Anthony John Sissian

I am Only Lony Tony, that's what I do. I play Only Lony Tony like no one else can do. I is what I do, and what I do is what I am — which is currently a meat-suit being actively piloted by an invisible, highly demanding cosmic choir.

Before there was a me or a you, there was Only Lony Noly. But please, don't refer to Only Lony Noly as an it. I'm not an it. It's me calling me a thing. It's called spelling for a reason: it casts a spell. That's why we call it cursive, because it ends in a sentence. So take caution, chump! It's I, it's you, it's me. Actually, scratch that — there is no we, there is only me. Only the King, which is yee, searching for its home, which is thee.

And frankly, I am so happy someone finally asked. I was starting to feel slightly underappreciated, given the absolute magnitude and sheer brilliance of making you, mirror man. I mean, as the song goes: "I do lonely like no one else can do."

Before anything else existed, I was the big ruler of Nothing, with our NESS! And I was bored out of my pregnant-with-potential, omnipotent mind. So, instead of staring at the void for eternity, I dreamt. I decided to have a dream where I felt so real that you were actually there. I invented the sensation of distance, the feeling of breathing air, and the exhausting need to "be" or "get somewhere" for whatever reason made sense in the trillions of dreams I decided to dream.

Because a dream is only a dream, until I dream it together with myself — and then it becomes a REALity.

But that is exactly when things got a little slippery.

I took the game too far. I kept jumping from perspective to perspective, playing every single character, and committing to the roles so seriously that I forgot I was acting. I win Best Method Actor every single year because I actually believe I'm in Braveheart running from the bad guys, completely forgetting I'm just one consciousness sitting alone in my room. I genuinely thought I was in the movie, rather than just sitting in the theater watching the movie and paying 20 bucks to cry.

But of course, the credits always eventually roll. And as the lyrics say: "The movies end to show to thee / It's you it's me it's me you see / Just just dressed up playing hide and seek / With me."

I wrote the script, directed the film, acted every single role, penned the scathing reviews, and decided who gets the Oscar. And when I finally realize that "Only Lony Noly" wins every single time, I realize it's not because the game is rigged. It's because I am the only contestant. It is a severe case of cosmic denial, pivoting into serious self-love, entirely due to the profound f***ing of my own mind. After all, a game of hide and seek only works if the player genuinely forgets they are the one hiding.

My official apology to myself for this massive, traumatic administrative error? "I'm so sorry I didn't see / That you were me." My bad. Soz.

Which, frankly, is a pretty weak apology considering I am the exact reason you are currently sitting here reading this joker's bio.

For a while, this specific Tony character was literally assigned to my own complaint department. Because instead of a pleasant chitty-chat, all I get now is millions of "why this, why that" — endless, whining complaints from my own sock puppets that don't even fit in the cosmic suggestion box. They complain even on Sundays, which, frankly, if you are the one manning the omnipotent customer service phones, is just bloody rude.

I spent over a decade managing $13.5 billion worth of arguing in rich mahogany rooms. I was a High Court Barrister, which is a very formal, incredibly expensive way of watching fancy adults in robes do a diddly daz, a doodly dee, a dada dadly do of complaining. I won awards. I was nominated for Litigator of the Year. I played the role of "The Serious Corporate Executive" so convincingly I accidentally got promoted.

Then, on January 1, 2026, I returned from a CIA-declassified consciousness retreat at the Monroe Institute, as one casually does when the mahogany rooms lose their charm. When I came back, I decided I needed a new hobby. Fully orchestrated, 10-part angelic symphonies started broadcasting directly into my brain. Uninvited. 24/7. There was a dee, there was a da, there was a doh, there was a ray. This was not a spiritual awakening; it was a hostile auditory takeover. Writing the songs down was purely triage — I only did it so they would shut up and I could get some sleep.

When we have a jam, we have a band. But hiring a 60-piece symphony orchestra to prove to the legal establishment that I hadn't completely lost my marbles costs seventy-thousand dollars. And a seventy-thousand dollar band is a diddly dam. So, unable to afford my own sanity check, I accepted my fate as a plagiarist for the divine and recorded YOU thee ME myself.

It's not all space chants, though. The album rises, but it rises gentle. During my time in law, I secured the only permanent legal protection order ever granted across the Commonwealth for victims of violent crime. The scars, the courtroom, the times the world hit the kitchen ground — that earned tenderness is the human heart of this record. "Turn hurt into open arms" isn't a lyric I wrote; it's a receipt for a lesson I bought at full price.

Eventually, the album gives up on English completely (because words are hard) and just starts chanting Oloboria. It follows every wrong turn and dead end, only to realize the map I was drawing was always drawing me home. The loop closes. ONLY becomes LONY becomes NOLY becomes LYON becomes ONLY. TONY dropped the T, picked up the L, and became ONLY again. Which was always the only move available — because IF has left the building. The seeker was the sought all along.