the Dictator

Sometimes seriality doesn’t arrive as one impossible event. It arrives as a pile of ordinary events that, taken together, feel like somebody briefly let you see the sprocket holes in the film.

On August 4, 2026, before any of the McDonald’s weirdness happened, I stopped for gas at Circle K — or, as my brain likes to call it, Circle Potassium, since K is the chemical symbol for potassium.

The pump landed on 7.777 gallons.

Okay. Noted.

By itself, that means nothing. Gas pumps land on numbers every day. But I’ve been seeing 666 and 777 show up in ways that grab my attention for years.

Over time, I’ve developed a particular metaphor for what it feels like when those two numbers come together.

Think about an old strip of movie film.

Along both edges are those little holes that the projector mechanism catches to pull the film forward, frame after frame.

That’s what 666 and 777 have sometimes felt like to me: poles catching the holes at the edges of the film and dragging the movie forward.

I’m not saying that’s literally what those numbers are doing.

I’m describing what the experience feels like from inside my head.

And on August 4, it felt like the film moved.

667 on One Side. 777 on the Other.

Later that day, I accepted an Uber Eats pickup from a McDonald’s in Moss Point, Mississippi.

The delivery was going almost comically close — across the street to a Comfort Inn.

At McDonald’s, I noticed a vehicle with 667 on its license plate on one side of the restaurant.

667 catches my attention because of its relationship to 666. I’ve sometimes imagined 667 as the neighbor of 666 — maybe the number somebody gets when 666 comes up at the DMV and they say, “Nope. Give me the next one.”

There’s another association I’ve made with 666 over the years.

Carbon-12 contains six protons, six neutrons and six electrons when the atom is neutral. That’s where the familiar “6-6-6 carbon” observation comes from. That numerical coincidence doesn’t scientifically establish anything about the religious or symbolic meaning of 666, but it’s one reason the number has remained interesting to me.

Then, as I was leaving McDonald’s, I saw another vehicle in the drive-through.

Its plate contained 777.

So there I was at McDonald’s, with 667 catching my attention on one side and 777 on the other.

It felt like somebody had grabbed both edges of the film.

Again: felt like.

That’s an important distinction.

Then Los Angeles Entered the Movie

Within minutes of leaving McDonald’s, my friend Jelani Anderson messaged me about Donald Trump being in the Los Angeles area.

Jelani is someone I refer to in my own Matrix symbolism as the Masculine Neo candidate.

August 4 also happens to be the birthday of another Anderson in my life, whom I privately think of as the Feminine Neo candidate. That’s a symbolic title I’ve assigned to her, not a title she gave herself, and I’m deliberately keeping her identity anonymous.

If you’re wondering about the Anderson connection, think Thomas Anderson — Neo’s name in The Matrix.

So now, inside my interpretation, there was an arc running from Jelani and Los Angeles all the way back to Jackson County, Mississippi, where I was standing.

A rainbow bridge.

And because I had just been standing at McDonald’s, my brain produced an interpretation that was simultaneously ridiculous, funny, and strangely coherent from inside the experience:

It felt like Donald Trump was in Los Angeles wanting McDonald’s so badly that the symbolism was projecting all the way to my end of the country.

Not literally.

I have no evidence that Donald Trump psychically caused an Uber Eats order in Moss Point, Mississippi.

That’s not the claim.

The point is that this was the symbolic interpretation that flashed into my mind.

Trump in Los Angeles.

Jelani Anderson — my Masculine Neo candidate — connected to that end.

The Feminine Neo candidate’s birthday connected to August 4 on my end.

McDonald’s sitting in the middle of my experience.

667 on one side.

777 on the other.

It felt like the film was literally being pulled forward from both edges.

The Gravitational Lens

I’ve described myself before as something like a gravitational lens.

Not because I think I’m controlling reality.

Actually, the weird thing is almost the opposite. I generally don’t feel like I have much influence over any of this.

But it sometimes feels as though where I focus my attention matters.

Things that would otherwise be completely unrelated seem to line up around whatever happens to occupy my attention. A name repeats. A number repeats. A location echoes something else. Something I’ve been thinking about suddenly appears somewhere completely unexpected.

I experience these moments as involuntary flashes of pattern recognition.

