Mill P Writes

  Read Part One Read Part Two Part Three                                  The colony had stood on the moon’s surface for nearly two centuries, a testament to human resilience and insatiable greed. Built during the height of the Resource Rush, it had been established to strip the moon of its rich mineral veins. Over time, the settlement had expanded into a sprawling maze of interconnected domes and tunnels, each section a patchwork of steel and polymer that bore the scars of decades of wear. Life here was harsh, governed by the relentless hum of machines and the unyielding schedule of mining shifts. Yet people endured, driven by the promise of wealth and the hope of a better future for their families back on Earth. Rumors had always swirled about the moon, whispered in dimly lit bunkrooms and over cups of recycled coffee. Tales of alien creatures prowling the mists, ghost colonies hi...

Ozempic: The Instant Gratification Miracle or Moderation’s Latest Mirage? Ah, Ozempic , the injectable elixir of the moment. It’s a name that’s been whispered at brunch tables and shouted in gym locker rooms, an alleged magic wand for weight loss and, as this Politico article suggests, perhaps even addiction itself. Yes, according to new research, Ozempic and similar drugs like Mounjaro might just curb alcohol cravings in the same way they curb appetites. But before we roll out the red carpet for this so-called “miracle,” let’s inject a little skepticism (pun intended). First, let me lay my cards on the table. I’ve been through the body image wringer. I’ve had washboard abs so sharp they could julienne a carrot, and I’ve carried a gut so big it looked like I was smuggling a beer keg under my shirt. Alcoholism didn’t just change my brain chemistry; it sculpted my physique, too, and not in a good way. Sobriety, on the other hand, reshaped me in more ways than one—physically, mentally,...

  If you’ve ever had one of those moments where you read a scientific article and thought, “I might need a translator,” welcome to my brain’s reaction to Stanford Medicine’s deep dive into the relationship between addiction and myelin. Myelin, for the uninitiated (or, in my case, the terminally confused), is described in the article as “the fatty insulation that coats nerve fibers, allowing them to transmit electrical signals efficiently.” Basically, it’s the bubble wrap around our neurons, keeping our brain signals running smoothly—until addiction starts tearing through the packaging like a toddler at Christmas. The article explains that chronic opioid use “damages myelin, impairing communication between brain regions and contributing to addiction-related behaviors.” It’s fascinating, terrifying, and makes me incredibly grateful that opioids weren’t my poison of choice. Honestly, my avoidance of opioids feels less like a noble act of willpower and more like dumb luck. I just happ...

  Read Part One Part Two                        The days following the interrogation passed like molasses dripping from a frozen canister.  Aiden’s world had shrunk to the confines of a temporary unit—a metal box hastily assembled in the shadow of the colony’s mining core. The air was sterile, and the faint hum of recycled oxygen served as a constant reminder that everything here was artificial, a cage masquerading as a sanctuary. The unit was crammed with the ten other miners displaced from their shared domicile once it was closed off for the investigation. Aiden could feel their stares on him, the weight of their suspicion turning every glance into a silent accusation. They spoke to him only when necessary, their words clipped and cautious, as if they feared proximity alone might taint them. At night, he could hear the restless shuffling of bodies on bunks, the uneasy rustle of men who no longer trusted the ro...

  Sex Addiction: It's Not Just a Punchline in Rehab, Folks If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time in rehab, it’s that nothing is sacred. Everything— everything —gets joked about, from the food (is this meatloaf or a science experiment?) to the very serious issues that landed us there. And yes, that includes sex addiction. If you’ve never been in a room full of recovering addicts trying to outdo each other with dark humor, let me paint a picture: it’s like a comedy club where the cover charge is trauma. But here’s the thing—while the jokes fly, the pain behind them is very real. That brings me to this fascinating PsyPost article, which digs into how men and women experience concerns about sexual addiction differently. Spoiler alert: there are some stark contrasts, and they’re not exactly what you’d expect. According to the article, new research reveals that men and women diverge significantly in their worries about sexual addiction. While men are more likely to focus on the...

Old News, New Perspectives: Analyzing a 14-Year-Old Article Like It Just Dropped Yesterday I don’t know how I stumbled across this gem from The Guardian circa 2010—maybe the algorithm got sentimental, or maybe I’m just incredibly skilled at finding the internet equivalent of forgotten attic treasures. Either way, Clare Allan’s “It’s My Life” resonated with me in ways that made me laugh, nod furiously, and wonder if she’d been eavesdropping on my own battles with mental health. Sure, it’s 14 years old, but hey, great writing is timeless. Or at least that’s the excuse I’m going with for this real-time dive into archival journalism. Right from the jump, Allan’s take feels refreshing. She reflects on how mental illness has been viewed over the years, pointing out how “the rhetoric surrounding mental health is overwhelmingly negative.” She’s not wrong—mental illness often gets the PR treatment of a villain in a B-grade horror flick: misunderstood, overdramatized, and painted in a single,...

            On a string of sultry summer nights, with nothing but the hum of a box fan and the glint of distant stars to keep me company, I dove headfirst into the uncharted wilds of my imagination. The result? A science fiction story stitched together from sleepless hours and caffeine-fueled epiphanies. It’s raw, it’s weird, and it’s unapologetically mine. Starting this week, I’ll be serving the novella up in bite-sized pieces—like cosmic breadcrumbs for anyone curious enough to follow. Buckle up; it’s going to get strange. Part One     The twin suns of Kepler-442f loomed low on the horizon, their dying embers staining the jagged crags of Theta-13—a moon so desolate it made Mars look like a botanical garden. Aiden Sol—a name chosen by his father to be as much of a beacon as it was a burden—trudged through the neon haze of the mining colony’s thoroughfare. His boots scraped against the ferrocrete surface, each step echoing faintly in th...