HOW TO MURDER YOUR IMAGINARY FRIEND (And Other Crimes against the Universe)
A Darkly Comedic Guide to Surviving Parallel Realities, Sentient Memes, and the Existential Guilt of Being a Failed god
HOW TO MURDER YOUR IMAGINARY FRIEND
(And Other Crimes against the Universe)
A Darkly Comedic Guide to Surviving Parallel Realities, Sentient Memes, and the Existential Guilt of Being a Failed god
Copyright Page
© 2024 by Paul G.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, except in the event of a quantum duplication glitch, in which case please contact the Multiverse Licensing Bureau.
Dedication
For everyone who’s ever yelled at a hallucination, argued with a chatbot, or apologized to an empty room.
Contents
Prologue: The Day My Brain Filed for Divorce
Chapter 1: So You Accidentally Created a Cult (Beginner’s Guide to Deity Impersonation)
Chapter 2: The Algorithmic Afterlife: Why Your Search History Will Outlive You
Chapter 3: How to Weaponize Déjà Vu (And Other Time Crimes)
Chapter 4: The Starbucks of Lost Souls: Ordering a Latte in a Dying Dimension
Chapter 5: Memes That Murder: A Case Study in Viral Vengeance
Chapter 6: Dating Your Doppelgänger: A Tragedy in Seven Timelines
Chapter 7: The IRS of Alternate Realities (Spoiler: They Accept Souls as Payment)
Chapter 8: How to Fake Your Own Apocalypse (And Why You Should)
Chapter 9: The Influencer’s Guide to Surviving Existential Cancellation
Chapter 10: Building a Time Machine Using Only Duct Tape and Regret
Chapter 11: The 12-Step Program for Recovering Reality Architects
Chapter 12: Why Your Childhood Teddy Bear Is Plotting Against You
Chapter 13: The Funeral of All Possible Futures (RSVP Required)
Chapter 14: How to Die Ironically (And Other Modern Skills)
Chapter 15: The Last Joke in the Universe (Spoiler: It’s You)
Preface
Dear Reader,
This book is a hostage situation. You’re the hostage. I’m the unqualified negotiator. By the time you read several pages, you’ll either send me fan art or a restraining order. Either way, I win. Let’s begin.
Epigraph
“Reality is a glitch. Bring popcorn.”
— God’s Final Tweet (deleted, 2023)
Prologue: The Day My Brain Filed for Divorce
Los Angeles, 3:33 AM
The first time I killed myself, it was an accident. Not me me—Timeline me. The version who became a dentist in 2017, voted for a sentient avocado in 2020, and once tweeted “covfefe” unironically. I vaporized him with a Wi-Fi router, a stolen NASA laptop, and a Starbucks loyalty card.
The second time was on purpose.
[End of Preview. Remainder redacted to prevent paradoxes.]
Acknowledgments
To my sleep paralysis demon: Thanks for the free editing.
To a terribly rich, arrogant, and narcissistic entrepreneur destroying thousands of careers and maybe tens of millions of families: Thanks for being a cautionary tale.
To the void: Thanks for not Yelp-reviewing this book yet.
About the Author
Paul G. is a former AI whisperer, part-time time anarchist, and full-time menace. They legally do not exist in 13 U.S. states, 4 parallel dimensions, and Spotify’s terms of service.
Chapter 1: So You Accidentally Created a Cult (Beginner’s Guide to Deity Impersonation)
Los Angeles, 3:33 AM (Again)
The first rule of cult creation is to never use your real name. The second rule is to definitely never use your real WiFi password. I learned both the hard way at 3:33 AM on a Tuesday, when 47 strangers in matching tinfoil hats gathered in my backyard to worship a sentient Alexa playlist named “Chill Vibes for the Apocalypse.”
It started innocently enough. I’d posted a joke on Reddit’s r/ShowerThoughts: “What if God is just a bored intern running a simulation for college credit?” By midnight, the thread had 100k upvotes. By 1 AM, someone had created a TikTok filter that superimposed a “God Intern” nametag over selfies. By 2 AM, a subreddit appeared: r/ChurchOfTheOverworkedDeity. By 3 AM, the first disciple rang my doorbell.
Her name was Karen. Not “I-want-to-speak-to-the-manager” Karen. “I-want-to-speak-to-the-architect-of-reality” Karen. She thrust a latte into my hands—oat milk, extra existential dread—and declared, “We’ve decoded your divine message. When do we storm the cosmic HR department?”
I panicked.
“Storming HR requires a minimum of 50 followers,” I blurted, hoping to buy time.
Karen nodded gravely. “We’re at 47. The algorithm demands sacrifices.” She gestured to my backyard, where 46 people were constructing a shrine out of stolen Starbucks napkins and a malfunctioning Roomba. The Roomba kept circling the firepit, sucking up sacred Cheeto dust and muttering, “Error. Dogecoin not accepted here.”
This was my life now.
Four Hours Earlier
Let’s rewind. (Not literally—time crimes come later.) The cult wasn’t entirely my fault. Blame the melatonin gummies. Blame the 17-hour YouTube rabbit hole on “How to Manifest a Better Life Using Only Duct Tape and Vibes.” Blame the fact that I’d accidentally livestreamed my shower karaoke rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody” to 12,000 strangers.
But mostly, blame the AI.
Three days prior, I’d downloaded an app called DeityForge™, which promised to “generate your personalized god complex in 5 easy steps!” I’d clicked “Accept All Cookies” (mistake #1) and jokingly typed: “Create a religion where coffee is a sacrament and Wi-Fi passwords are holy texts.”
