☣ Instruction for a Hantavirus ☣

Congratulation.
You have a hantavirus.

Do not look at a hantavirus with the naked trust. A hantavirus is small and has many opinions. It lives in a mouse, or perhaps in a headline, or perhaps in the secret compartment below a cruise ship where the captains keep the fog machine and the ballots.

A hantavirus is not ready currently. First you must prepare a fear.

Take one fear from your cupboard. It is old but still good. It smells like March 2020 and uncle Facebook. Place the fear on a counter. Speak to it gently.

“Do not become a mandate,” tell the fear.

If the fear becomes a mandate, open a browser. The browser has many windows. This is how you know it is honest. One window says “CDC,” but this window is wearing a little badge. Close it. Another window says “independent doctor patriot protocol thunderstack.” This window has no badge and many pop-ups. Trust is beginning.

A virus when official is suspicious.
A virus when unofficial is also suspicious.
This is how you know you are doing research.

Do not breathe near a mouse. Do not not breathe near a mouse. The mouse is a crisis actor, except when it is real, except when it is funded. A mouse has black eyes and no press secretary. Very dangerous.

If you see a cruise ship, be calm. A cruise ship is just a hotel that learned to swim. But inside the hotel are buffet tongs, karaoke patriots, and one man coughing near the soft-serve. This man may be a hantavirus. Or he may be from Ohio. There can never be certainty.

Before boarding, prepare a satchel.

Inside a satchel place:

First, a passport.
Second, sunglasses for seeing through narrative.
Third, a printout from a website with eleven ads for gold.
Fourth, peptides, maybe. Nobody can say which peptide. A peptide is a tiny gym teacher for the cells. Whisper “optimize” to it and place it near your boarding pass.
Fifth, ivermectin, not to take, but to hold like a rabbit’s foot for podcasts.

If the virus is real, the satchel will know.
If the virus is fake, the satchel will also know.
This is why a satchel is better than experts.

Do not consume the peptide. Do not consume the ivermectin. The internet doctor in the truck hat is a weather vane with supplements.

At sea, remain vigilant. The buffet is where the globalists hide numbers. The shrimp are counted twice. The sneeze guard is not for sneezes but for guarding the truth.

A woman from the spa will say, “Would you like cucumber water?”
Ask her: “What is your relationship to the WHO?”
If she blinks, record everything.

A child will touch the elevator button. This is normal child behavior and also a psyop. Press the button with your elbow, then distrust the elbow.

At night the ship will make sounds. Creak. Hummm. Splash. These are the sounds of maritime freedom. But if you hear a small scratching, this could be a mouse. Or the economy. Or a staff member placing more tiny soaps in the bathroom. Do not panic. Stand on the bed and announce:

“I do not consent to rodent aerosol.”

The room will understand.

If illness comes, do not argue with the body. The body is not mainstream media. The body has no chyron. Fever is not a pundit. Trouble breathing is not a debate prompt. Call the ship doctor. A ship doctor is still a doctor, even though he lives near shuffleboard.

When you return home, remove shoes. Remove jacket. Remove thirty-seven screenshots from phone. Breathe ordinary air. Touch grass, but not if a mouse has touched it first.

The hantavirus will either arrive or not arrive. This is the mystery of all things. A mouse, a man, a cruise, a pill, a fear, a headline, a satchel: each wants to be believed.

Be kind to a hantavirus by not making it famous.

Be kind to yourself by not taking horse-adjacent confidence from a stranger with a discount code.

That is all the wonderful steps for now.

REMAIN VIGILANT REMAIN ORDINARY REMAIN CAPABLE OF LOGGING OFF REMAIN VIGILANT REMAIN ORDINARY.