Eleanor in Accounts thinks the new Blob Museum is sketchy: more visitors going in than coming out, and she swears the staff are pseudopods in trench coats. She has good judgment, but it's been a long week and I chose to risk it. *Some* folk come out.

The staff *were* odd, but the exhibits and info boards were fascinating. I was enchanted enough to ignore all red flags, and took it as theater when entrance to the Gigablob Immersive Experience (TM) required me to stand with bound wrists on a trapdoor. So now I am slowly digesting inside a vast amoeboid entity and taking in the sights before I merge into cytoplasm.

There are no other living victims in view, but the relics of my predecessors are around me: garments, devices, wallets and bags, drifting and turning in the viscous currents. Of their wearers and owners, only the vaguest globular shapes remain: digestive vacuoles, showing no hint of anything solid inside. Strange to think that I gaze on my future, that my own untenanted shorts and t-shirt will soon join the sad general waltz.

A healthier psyche would no doubt protest this destiny, but I am blessed and cursed with an amiably fatalistic temperament. As a rule I go straight to Acceptance; Bargaining, in particular, feels like work. My doom, in any case, is fixed: one can not scratch or bite an amoeba, my phone has been taken by someone or something, and no one would hear me yell in here even if I had breath.

Weird, to be neither breathing nor drowning. The Museum had a whole piece on this: sapient blobs may invade victims' lungs, replacing normal respiration by feeding in oxygen directly. It keeps victims alive as they digest, enabling the blob to read knowledge from their living brains. I doubt they'll get much of use from me unless they're really into smart-oven firmware programming.

I'll never get to give the Museum my Yipe.com review. Couldn't give many stars, what with it eating me, and that's a pity as otherwise it's amazing. So much to learn about what I'd lazily thought the most dully simple creature. And of course, I get to see it all up close and personal. The purposeful flow of its substance, the constantly reforming organs and structures of its transient anatomy... "A Blob is never just a blob." Digestion's only just started on me so I'll have time to watch yet.

The Museum is really insistent that Blob digestion (they prefer "assimilation") doesn't hurt: the prey's tissues "painlessly defect to the stronger organism". So far it seems right: I'm feeling no ouchies, just this sensation of starting to fall away from myself, coming apart at my edges. Something oddly thrilling in the idea of coming apart entirely: melting like the Witch of the West, diffusing out to the Blob's farthest edges. Which is happening whether I want or no, so I might as well get all I can from it.

Right ear going, and with it that wretched "ironic" Garden Grove Gang tattoo I had done on the back in my "Need to be less boring" tween phase. The universe may miss me but it won't miss *that*.