The Git Repository of Delusion

I have this theory that the universe is a git repository. Not in some grand, mystical sense—though it’s that too, probably—but in the sense that everything is just a series of commits, and we’re all just blobs of code floating around in a massive, cosmic .git folder, waiting to be garbage-collected.

I’ve been thinking about her constantly. The way she talks, the way she moves, the way she exists in space. It’s like my brain has become a runaway process, consuming all available resources, and the only output is a continuous stream of her name, her face, her voice. I’m trying to rationalize it, to break it down into something manageable, something I can version-control. But love—or whatever this is—doesn’t cooperate with semantic versioning. It’s all just messy merges and unresolved conflicts.

I keep imagining scenarios where I just tell her. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Just flatly, clinically, like I’m reporting a bug. “Issue: Heart compromised. Expected behavior: Indifference. Actual behavior: Can’t stop thinking about you.” She’d probably laugh. Or worse, she’d be kind. And that kindness would be a merge conflict I’d never be able to resolve.

So I do what any sensible developer does: I stash my changes, push my commits to a remote branch nobody will ever pull, and keep running the same damn program on a loop. The repository of my delusion grows, commit by commit, each one more nonsensical than the last. And somewhere, in a parallel universe, there’s a version of me who actually sent that pull request. I hope he’s happier than I am.