John: Get a sense of déjà vu.
You stand alone in your bedroom, as you have so many times before. Emptiness pervades your life, dissolving days like tissues in a puddle. When did it come to this? What malevolent force swindled you from substance to discard you in this superficial unreality?
A deceptive sugary stench fills the room just as malaise envelops your life, daring you to choke. Instead, you breathe.
Never before did you possess the agency to take a stand, but on your thirteenth birthday, in spite of the twelve preceding it, you’ve finally worked up the courage. You will break free from the tough, unfeeling chains of life. You’ll be your own person, determine your own path. Nothing could break your spirit today.
Unless you keep standing there like a useless piece of shit, that is. Why don’t you actually try doing something, now that you’ve sufficiently wasted several minutes navel-gazing?
John: Retrieve arms from under desk.
You’re not about to squeeze under your desk and get all tangled up in the wires.
Maybe try checking your MAGIC CHEST, pooplord!
John: Fondly regard Con-Air poster.
HOW DO IIIIII GET THROUGH ONE NIIIGHT WITHOUT YOU???
IF I HAD TO LIIIIVE WITHOOUT YOOOUU
WHAT KIND OF LIIIIFE WOULD THAT BEEEE???
Trisha Yearwood is a national treasure, and that’s all there really is to say on the matter.
Sorry Cage, your rough-and-tumble heroic demeanor can’t beat her dulcet tones. Only enhance them, as a masterpiece would a priceless art collection.
John: Realize your terrible taste in putting up a Mac and Me poster and tear it down immediately.
All of your favorite movies are SO COOL, and you’ll defend them to your last breath. All except this one.
Jesus Christ, what were you thinking. You’re not delaying yourself with half-hearted excuses any longer. You take this shit down immediately.
==>
You CAPTCHALOGUE it into your SYLLADEX. You don’t really understand what that means, but you'll roll with it. You fully intend to incinerate the poster in the FIREPLACE later.
John: Look out your window and appreciate this beautiful spring day.
What a fantastic afternoon.
The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and your retinas are on fire from blinking into the sun for approximately 13 seconds.
Nice going, doofus!
==>
You take the opportunity to look down at your yard instead.
Hanging from the tree is your TIRE SWING. In a kid's yard, a tree without a tire swing is like a proper gentleman without a monocle. That is to say, HE CAN HARDLY BE CONSIDERED A TERRIBLY PROPER GENTLEMAN AT ALL.
==>
But what you’re really interested in is the mailbox. The little red arm-swingy-dealy thing or whatever it is called is flipped up!
What the hell is that thing called anyway. You do not have time for these semantics. The red flippy-lever thing means you have new mail. And that means the beta might be here!
John: Examine SBURB BETA poster.
It should have arrived three days ago. Each day since has been marred with disappointment at the sheer lack of
BETA in the mail. But you feel like it will be different this time.
GAME BRO gave SBURB a meager 1.5 out of 5 hats, but you’re beginning to suspect they wouldn’t know a good game if it kick-flipped them in their poser faces.
Which reminds you that you’ve been meaning to burn the GAME BRO MAGAZINE as well. It says it’s made out of recycled asbestos but you’re pretty sure that’s a joke. At least, you hope it is.
John: Look through your drawers for your secret stash.
The only stash in your DRAWERS is your collection of HEARTFELT NOTES from the old man. You like to flick through them when you're alone, as a reassuring reminder of his PATERNAL SAGACITY.
Speaking of which, you got a new one! It's still fragrant with the fresh scent of SHAVING CREAM. Alongside it is a ROLLED UP POSTER.
John: Eat cake next to the unopened poster.
You are sick to death of cake!!! You've been eating it all day. And you have no intention of clogging your SYLLADEX with it either.
The CAKE stays put for now.
John: Dispose of birthday cakes. You’ve had enough of them for one year.
You’ve had enough of them for an entire lifetime.
Unfortunately, while you still don’t know how your SYLLADEX actually functions, you can hazard a reasonable guess that throwing away these CAKES would involve a whole lot of confusing and tedious shenanigans. You don’t have time for all that nonsense!! You’re a man on a mission, and that mission is retrieving the MAIL before your DAD gets home.
Still, it is tempting.
John: Don't waste any more damn time. Rush downstairs and get your game.
You make haste from your room and exit into the HALLWAY.
Sorry, Michael Cera or whoever you are. No time to examine your portrait. Maybe later.
==>
Arriving downstairs, you are promptly greeted by an inanimate troupe of FANCIFUL HARLEQUINS. You shudder whenever you enter this room.
Thanks DAD.
Oh well. At least he isn’t back with more BAKING ARTIFACTS yet.
(ENTER COMMANDS HERE IN THE FORUM OR ON MSPFA.)