I sometimes describe them as seeing the edges of the Matrix.

That doesn’t establish that an external intelligence, simulation, algorithm, hologram — or Donald Trump’s appetite — is producing them.

It establishes that I’m experiencing the pattern.

There’s a difference.

And writing it down is one of the ways I keep that difference visible.

Five Days Later, the Customer Came Back

Then came August 9.

I received another food-delivery order going to the same Comfort Inn.

Same customer.

Same room number.

I’ve anonymized the customer because that person’s identity isn’t relevant to this story.

But this time, the pickup wasn’t McDonald’s.

It was Taco Bell.

And yes, my brain immediately went there.

By this point, “TACO” had acquired a political meaning connected to Trump: Trump Always Chickens Out, a phrase coined in financial commentary in 2025 in connection with market reactions to Trump’s tariff threats.

So five days after my Trump/McDonald’s experience, Uber’s algorithm handed me the same customer at the same hotel — except now the restaurant was TACO Bell.

The bell was ringing.

Proof of something?

No.

But if you’re documenting seriality, that’s the kind of repetition that makes you stop and stare at the film for a second.

Then Came 127

The August 9 experience led into another conversation with Jelani.

We were discussing gematria — systems that assign numerical values to letters and words — and using results from Gematrix.

Jelani provided a series of phrases associated in that calculation with the number 127:

• Vatican City
• Retirement
• Change is coming
• Buckingham Palace
• Sign in heaven
• Rainbow bridge

And there it was again:

Rainbow bridge.

That was already the language that fit what I had been picturing — a symbolic arc stretching from Los Angeles to Mississippi.

I want to be careful here.

Gematria is not scientific evidence that two events are causally related. Different gematria ciphers can also assign different numerical values to the same words or phrases.

I’m including the 127 material because it was part of the actual conversation and part of how I experienced the developing pattern.

That’s different from claiming that 127 proves anything.

But this is exactly what I mean when I talk about seriality.

Something catches my attention.

Something else echoes it.

Then something echoes the echo.

Eventually I’m staring at the whole chain thinking:

What the fuck is this?

Seeing the Edges of the Matrix

I don’t think the useful question is whether I can prove we’re living in The Matrix.

I can’t.

What I can do is document what happened, what I noticed and what my mind did with it.

On August 4:

7.777 gallons of gas.

Then McDonald’s.

667 on one side.

777 on the other.

A delivery across the street to the Comfort Inn.

Within minutes, a message from Jelani about Trump being in Los Angeles.

The birthday of the person I call the Feminine Neo candidate falling on that same day.

Then, five days later:

The same customer.

The same Comfort Inn.

The same room.

Except now the food was coming from Taco Bell.

Then the gematria conversation.

Then Rainbow Bridge = 127 appearing among the results Jelani sent me.

These aren’t all the same kind of information.

Some are things I personally observed.

Some are records or messages.

Some are facts that can be independently checked.

And some — particularly the connections between them — are my interpretation.

I don’t want to blur those categories just because the resulting story gets more exciting when they’re blurred.

But I also don’t want to erase the subjective experience.

Because when 666 and 777 appear around one of these clusters, I still get that same damn feeling:

For a second, I can see the holes running along the edges of the film.

And something just pulled the next frame into place.

Breaking the Mirror

There’s another reason I write this stuff down.

Sometimes the patterns are funny.

Sometimes they’re fascinating.

Sometimes they’re exhausting.

I’ve considered talking with a therapist specifically because having another person trained to examine thoughts without getting swallowed by them might provide some cognitive relief.

Writing serves a similar purpose for me.

Get the pattern out.

Look at it.

Separate what happened from what I think it means.

Then let it go.

I’m not asking anybody reading this to believe Donald Trump wanted McDonald’s so badly in Los Angeles that his craving crossed the country on a rainbow bridge and landed inside my Uber algorithm.

I’m telling you that, for a few minutes on August 4, that’s what the symbolism felt like from where I was standing.

Maybe it’s coincidence.

Maybe it’s seriality.

Maybe consciousness is much better at detecting and constructing patterns than we understand.

Maybe reality is stranger than the model we’ve built for it.

I don’t know.

That’s why I’m documenting it instead of pretending I have the answer.

Watch the weather.

