000001. - Ready. Set. Go.

August 23, 2025

by Adrian Fernandez

There it was. No wall, no frame, no building — just a door standing in the middle of a grimy alley like it had been dropped by a sloppy wizard or a contractor who quit mid-job. It was wrong, absurd, impossible… which of course meant I had to open it.

And that’s when I saw him.

The little man. Except — not so little. Not in the Snow White sense. He was about half my size. I’m 6’2”, so do the math: three feet and change. The disturbing part? He looked like me. Like someone had fed me through a cursed copy machine, hit “reduce by 50%,” and decided this is fine. Same eyes. Same crooked grin. Same vibe of a guy who’s seen too much and maybe shouldn’t talk about it in public. His face said it all: two wars, one heartbreak, and the kind of Yelp review that ruins a restaurant before the appetizers even land.

He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t need to. He just reached up, took my hand like I was a lost tourist, and tugged me toward the door.

“C’mon,” he said, with my own voice but half an octave higher. “We’re going inside.”

And we did.

Not inside the alley. Inside me. My skull. My head. My memories. Imagine Airbnb, but for your brain — and the tenant is a shrunk-down version of yourself who chain-smokes and knows every skeleton in your closet by first name.

We walked past moments like they were exhibits in a museum. My grandfather’s laugh. My first love, still carrying that perfume you never forget. The fights, the heartbreaks, the victories on mats soaked in sweat and maybe a little blood. The nights I stumbled drunk through cities that didn’t even bother to pretend they cared.

And the dead — they came through the door, too. Every person I’ve lost. Parents, grandparents, friends who vanished too soon. They saw what I saw, felt what I felt. The ramen I swore was the best in the world until I found better. The sting of a blade whistling past my ear in training. The nights on stage where the card magic wasn’t just a trick but a communion. They looked at me with that half-smile that says: so this is what it was like for you.

The little me didn’t comment. He didn’t judge. He just nodded, cigarette smoke curling out of nowhere, like this was exactly the point: to walk through your own door with your ghosts, your loves, your bruises, your magic, your madness, and realize you’re not carrying it alone.

So here it is. Entry 00001. The door.

This blog is the door.

I’m the shrunken little bastard pulling your hand, dragging you in. You’re the loved one stepping through!

And together, we’ll stumble through magic, travel, martial arts, love lost, love found, and whatever else this strange circus coughs up.

It won’t always be pretty. It won’t always make sense. But it’ll be real, raw, a little funny in the way funerals sometimes are, and — most importantly — it’ll be mine.

Now — take my hand. Let’s walk.