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The tires grumbled along rough sand…
We were in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and it was about as hot as the desert can possibly get, pursuing a so-called “road trip.” (that we’d gotten up at 6 am and driven all the way out there to achieve)
I was about ready to have a taste of the car seat when we stopped.
“Are we here?” I asked confused
“Yep.”
I looked around trying to find the promised “world-famous restaurant,” but all I could see was one piece of shit, barely standing, wooden shed.
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
We walked in and immediately the “waiter” greeted us with…
“You guys hungry?”
Us: “Yeah!”
“oh…” the Waiter exclaimed like he wasn’t expecting us to be hungry in a restaurant.
“all we’ve got is 2 eggs and a slice of bacon.”
Shit.
I ordered an omelet and it was shit.
but so is almost every shitty AI email I’ve read.
Does that mean eggs or AI is shit?
No.
Not all.
It just means that the person using them is.
Like in that shack in the middle of nowhere, the guy did not know what the fuck he was doing. (so he cooked a shitty omelet.)
Same with most copywriters, they don’t know how to use AI, so they end up writing terrible AI emails.
But there’s a select group of elite copywriters who know how to use AI.
They’re the ones getting all the clients right now. While you’re stuck doing cold outreach, they’re closing deals 10x faster with AI.
Then writing copy 100x faster with claude.
And at the end of the day, you’re left broke, outworked, and tired while this group is taking up everything you wish you had… without doing anything.
They just know how to use AI to do it for them.
So don’t be the shitty cook in a shitty shack in the middle of nowhere, be in the group of elite copywriters using AI to win:
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Yo chatgpt wrote this, tell me what you think:
The tires grumbled along rough sand…
We were in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and it was about as hot as the desert can possibly get, pursuing a so-called “road trip” (which we’d woken up at 6 a.m. and driven all the way out here to achieve).
I was about ready to have a taste of the car seat when we stopped.
“Are we here?” I asked, confused.
“Yep.”
I looked around, trying to find the promised world-famous restaurant.
All I saw was sand. And more sand. A few brave, crispy bushes clinging to existence. Somewhere in the distance, something that might have been a cow skeleton, or possibly just a strangely judgmental rock formation.
“You sure your phone didn’t just give up and die?” I asked.
He grinned. “It’s right there.”
“There is no ‘there,’” I said. “There’s barely a here.”
He pointed, and that’s when I noticed it.
A door.
Just… a door. Standing by itself in the middle of the desert, like it had missed a memo about walls.
“And I’m supposed to believe this is a restaurant?”
“Well,” he said, opening the car door, “technically, it’s the entrance.”
“Well,” he said, opening the car door, “technically, it’s the entrance.”
“To what? The afterlife?” I squinted at the door. It was white, chipped, slightly crooked, and casting an absurdly confident shadow. No building. No walls. Just… door.
A doorknob winked in the sun.
“You dragged me into the desert for a door,” I muttered, climbing out of the car. Heat smacked me in the face like a personal insult.
“Relax,” he said, striding towards it. “People travel from all over the world for this place.”
“People also eat drywall on the internet. That doesn’t make it a good idea.”
He grabbed the knob and turned it. Against everything I knew about physics, hinges, architecture, and general human sanity, the door… opened.
Cold air rushed out.
Not a breeze. Not warm, not dusty. Refrigerated, restaurant-quality air. The kind that whispered linen napkins and health code standards.
“And you’re not confused by this at all,” I said, staring at the doorway where a hallway now existed.
“Nope.” He stepped inside.
“You went in way too fast,” I hissed, hovering at the threshold. “That’s how horror movies begin.”
From inside, I heard clinking glasses. Soft music. Laughter.
“…What if it’s really good food?” he added.
That did it.
I stepped through — and the desert vanished.
Suddenly I was standing in a candlelit dining room. Stone walls, tall windows overlooking absolutely nothing, and about fifty tables filled with people who also looked vaguely confused yet extremely interested in their menus.
A waiter appeared instantly.
“Reservation?” he asked.
I blinked. “For the void?”
“For the Door,” he corrected.
“…Sure. Two for the Door.”
He nodded as if that was entirely normal. “Follow me.”
As we walked, I noticed things. A man at one table was dressed for the 1800s. At another, a woman was in full scuba gear, dripping on the floor. And in the far corner, was that a knight? A real. Actual. Knight.
“Where the hell are we?” I whispered.