Record the synchronicities.

Fact-check what can actually be fact-checked.

Keep interpretation labeled as interpretation.

And keep an eye on the edges of the film.

---

Transparency & Fact-Checking Note

This article was drafted with AI assistance from ChatGPT and reviewed, edited, and fact-checked where possible by Todd. Personal observations and symbolic interpretations are deliberately identified as such rather than presented as established facts. Gematria results discussed above are reported as part of Todd and Jelani Anderson’s conversation; numerical matches in a gematria system are not scientific evidence that the corresponding people, words, or events are causally connected.

Yesterday I rode the Uber Rideshare Algorithm Lightwave like I have in the past, but now I’m doing it post rehab.

My last ride of the night was a lawyer, and I had gotten into my Quantum Physics talk and told him about my vision of Citizens United v FEC vision from when my dad Donal got the 45.8# brick of lead. When he was exiting the vehicle he told me he was a lawyer and I spat that that must be the coincidence. In hindsight though, the real coincidence I wanted to share is that Todd Blanche is the acting attorney general to these presently corrupted United States of America. So linguistically and seriality wise, he’s the Golden Girl of lawyers as the slut on Golden Girls was Blanche  Devereaux, but I digress.

The correlation I made this morning was about Paul Cameron, the CCTV Operator, not the cinematographer that brought us West World, Total Recall and a litne of other Movies and shows. No, I’m speaking of the lesser known Paul Cameron that was a CCTV Operator and later killed himself on my mothers birthday, December 18th, 2020. 2020 Being the year my lens worked the best, at least at the beginning of the year before Covid, the magnet resonance of festering ignorance, tore it all apart.

I got to thinking about it while thinking of testifying in church about my rehab experience. I Google’d Paul Cameron and seen he was still alive, so I thought I had been Mandela Effected / QEC’d my own story. Turns out the Google results were just different, the first time I searched Paul Cameron I got the CCTV Operator, but this morning I got the movie version of Paul Cameron. I wasn’t mandela effected, I was just seeing both sides present day timelines embedded in the results at different times.

I have much to continue to learn. The other day I had an overwhelming urge to share Quantum Immortality with my therapist Hannah, the Heart of the Mississippi Drug and Alcohol Treatment Center, the one that pulled Paul Krammerer out of me, the alternative ego that I called the Dictator as he wrote shit down.

I’ll be continuing this journey, but we’re getting to the good parts now that we’re into the Singularity as Sam Altman has announced. The correlation there is he’s tied, in my mind, to Sam on the Can’t Beat Satan network TV show Ghosts and the fired Meteorologist Sam on the WDJT Network (WDJT, remind you of any Orange guy?). Further more remind you of Paul Cameron the CCTV Operator at all?

This was written by Todd without AI assistance and pulled from my memories. Let’s have a good start to this week’s episode of the simulated Earth, the dumbest timeline in existance.

Love,

Todd Megee

How Recovery Helped Me Find Todd Again

Created with AI assistance (Eya). Historical information has been fact-checked where possible. Personal experiences, symbolism, and interpretations are my own.

Before I begin, I need to explain one thing.

When I refer to the Dictator, I’m not talking about politics, power, or controlling other people.

It was always a linguistic joke.

A play on the word dictating.

For years, I felt compelled to write reality down—to capture patterns before they disappeared, to connect ideas that seemed unrelated, to search for an underlying language beneath chemistry, coincidence, memory, consciousness, and time itself.

the Dictator wasn’t a tyrant.

He was a narrator.

A relentless observer.

A version of me convinced that if enough pieces could be gathered together, the whole picture would finally reveal itself.

For nearly a decade, that was the lens through which I experienced the world.

Then I entered rehab.

And everything changed.

—

When I arrived on June 22, I thought I was there to get sober.

Instead, I found myself questioning who I actually was.

During those first few days, something happened that I still struggle to describe.

For a while, I no longer felt like just Todd.

It felt as though I was everyone…

and no one.

As though countless perspectives were moving through me all at once.

Later, during a coin-out ceremony, I experienced a taste that reminded me of DMT—a substance often associated with stories about altered states of consciousness.

Then came an overwhelming emptiness.

Not peaceful.

Just… empty.

