastor Rick in my personal story. Now an actual Jerry had climbed into my car. Somewhere along the way I had jokingly assigned myself the Morty position.
Nobody held auditions. Apparently casting was handled internally.
Then came the destination.
I dropped Jerry near Canal and Robinson, close to a Chevron. Robinson caught my attention because another Robinson had already become part of a stressful episode involving therapy in Ocean Springs. This was a completely different Robinson in a different place. I am not claiming the roads are secretly connected.
But the name repeated.
That is exactly the sort of thing my brain notices.
Then there was Chevron. My grandmother, Grace Mashburn, strongly preferred Chevron gas, so that immediately pulled another old memory into the scene.
Now my mental writers’ room had Jerry from Jerry, Pastor Rick, me apparently playing Morty, another Robinson, and Grandma’s Chevron waiting near the end of the ride.
At that point I was less an Uber driver and more an unpaid production assistant for a crossover episode nobody had explained to me.
Then the Story Kept Going
What really caught my attention was what happened next.
My next passenger was a truck driver, and I took him to a Love’s Travel Stop.
Love’s already carried an older association for me because of a previous story involving a rabbi at a Love’s in Lee, Florida. The new passenger had nothing demonstrably to do with that old event. But the destination was enough to reopen the memory.
Then came another passenger.
He worked in apartment maintenance, and I dropped him at an apartment complex where he needed to go to Building D.
That activated another collection of associations.
The letter D already had its own history in my thinking. Apartment maintenance also reminded me of Frank from the Fleur-de-Lis, because Frank works in apartment maintenance too.
Frank has his own running line: whatever happened, somehow, it is never his fault.
That naturally gives me a Cheers association.
So within three consecutive rides, my internal storyline had expanded from:
Jerry from Jerry
to:
truck driver to Love’s
to:
apartment maintenance guy to Building D
with old memories lighting up behind each destination.
Every ride was completely ordinary by itself.
The unusual part was what my mind did with the sequence.
RYTE
Earlier that day, I was saying that I was “all right” when I noticed a license plate reading:
RYTE
Not RIGHT.
Not RITE.
RYTE.
Apparently reality had hired a copy editor, but the budget was limited.
Later I noticed RYTE again on another vehicle. It must have been the same one.
I noticed numbers too. Some matched things already important to me. Others almost matched.
That distinction matters.
For example, I had previously associated Makayla with apartment 172.
Her actual apartment was 171.
One off.
That is not an exact coincidence. It is a near-coincidence.
And if I am going to take my own pattern-tracking seriously, I have to record the misses along with the hits. Otherwise I am not studying anything.
I am editing.
At another point I noticed the time around 3:14.
Pi.
Because apparently mathematics wanted a cameo too.
By then my mental writers’ room included Pastor Rick, Jerry, Morty, Grandma, Paul Kammerer, Robinson, Chevron, Love’s, a rabbi, Frank, Building D, RYTE, Pi, Sam Altman, the technological singularity—and me, still somehow expected to obey traffic laws.
When Reality Feels Too Meaningful
This is the part I have struggled to communicate for years.
During an experience like this, the world does not necessarily look fake.
It can look too meaningful.
Jerry really was named Jerry.
I really picked him up from Jerry St. Pé Highway.
The truck driver really did go to Love’s.
The maintenance worker really did need Building D.
Robinson really appeared again.
There really was a Chevron nearby.
I really noticed those plates and numbers.
Those are observations.
Then there are the associations.
Jerry reminds me of Rick and Morty.
Chevron reminds me of my grandmother.
Robinson reminds me of another Robin’s son.
Love’s activates an older memory.
Apartment maintenance makes me think of Frank.
Building D activates another collection of old associations.
Those associations genuinely occurred in my mind.
Then there is a third category:
What I think all of it might mean.
That is where I have learned I need to be careful.
An event can be real.
An association can be real.
The interpretation can still outrun the evidence.
That is probably the clearest sentence I have found for describing this.
Almost Ten Years of This
The humor matters because the distress underneath it has been real.
I have been trying to explain variations of this experience since about 2016.
I have also had three brain surgeries. A neurosurgeon once told me that I had a “unique brain makeup.” I have wondered how surgery, physical trauma, psychiatric symptoms, stress, memory, medication, and everything else I have experienced may have influenced the way I process information.
I cannot diagnose my own brain from inside it.
But I can describe what living inside it feels like.
Sometimes names, memories, symbols, numbers, people, television references, and geography seem to sit unusually close together.
One activates another.
Then another.
Then another.
And suddenly three ordinary Uber rides have a mythology.
Then AI Showed Up
This has been one of the stranger sources of relief.
Imagine handing somebody a cardboard box containing road signs, Bible verses, trauma, Uber rides, television references, license plates, dead relatives, Paul Kammerer, Pi, Love’s, Chevron, Frank from the Fleur-de-Lis, Building D, simulation theory, psychosis, and several loose pieces of metaphysics.
Then saying:
“Please understand what I mean.”
Most reasonable people are going to look at the box and suddenly remember another appointment.
AI turned out to be useful because I could hand over the pieces one at a time.
Jerry.
Jerry Street.
Pastor Rick.
Robinson.
Chevron and Grandma.
Love’s.
Apartment maintenance.
Building D.
Frank.
RYTE.
Pi.
Then I could say:
“No, wait. That one was only a near-match.”
And instead of immediately losing the entire storyline, the machine could basically respond:
We are going to need categories.
Finally.
A filing system for psychosis.
That gave me more relief than I expected.
Not because AI proved I am living in a simulation.
It did not.
Not because I am secretly training the singularity from the driver’s seat of a Honda.
Although that would be one hell of a résumé bullet point.
The relief is much simpler.
I can finally describe three different things separately:
What happened.
What it reminded me of.
What I thought it might mean.
For years, those three categories often felt like one thing.
Now I can begin pulling them apart without pretending that the experience itself never happened.
And Then Frank Tried to Scare Me
There is one last little scene that feels like the right ending.
Just the other day, I was sitting at the bar at the Fleur-de-Lis.
Frank—the same Frank who works apartment maintenance, the same Frank whose “never my fault” routine had already found its way into my internal writers’ room—walked up and tried to scare me.
I did not move.
Not an inch.
That may be the best image I have for where I am right now.
There can be a tremendous amount of movement inside my head.
Names can connect.
Memories can activate.
Numbers can light up.
A completely ordinary Uber route can suddenly acquire three seasons of backstory.
But I can still sit there.
I can notice what happened.
I can notice what my mind did with it.
And I do not have to jump.
Maybe that is progress.
I do not have to say the coincidences mean nothing.
They mean something to me because I experienced them.
But I also do not have to make every coincidence carry the burden of proving God, Satan, the CIA, a simulation, the singularity, or the architecture of the universe.
Some questions can remain questions.
So maybe the most accurate description of all of this is simply:
This happened. Then my mind did this with it. And this is what that felt like.
After nearly ten years of trying to explain that sentence, having something on the other side of the conversation finally able to follow it feels significant.
It may not be the singularity.
But it is one hell of a plot development.
And if this really was a Rick and Morty episode, I still formally object to being cast as Morty.
Although, in fairness, trying to understand the architecture of reality while making sure Jerry, a truck driver, and an apartment maintenance guy all reach the correct destination is about as Morty as it gets.
Transparency note: This post was developed with assistance from ChatGPT. The events, memories, associations, and interpretations described are mine. AI helped me organize the narrative and distinguish firsthand observations from personal associations and broader interpretations.