Mill P Writes

   Part One Part Two All You Can Eat Part Three     The lever was colder than he expected, its surface smooth and unyielding beneath his trembling fingers. As he pulled it downward, the machine groaned softly, a mechanical sigh, and the pale, curling substance began to flow. It spiraled into the bowl he had taken, piling higher and higher, its surface smooth and flawless, like fresh snow untouched by wind. He brought the bowl to his lips and plunged in without hesitation, his tongue pressing against the cold, creamy substance. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted, a sweet, airy coolness that dissolved almost instantly on his tongue, leaving behind an ache in his teeth and an insatiable craving for more. He swallowed, barely bothering to chew, and reached for the lever again. This time, he didn’t stop. The bowl filled to overflowing, the pale swirls collapsing under their own weight and spilling onto the floor. He didn’t care. He pressed his face into the...

  Sometimes, the headlines hit you with such an obvious truth, you can’t help but think, “No kidding, Captain Obvious.” Case in point: the recent U.S. News & World Report article titled Feeling Self-Conscious is Linked to Teen Binge Drinking. You don’t say? It seems we’ve cracked the code—teenagers, grappling with a storm of insecurities and self-consciousness, might turn to alcohol. Who could have guessed? The article states, “Feeling awkward, embarrassed or self-conscious might prompt teenagers to drink heavily,” citing research from Keele University in England. It’s as if the researchers stumbled onto the secret formula for social anxiety and coping mechanisms. Teens, with their brains still under construction, often find themselves adrift in a sea of self-doubt. And when the mirror becomes a weapon and silence feels deafening, alcohol can seem like the magic elixir to quiet the chaos. I get it. Boy, do I get it. The first time I drank, I felt like I’d unlocked a secret l...

  Buy Serpents in the Sand The first grains of “Serpents in the Sand” began to sift through my mind back in April 2023. I had just finished my debut novel, “Demons Within,” and I was riding the creative high that comes with watching an idea blossom into a full-fledged story. It was the kind of high you wish you could bottle up and save for a rainy day. But life, with its uncanny knack for pulling the rug out from under you, had other plans. I poured myself into “Serpents in the Sand,” writing 300 pages in a feverish burst of inspiration. The story—with its sun-scorched island, writhing sands, and a protagonist named Caleb who wakes up with nothing but questions—felt alive in a way that made every word exhilarating. The island wasn’t just a setting; it was a character, pulsing with secrets and danger, waiting to be unraveled. And then, the storm hit. Not the one I was writing about, coiling on Caleb’s horizon, but the one in my own life. A brutal relapse with alcohol came crashing d...

  Sports fandom is a wild, untamed beast. It grabs you by the heartstrings, pulls you through the ringer, and spits you out, leaving you wondering why you ever signed up for the emotional rollercoaster in the first place. As someone who’s screamed at TVs, trolled opposing fans online, and — in moments of pure idiocy — smashed a phone or two, I can tell you this: sports fandom is not for the faint of heart. But oh, what a ride it’s been. The folks over at Yellowbrick nailed it when they said, “Fandom is about identity, community, and passion.” For me, it’s also been about therapy, existential crises, and more than a few questionable life decisions. The article delves into the psychology of sports fandom, exploring how it taps into our primal need for belonging and our unquenchable thirst for meaning. They explain, “Rooting for a team can foster a sense of purpose, even when the rest of life feels chaotic.” That’s great and all, but try explaining that to the drywall I punched when...

  Read Part One Here All You Can Eat Part Two           The tables stretched before him like the spoils of a victorious hunt, laden with colors and textures he couldn’t comprehend. His eyes darted from one mound of food to the next, trying to decipher what was safe, what was edible, what would not betray him. The air around him was heavy with scents—roasted, sweet, sharp, savory. It was too much, too overwhelming. His hands trembled as he reached out, his fingers brushing against something golden and glistening. It was a mound of small, rounded shapes, their surfaces glistening like polished amber under the harsh lights. He lifted one cautiously, its warmth surprising against his skin. The surface was slightly crisp, but as he pressed it gently, it yielded, soft and pliable. He sniffed it. The smell was unlike anything he had ever encountered—rich, buttery, and faintly sweet, like the memory of sun-warmed honey on a summer day. His mouth watered un...