One of the therapists, Madison, sat with me and grounded me using the five senses.

Slowly…

I came back.

Not Paul.

Not the Dictator.

Todd.

Looking back, I think recovery really began in that moment.

—

For years I’ve been fascinated by Austrian biologist Paul Kammerer and his Law of Seriality—the observation that meaningful coincidences sometimes appear to cluster together.

Whether seriality reflects something fundamental about reality or simply the remarkable pattern-finding ability of the human mind remains an open question.

I don’t claim to know.

I simply know I’ve spent much of my life asking those questions.

Then I noticed something that caught my attention.

Paul Kammerer was born in 1880.

I was born in 1980.

Exactly one hundred years separate our births.

Paul died in 1926.

One hundred years later, in 2026, I found myself wrestling with many of the same questions that occupied his life.

Does that prove reincarnation?

No.

Does it prove holographic reality?

No.

But it made me wonder whether ideas have lives of their own.

Perhaps they don’t reincarnate through people.

Perhaps they simply wait…

until someone else is willing to ask the same questions.

—

Another chapter of this story unfolded quietly.

When I first arrived at rehab, there was a lingering sewage smell throughout the facility.

Nobody made a big deal about it.

It was simply there.

Week after week.

Then, only a couple of days ago, the septic tank was pumped.

The smell disappeared.

The following day, a maintenance worker wearing a blue work shirt arrived to replace the building’s water filter and tank.

Blue has long symbolized protection or armor within my own personal symbolism.

I don’t expect anyone else to assign it that meaning.

But I did.

The sequence struck me.

First the waste was removed.

Then the water system was renewed.

To me, it became a living metaphor.

Recovery isn’t just about removing what hurts us.

It’s about making room for something healthier to flow in.

—

Another moment centered on the number thirty.

For some time I’ve been exploring a personal hypothesis that quantum error correction and the Mandela Effect may be different ways of looking at the same underlying phenomenon.

It’s an idea I’m exploring.

Not a conclusion.

While reflecting on Judas receiving thirty pieces of silver, I decided to walk thirty laps inside the rehab and thirty laps outside.

It wasn’t an experiment.

It wasn’t an attempt to prove anything.

It was simply a ritual.

A meditation on betrayal.

Forgiveness.

Choice.

While I was walking outside, a Native American staff member named Running Water happened to be cleaning the grounds.

That stopped me.

Running water has symbolized cleansing and renewal across many cultures.

There I was…

thinking about what I needed to let go of…

while someone named Running Water was literally cleaning the space around me.

Did that prove anything?

No.

But it gave me a powerful image that has stayed with me.

Looking back, I don’t think those thirty laps were really about Judas.

They became a question I needed to ask myself.

What parts of my old life have I already traded away?

And…

What parts of myself are finally worth keeping?

—

One more thread stretches back much further.

In 2003, I believe I began discovering what I now call the Chemical Matrix.

Whether that idea ultimately stands the test of time isn’t the point.

The point is the journey.

Looking back from 2026, it feels like a twenty-three-year loop has come full circle.

Not because I’ve solved the mystery.

Because I’ve stopped believing that every mystery must be solved before life can begin.

—

Recovery has also reminded me that laughter matters.

One of my favorite pieces of dark recovery humor came from another recovering addict.

«”DMT Anonymous is just a bunch of people sitting in a circle asking, ‘Did you feel that vibe?'”»

It still makes me laugh.

Sometimes humor carries truths that ordinary language can’t.

—

Looking back now, I can finally see the progression.

From around 2016 until rehab, I experienced life through the lens I called the Dictator.

During rehab, another lens briefly appeared.

Paul.

Neither one was truly my identity.

They were ways of organizing experiences that felt too large for ordinary language.

Recovery didn’t ask me to erase those chapters.

It asked me to stop living inside them.

Today I still believe consciousness is stranger than we currently understand.

I still think coincidence deserves thoughtful study.

I still wonder whether reality is more interconnected than we presently imagine.

Those remain questions.

Not conclusions.

For twenty-three years I’ve searched for hidden patterns.

Maybe the greatest discovery wasn’t finding the pattern.

Maybe it was remembering the person who had been searching all along.

Not the Dictator.

Not Paul.

Todd.

And today…

that’s enough.