Freaky Friday (Astral Edition)

Date: 12/19/2025

That familiar drilling through my skull begins again, like a bored woodpecker with a personal vendetta. My whole body vibrates, teeth chattering, nerves fizzing. I know this feeling well now. There’s no fear left in it. Just recognition. The hypnagogic state. The doorway that never bothers with a handle. I’m ready for take-off. My energy body peels itself free, shrugging off its heavy winter coat of meat and bone. No need for the costume. The pull of the world falls silent. My legs arrive late to the party, as usual — shaky, unreliable, like new foals taking their first steps. I wobble, recalibrate, remember which way is forwards. I glance back at the bed and gasp. Where’s my body? Panic flutters for a half-second before I spot the unmistakable human burrito lump beneath the duvet. Right. Of course. I’ve wrapped myself like a leftovers situation. Old habits never die. Or nap. My husband sits up in bed, reading his Kindle, the blue glow carving his face into something monkish and serene. I float over and bop him on the head. Firm. A proper knock. No response. Must be a very good read. I stagger into the hallway on my borrowed legs and — oh. There he is again. Same man. Same face. Same shoulders that never quite relax. Well. This is unsettling. Who is who? Hallway Husband smiles at me. I know that smile intimately. It’s the let’s-get-it-on smile. The one that’s equal parts charm and cheek. Feeling mischievous, and perhaps curious in a way I’ll unpack later, I push him against the wall. We kiss — fierce, electric, laughing into each other’s mouths like teenagers who’ve found a secret staircase. Things escalate. The fluorescent light pauses, then remembers its role. And then — Something slips. A cosmic buffering wheel. A glitch. We switch. Freaky Friday style. I am him. He is me. And I am — astonishingly — having ‘sexy time’ with myself. I don’t panic. I simply… allow. Astral etiquette, perhaps. Or shock. I’m pounding myself against the railings when a brand-new awareness blooms. I have balls. Actual, honest-to-god, swinging flesh pockets. They’re there. They move independently. Back and forth with each thrust. I giggle. The mood collapses like a poorly pitched tent. “Just fuck me,” I sigh, bored already. But libido has left the building, called a taxi, and moved abroad. The novelty of balls wears off in record time. Turns out they’re not such a “ball”. I appeal to the cosmic skies — whoever’s on shift tonight — to take me to see Kylie. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. We haven’t spoken in three and a half years. I’m dead to her. Properly, ceremonially dead. And yet the pull remains, stubborn as a bad tooth. Darkness slams down. Visibility goes on strike. “Sort it out, universe. I can’t see shit,” I complain. Before my grievance reaches the complaints department, I materialise in a smoky bar. Soft jazz curls through the air like cigarette smoke. Everything feels vintage, honeyed with nostalgia. 1940s, maybe. Time has lost its labels. And there she is. Kylie sits alone in the corner, staring into nothing. A glass untouched in front of her. I take the chair beside her. “Kylie,” I whisper. Nothing. “KYLIE,” louder now. Assertive. Hopeful. She doesn’t blink. I wave my hand in front of her face. Nothing. So I do the only reasonable thing left. I bop her on the head. Whack-a-mole style. Nothing happens. The regret arrives quietly, settling in my stomach like a cold coin. Who am I kidding? If real-life Kylie wants nothing to do with me, astral Kylie has clearly taken out a restraining order. The room fills with smoke. Thick, choking, theatrical. And suddenly I’m back in bed. My husband is bashing around the bedroom. Opening cupboards. Closing them. Opening drawers. Closing them again. Hold on. My husband never closes drawers. Ever. It’s one of my pet loathes. I’ve nearly concussed myself on open cupboards more times than I can count. This man is tidying. This is not my husband. This is an intruder. And before the thought fully lands, we’re already on the bed, finishing what we started. The mattress rocks gently while our sleeping bodies remain blissfully oblivious, miles away. Lucidity snaps. I tumble into normal dream territory — the weirder-than-weird jungle where logic goes to die. There’s screaming downstairs. Panicked, I bolt down the stairs, heart racing, imagining the worst. Nope. Heavy metal. Screamo edition. “Can you turn this racket off?” I shout over the noise.”I can barely hear myself think.” “My bad,” my husband says, lowering the volume. “Karl’s new band. They’re good, aren’t they?” I shake my head. If good means my ears bleeding, then sure. Karl — my friend’s husband. Talented. Voice like honey. Apparently experimenting. “He’s trying a new genre,” my husband adds. “You can’t knock him for that.” He’s reading a comically large newspaper, spread wide like a Victorian sail. The Guardian, probably. The Big Dick Energy of the paper world. “My interview’s in here,” he says, already defensive. “Oh,” I reply. He opens the centre page. His face drains of colour. “Oh my god.” I freeze. There’s a photo of him. But he’s a Cyclops. One enormous, unblinking eye in the middle of his forehead. It’s uncanny. Disturbing. Absolutely hilarious. I laugh. Then I see his face fold inwards, wounded. “Those bastards have done me dirty,” he sulks. I flick on the TV to distract him. Every channel shows the same thing: Popes. Multiple Popes. Sitting on thrones. Skiing down a snowy hill on golden skis. “What is this utter tripe?” I groan. “It’s tradition,” he says calmly. Mat reaches for the paper again. It’s like he can’t help himself. Some kind of quiet self-torture. A sadist of the soul. He smooths the pages flat with reverent care, as though the newspaper might apologise if handled gently enough. He opens the centre spread. Again. The Cyclops stares back at us. Only this time — the eye blinks. Slow. Deliberate. Wet. I stop laughing. The room feels suddenly thinner, like the walls have stepped back to listen. The eye looks straight at me. Not him. Me. And something clicks into place with a soft, awful elegance. We have many selves. I’ve worn them tonight like borrowed coats — wife, husband, lover, ghost, intruder, friend, exile. We fracture and multiply, split across roles and timelines and dreams, convinced we are separate things. But there is only one eye. The all-seeing one. The witness. The quiet centre that never switches, never glitches, never looks away. The eye doesn’t judge. It doesn’t mock. It simply knows. Mat lowers the paper, but I can still feel it watching. Watching us. Watching me. Watching the version of myself I keep trying to escape — and the one I keep circling back to. Somewhere far beneath all of this, a body breathes under a duvet. Somewhere else, a soul keeps its single eye open. And for the first time all night, I understand: I was never lost. I was only looking everywhere except from where I truly see.