My grandma must have bought this box of biscuits just enough times to manufacture in me the expectation of biscuits each time I opened it, but not quite enough times to persuade me that I wasn’t the victim of some cruel illusion, some precocious debilitating memory disease leading me to think it contained anything else than thread and needles.
My grandma must have bought this box of biscuits just enough times to manufacture in me the expectation of biscuits each time I opened it, but not quite enough times to persuade me that I wasn’t the victim of some cruel illusion, some precocious debilitating memory disease leading me to think it contained anything else than thread and needles.
My grandma gaslit me
Schrodinger’s Grandma.