  Let’s start with the premise of this article: “Study uses superhero films to discuss mental health with children.” On the surface, it sounds like the kind of headline you scroll past on a slow news day, sandwiched between cat videos and weather updates. But this one stopped me in my tracks because, well, it’s brilliant. And kind of obvious. According to the study, researchers are using the trials and tribulations of superheroes to help kids grapple with mental health challenges. The idea is as simple as it is profound: “Superhero films provide a relatable lens through which children can explore complex emotions, resilience, and self-identity.” It’s hard to argue with that. After all, what is Spider-Man if not a masterclass in the devastating burden of guilt and responsibility? Reading this took me down a rabbit hole of my own mental health origin story—a saga that probably began long before I realized I was battling the Joker inside my own brain. As a kid, I didn’t have the lang...

  Buy The Dish Pit If you’ve ever worked in a dish pit, you already know it’s not just a job—it’s a purgatory. A fluorescent-lit, grease-slicked purgatory where the smell of industrial soap clings to your skin like a desperate ex and the soundtrack is an unholy symphony of clattering plates and distant shouting. But for me, the dish pit wasn’t just a grimy corner of the restaurant world; it was the birthplace of my third novel, “The Dish Pit.” This story began taking shape while I was still wrist-deep in the suds myself. Well, not literally—I was in rehab at St. Christopher’s Inn, writing feverishly in my composition notebook every chance I got. The inspiration struck thanks to two men working the dish pit in the cafeteria there. To say these two drove each other crazy is like saying the Titanic had a minor buoyancy issue. They didn’t just clash; they collided, combusted, and ricocheted off each other like human ping-pong balls of chaos and frustration. I remember watching them o...

  Good news? In this economy of doom-laden headlines? It feels as rare as spotting Bigfoot sipping an oat milk latte. But here we are, reveling in a moment of actual positivity: U.S. life spans are rebounding from the pandemic’s devastating lows, bolstered by a decrease in fatal overdoses. In a world where every headline seems to scream, “The sky is falling!” this news is like a crisp, unexpected breeze on a sweltering day. According to the article from U.S. News , the average life expectancy in the U.S. has risen to 77.5 years. That’s nearly a two-year leap from the nadir of the pandemic. The report highlights, “The gains were driven largely by a decline in deaths from COVID-19 and drug overdoses.” Finally, we’re talking about numbers going up in a good way. Now, don’t mistake this rebound for a victory lap. It’s more like taking the first few gasping breaths after being held underwater. The fight is far from over. The same article notes, “Despite the improvement, life expectanc...

  This short story came to life after a visit to a buffet with my uncles, Andy and Joe. Initially, I had envisioned it as a potential fish-out-of-water novel, but as I sat there, uncomfortably full from all the classic buffet staples, the idea transformed into a simpler, more immediate story. I ended up writing it that night, inspired by the experience and the feeling of being utterly stuffed. I'll be posting it in four segments over the next few weeks. All You Can Eat Part One                 The sidewalk was cold against his skin, harder than any rock he had ever known. It wasn't just the cold that bit into him, though—it was the way the surface seemed to reject him, as if the world itself had turned against him. His head throbbed, a slow, insistent pounding like a drumbeat from some unseen tribe. He clawed at his memories, but they scattered like startled birds. One moment, he was crouched by the fire, his ...

  Let’s cut straight to the chase: Alcohol is not your friend. Sure, it might seem like a charming companion at the start—the life of the party, the muse behind some of your wittiest one-liners, and the enabler of your impromptu karaoke sessions. But as a newly released federal report reveals, even a single drink a day comes with strings attached, ones you’d rather not untangle. According to STAT’s analysis of the report, “A single daily alcoholic drink raises the risk of numerous health issues, including several cancers and cardiovascular conditions.” That’s right, folks—the notion of a “safe” amount of alcohol has been put on the chopping block. While you may enjoy a glass of red wine with dinner, confidently clinking glasses with the justification of heart health, science is now playing the ultimate buzzkill: “Even low levels of consumption can lead to adverse health outcomes,” the report emphasizes. As someone who no longer drinks, these findings don’t surprise me. Alcohol a...

