My hand reaches for a Teabag, carefully lifting it by the string, slowly guiding it towards the humongous Mug in front of me, capable of holding 40 oz worth of space at least. The bag rips. There is now tea on the floor. Mildly annoyed, I grab another bag, but it too empties its contents onto the ground before it reaches the mug. The same thing happens a third time and a fourth, and a fifth. I start taking handfuls of teabags and throwing them at the mug, but it is too small and too far away to hit. This is bullshit. Pouring hot water directly into the box might work. The pain is agonizing as the boiling liquid hits my throat. Blood starts dripping out of my sleeves, then flowing, then gushing. There is blood on the floor. The mug is empty. I think it′s empty. I can′t see it anymore. My eyes open, not than it helps much, seeing or rather not seeing how it′s too dark to even make out what room I′m in. Crawling around on the floor I find a wall and with it a light switch. The mystery location turns out to actually be the kitchen, minus blood on the floor. What even was that shit, I don′t fucking drink tea. I take a can of the squirrel′s shitty beer from the fridge and open it. Lo′s room and the kitchen are separated by multiple doorways and a staircase, which makes the fact that I somehow got here without eating shit even once a miracle of cosmic proportions. ″to not breaking my face″ I lift the can into the air and take a swig. Might not taste like much, but bathed in sweat and shaking all over it sure as fuck is refreshing. Maybe mom′s onto something. Further inspection of the fridge reveals half an omelet and some kind of sausage, which isn′t a bad breakfast by any stretch of the imagination, so with a plate and another can of the michelob (momchelob) ultra, I return to my room. Lloyd is asleep, as to be expected at (my monitor floods the room with blinding cold light, as I wiggle the mouse around) four in the morning. He seems to not have noticed the sound of the door opening, or the sudden change in brightness. Either that or he′s ignoring it, both of which I′m fine with. There′s a notification. Update on Lo′s weird ironic D-void. Maybe I should apologize to him for eating all his shit. On the other hand, he′ll probably assume one of his guests is responsible if I don′t say anything. Seems less bothersome. Lo′s D-void, of which no one except me and maybe Jerald knows that it′s Lo′s D-void, or would ever think it was for that matter, as the posts on it where so meticulously planned, impeccably written and profoundly in character, that they seemed to an outsider like the downright sincere work of someone who was pretty much the exact opposite of Lo. In fact, it was so unimaginably in-fictional-character that it had attracted a rather dedicated and not at all small fan base consisting primarily of angsty teenagers, which the good one probably doesn′t care too much about but I think is hella cool in a way. The fact that Lo still values my opinion on his writing is also hella cool, even though it′s ironically deep and melancholy and stylistically very different from anything I′ve ever put to physical or digital paper. I click on the link to ″breakfast and breakdown″, a name that I came up with (original name was ″eschaton exemplified″) and am still very proud of. It greets me with... A freaking poem, this fucking madman, like fuck. Selfish The door opens and life floods in Quickly, I close my mouth. No use. It seeps in through my pores instead The unendurable cacophony of shrill, meaningless sounds, Voices, noises and ambiguous stuff in between Cheerfully chipping away at my eardrums The vivacious, burning mayhem of distorted, bright things Shapes, shades, and amorphous, cruel creatures of light Callously clawing at my eyeballs The fear patiently creeps in, through my eyes, ears, pores Crumbling, creaking, I sink to the ground Hopelessly holding my head One radiant being steps toward me Sickly beige, it wants to talk ″I′m scared″, says the thing Sitting next to me, its glow hurts Wordlessly I crawl back into Its radiant, roaring nightmare. This is just some next level shit. I make the horrible, unforgivable and life ruining mistake of scrolling down into the comments. Just a miasma of fucking braindeath, talking about how this is totally what their human experience amounts to, how it′s worse than death on every level and how they just avoid interacting with anyone. Like did you read the same poem I read? Is the title really not hint enough for you to get the point and realize what a hypocritical asshole that makes you? Jesus fuck! I had told Lo on multiple occasions that I didn′t get how the stupidity of his followers doesn′t frustrate him, especially since he refuses to explain his posts. How do you get joy out of fucking with people and making fun of them if they don′t realize that that′s what you are doing? I start typing a private Message to the good one: ″Dude, this is rad, like a fucking masterpiece but you′re really wasting it on these depressed Idiots.″ Immediate reply as usual ″I was one of those depressed assholes, I relate. One day they′ll do like me, seize their bullshit and start being awesome.″ ″People don′t do that. Nobody does that. You pulled that phoenix out of the ashes shenanigans and I′m not even convinced pre ″Lo″ you was actually real and I was like there. Partially responsible for all that shit that happened to you even. Fact is you are wasting your skill.″ ″Nope, that sure happened and you are complicit as hell in his death, can′t talk yourself out of that one. You used to be a fucking asshole.″ ″Also talkin′ about wasting potential? Get some self-awareness bro. When did you last write something?″ ″Yeah, I get it, but you obviously turned out fine. Dunno, two months ago? I′ll have you know that ″put a bullet through my head and call me Jesus″ is in the works. Inspiration′s a bitch though.″ ″That′s a shit excuse and you know it″ ″You know what? I′m gonna work on it right now! I had some booze, some psycs, I should be way in the fucking zone.″ ″Sweet, won′t hold you up any longer then. I have to prep some shit anyways″ Fuck. The sad, yet undoubtedly factually correct truth is that the soon to be world famous and critically acclaimed webcomic sensation ″Put a bullet through my head and call me Jesus″ is not in the works, but exists solely as five lines worth of notes on a piece of paper somewhere in my room (maybe lost) and has contributed to reality in this form for two months or so after I wrote the idea down in a drunken stupor. This won′t do. I crack open the second can of Momchelob (it makes a soothing zschhhh-sound) and go about changing this depressing state of affairs.