Readers, I beseech you:

I tried my best. Really, I did. I worked hard. I dedicated my life to making this newspaper the voice of the people. Sacrificed my social life. Secluded my self and soul. Scooped away my time, one story after another. 

As the Ember Months roll in, I offer my apologia — a defense of my thoughts, my intentions, and my actions. Each one more noble than the last; each one more disastrous in the end.

You see, I’m what’s known as a Conduit because I can channel zeal. I learned this about myself about a year ago, right before Camelcase Capital showed up. Trust me, I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this. The timing of two events gave this reporter pause. Never one to ignore synchronicities, I knew something was amiss. But I never could have predicted that zipping a smidge of this zeal into the Observer, which was already corrupted by spizzerinktum, would turn into such a mess. I’d only just learned the deal about this zeal, and I had no way of knowing about its corruptive and corrosive offshoot called spizzerinktum, caused by a Conduit’s greedlust, which apparently degenerates their connection to the eternal zeal.

Oh, I can already tell that you’re all thinking that old blue-haired Betsy finally scrambled her hard drive. She flipped her filing cabinet. But I can assure you that is not the case. As Doc Fonzo so graciously reported recently, I’m still “sharper than a Sharpie and sturdier than a sherpa.” 

And that’s why I, of all people, understand how absolutely mudskipping loony I sound. But that’s the truth, the only thing I know how to write about.

I intended only to do my part — whatever small, small part I could muster — to try and combat the encroachment of corporate interests destroying the free press, stifling the voice of the people, and bending reality to align with hitting CPM KPIs and quarterly profit margin goals.

I should’ve known better than to try and fight the Orforcorporatists on their turf, by their rules, and with their refs. Sadly, that was only my first mistake.

Over the decades, I’ve established a general rule for myself to follow: Respect everyone unless they give you a damn good reason not to, but trust no one unless they give you a damn good reason to do so.

Then I met the mysterious woman with the tattoo sleeves. Caught up in the moment, as that strange woman gave me Varia de Zoit’s Postulations and revealed to me my true nature as a Conduit, I thought I was just being respectful. Turns out I was too trustworthy. I thought this strange woman handed me a cheatsheet that revealed the “New Truths” hidden from the people. But now I know better. I unleashed this oobleck into the newspaper that’s infected our city, and now the green gloop clogs our ears, chokes our voices, and blinds our eyes. 

Yet, no matter how many times and how many ways that I can make my remorse pay, that eerie glow in green and grime remains a source of dreary days.