There’s a storm brewing in the mental health world, and it’s one we can no longer ignore. An NBC News article recently highlighted research suggesting that high doses of ADHD medications might be linked to an increased risk of psychosis. Let me say that again— psychosis , a state where reality unravels at the seams, leaving the individual adrift in a world that’s both heart-breaking and terrifying. I’ve seen drug-induced psychosis firsthand. It’s like watching someone trapped in a house of mirrors, each reflection more distorted than the last. Their reality becomes a cacophony of fear, confusion, and disconnection, and all you can do is stand on the shore, powerless, as they’re pulled further out to sea. It’s a sight that stays with you, a haunting reminder of how fragile the mind can be. The article states, “Psychosis is a rare but well-documented potential side effect of stimulant medications, which are commonly prescribed for ADHD.” It’s crucial to understand that this isn’t a con...

The human brain is a marvel—a three-pound blob of squishy brilliance capable of composing symphonies, solving equations, and remembering every embarrassing thing you've ever done at 3 a.m. But every now and then, this biological supercomputer throws a glitch so bizarre, it makes you wonder if the software was written by Salvador Dalí during one of his weirder phases. That’s where rare psychological syndromes come in, the subject of a fascinating article from Psi Chi titled “Rare Psychological Syndromes, Side Effects, and Disorders.” If you haven’t read it yet, grab a coffee and prepare to have your mind both boggled and slightly terrified. Let’s start with Stendhal Syndrome. Imagine walking through the Louvre, marveling at the Mona Lisa’s enigmatic smile, when suddenly your heart starts racing, your vision blurs, and you’re convinced you’re about to pass out. This isn’t just bad museum air-conditioning; it’s Stendhal Syndrome, a condition where an overload of art’s beauty essentia...

  Buy Cocaine Cola  The first time I held a composition notebook in my hands at rehab, I felt like a soldier clutching a sword in a battle I wasn’t sure I could win. Recovery—from alcoholism, from myself—was not the hero’s journey I had romanticized in my more delusional moments. It was more like crawling through a swamp with a broken compass. And yet, somehow, amid the sweat-soaked nightmares and the relentless peeling back of layers I had spent years constructing, I found the spark to create. Let me start at the beginning—or rather, one of the beginnings. You see, alcoholism has a funny way of offering you new beginnings all the time, but they’re never the kind you want. I had just hit one of those new beginnings, a rock bottom that made me look at myself and think, “This can’t be it. This cannot be how the story ends.” The days leading up to rehab are a blur, like a badly edited montage of shame, regret, and staggering attempts at normalcy. But once I walked through those ...

  Winter has a peculiar way of sneaking into our souls. The days shorten, the sun seems like it’s on a permanent lunch break, and everything feels... heavy. For a long time, I laughed at Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). I dismissed it as a hyped-up excuse for people who just couldn’t handle a little frost. But then, the penny dropped. Or rather, the glass clinked. I noticed a peculiar pattern in my life, like a mysterious algorithm dictating my habits. My drinking—once a year-round indulgence—seemed to spike when the leaves turned to amber and gold and plummeted as spring flowers began to bloom. It wasn’t random; it was a symphony of seasons, and winter was the conductor of my chaos. This realization became a monumental milestone in my journey to sobriety, an epiphany wrapped in a cold December wind. Seasonal Affective Disorder isn’t just a catchy acronym; it’s a bona fide villain in the mental health world. As detailed in this KSL article , SAD is far more than just the winter...

  Ladies and gentlemen, gather around! Dust off your reading glasses, adjust your screen brightness, and prepare your eyeballs for the spectacle that is… the return of this blog. That’s right—like a phoenix rising from the ashes, or more accurately, like a New York Giants fan rising from the couch after yet another soul-crushing season, this blog is back and ready for action. What’s in store, you ask? Oh, just the musings of a mind that runs like a caffeinated squirrel on a hamster wheel. I’m talking news about my books, philosophical ponderings on the meaning of life (or at least on why my coffee never tastes as good as it smells), and short stories straight from the depths of my imagination. And trust me, those depths are murky—think Loch Ness, but instead of Nessie, it’s random characters and weird plotlines swimming around, waiting to be unleashed. I’ve committed to writing at least 2,000 words a day, which means I’ve got plenty of material to share. Some of it’s gold, some o...