“World-famous,” he whispered back.
We were seated. Linen napkins folded into unnecessarily elegant shapes. Water glasses already filled.
The menu was one single sentence:
You will be served what you need, not what you want.
“I don’t like that,” I said.
“I kind of love it,” he replied.
The lights dimmed. Footsteps approached. A covered silver dish was set before each of us.
The waiter smiled.
“Bon appétit. And good luck.”
My stomach dropped. “Good luck with what?” I asked, lifting the lid.
Underneath was… my childhood bedroom. Miniature. Perfect. My messy bed. Old books. The same peeling poster on the wall. Even the stupid trophy I’d never earned.
Across the table, he stared at his plate.
“What did you get?” I asked.
He swallowed. “The version of me that never left my hometown.”
“Oh.”
We sat there in silence.
And then the tiny version of me, in the tiny room, looked up.
And waved.
Slowly, the tiny version of me stood up. She brushed invisible dust from her jeans the way I used to do when I was nervous. She glanced around the miniature room, then back up at me like I was the weird thing here — not the fact that she was the size of a coaster and living on a dinner plate.
Across the table, the other him did the same.
Standing in the middle of a perfectly normal small-town street. Same bored expression. Same hands shoved into his pockets. Same version he always said he “would’ve probably been.”
The waiter’s voice drifted in from somewhere behind us.
“You may speak to them. But remember — they cannot leave the plate. And you cannot join them. This is only… a tasting.”
“A tasting of my unresolved childhood?” I muttered. “Got any wine that pairs with emotional devastation?”
He smiled politely. “We have a lovely dissociation on tap.”
My tiny self walked over to the bed, sat, and started flipping through one of my old notebooks. She grimaced at a page.
“You kept writing like this?” she called up, voice soft but definitely judging.
“I was fifteen,” I said automatically. “You were there.”
“Yeah, and I thought we’d grow out of it.”
Ouch.
Across the table, the other-him laughed once. Bitter. “At least yours still talks. Mine just… avoids eye contact.”
I looked up. His other self was staring at the ground, kicking a pebble over and over.
“You okay?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Yeah. Just thinking about all the things I didn’t think about.”
My mini-self looked straight at me again, more serious now.
“You’re still trying to be smaller than you are,” she said.
“Excuse me?? I literally don’t fit into last year’s jeans. I’m much bigger.”
“You know what I mean.” She gestured to the tiny room. “You still think this is all you deserve.”
I opened my mouth to argue but… couldn’t. Because she wasn’t wrong. And apparently, hell had appetizers now.
The lights in the restaurant flickered. The other diners started murmuring. I heard a woman somewhere gasp, “Oh no, I got the timeline one too.”
“Time is nearly up,” the waiter announced calmly. “You may choose one thing to take with you. A memory to release, or a truth to keep.”
“Just one?” I asked. “That feels like a budgeting problem.”
He nodded. “You don’t get better by taking everything. Only by taking what matters most.”
My tiny self walked closer to the edge of the plate, as if she could almost step off.
“Take the day you forgave yourself,” she said quietly. “You’re going to need that again.”
I frowned. “But I don’t know when that happens.”
She smiled. “Exactly. So you better make it real.”
Across the table, hometown-him finally looked up at real-him.
“Don’t stay because you’re scared of disappointing ghosts,” he said. “We were never meant to be impressive here.”
Real him stared, and nodded once. Like he understood something he’d never been able to say out loud.
The waiter clapped softly.
“A beautiful choice,” he said. “Both of you.”
The plates began to feel warm under our hands. The mini world on mine started to fade — the bed becoming fog, the walls blurring, my tiny self lifting two fingers in a lazy salute before disappearing completely.
“You’re annoying,” I whispered.
But I was smiling.
The knight at the far table suddenly got up and shouted, “I GOT DRAGONS.”
“EVERYONE GETS DIFFERENT ONES,” the waiter called back. “SIT DOWN, SIR.”
The room folded in on itself like a closing book. Music warbled. The air rushed.
And the next thing I knew—
Heat.
Sand.
Wind.
I was standing in front of the door again, hand still hovering in midair like I’d never moved at all.
He stood beside me, blinking in the sunlight.
“Did we just… emotionally blackmail ourselves?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “And I’m still hungry.”
He glanced at the door. “You think they do dessert?”
The door gave one quiet, deliberate knock from the other side.
Then the doorknob turned.
Slowly.
By. Itself.