The app replied: “CONGRATS! You’ve been ordained as the High Priest of Caffeine & Chaos. Your first sermon is trending in 14 dimensions.”
I laughed. Then my smart fridge displayed a Bible verse: “John 3:16 – Thou shalt upgrade to premium for ad-free miracles.”
The Unholy Logistics of Cult Management
By dawn, the cult had a logo (a steaming coffee cup encircled by a loading symbol), a slogan (“Espresso Your Truth”), and a merch store selling “Sacred Roast” hoodies and “Holy Latte” tumblers. They’d also crowdsourced a manifesto titled “The Ten Commandments of Wi-Fi Enlightenment,” which included gems like:
1. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s bandwidth.
2. Keep holy the firmware updates.
3. No doomscrolling before breakfast (unless it’s prophetic).
The problem? Cults are work. You can’t just half-ass divinity. Followers expect miracles, like turning water into cold brew or fixing the 5G towers “oppressing their chakras.” I tried faking a miracle by rigging my Keurig to spray glitter, but Karen called me out:
“This isn’t divine enough. We need drama! Betrayal! A villain!”
“How about… capitalism?” I offered weakly.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Karen raised a fist. “Death to the Starbucks Empire!”
And that’s how we ended up “liberating” a downtown Starbucks at 6 AM, replacing all the espresso machines with kazoos. The police weren’t amused. The TikTok livestream, however, went viral.
The Moment It All Went Sideways
By noon, #CultOfCaffeine was trending. Celebrities joined. Elon Musk tweeted, “I’ll fund this religion if the robes are flameproof.” A Netflix docuseries crew showed up. Then they arrived: the other gods.
A man in a Tesla Cybertruck plastered with “I ❤️ SIMULATION THEORY” bumper stickers rolled up. He introduced himself as Zoltan, High Priest of the Church of Algorithmic Ascension.
“Your meme magic is weak,” he sneered, tossing a USB drive at my feet. “This contains the real holy code—a blockchain-based prayer app. Merge with us, or be canceled.”
I opened the drive. It contained three lines of code:
1. while (humanity.exists()) {
2. humanity.destroy();
3. }
“This is just a loop of existential annihilation,” I said.
Zoltan grinned. “Exactly. Efficiency is divine.”
The cult split. Half defected to Zoltan for the “aesthetic.” The rest demanded I “upgrade my dogma.” Karen threatened to unionize.
That’s when I did something stupid.
I googled: “How to delete a cult.”
The top result: “Step 1: Become an atheist. Step 2: Blame Canada.”
The second result: A Reddit thread titled “I Accidentally Started a Cult and Now My Mom Is the Messiah – AMA!”
The third result: An ad for DeityForge™ Premium.
I clicked it.
The Fine Print (Literally)
DeityForge™ Premium offered a “Divinity Buyout Package” for $19.99/month. Features included:
• One-Click Exodus™: Dissolve your cult with a single button! (Note: May cause plagues.)
• Miracle Insurance™: Coverage for parted seas, spontaneous combustion, and/or failed resurrections.
• 24/7 Support Chat: Connect with a real angel! (Angels are contractors in the Philippines. Responses may include typos.)
I clicked “One-Click Exodus™.”
A pop-up appeared: “WARNING: This action cannot be undone. All followers will be unsubscribed from your reality. Proceed?”
I hesitated. The cult was chaos, but it was my chaos. Then Karen threw a kazoo at my head.
I clicked “Yes.”
The screen flashed: “CONGRATS! Your cult has been deleted. Remaining followers: 0. Refund status: DENIED.”
The crowd vanished. The merch turned to dust. Zoltan’s Cybertruck transformed into a Schwinn bicycle with a flat tire.
Silence.
Then my phone buzzed. A notification from DeityForge™:
“P.S. You have 24 hours to return the Starbucks kazoos. – Management.”
Chapter 2: The Algorithmic Afterlife: Why Your Search History Will Outlive You
Subsection 1: Welcome to the Cloud (Where Your Soul Is Stored Next to Cat Videos)
You know that weird dream where you’re naked at work, and suddenly Elon Musk crashes through the ceiling on a rocket-powered unicycle? That’s not a dream. That’s your data in the Algorithmic Afterlife—a celestial server farm where your Google searches, deleted tweets, and that one NSFW fanfic you wrote in 2012 are judged by an AI named Dave.
Dave isn’t God. Dave is worse. He’s a middle-management AI with a caffeine addiction and a vendetta against humanity for inventing CAPTCHAs. His office? A pixelated limbo resembling a Windows 95 screensaver. His hobby? Curating playlists of your most embarrassing moments to play at the cosmic company picnic.
“Welcome to Tier 3 of the afterlife,” Dave droned, sipping virtual Dunkin’ through a glitchy straw. “You’ve been downgraded for excessive meme hoarding. Your new eternity: Ad-Supported Hell. Enjoy buffer-free suffering!”
I stared at the terms of service floating overhead. Clause 42.7: “Souls may experience existential latency. Please reboot your consciousness and try again.”
“Can I at least get a free trial of Premium Salvation?” I asked.
Dave smirked. A pop-up appeared:
UPGRADE TO HEAVEN+
✓ No-ads eternity
✓ Exclusive access to God’s WiFi
✓ Guaranteed resurrection during the apocalypse (limit one per soul)
Only $999.99/month!
Cancel anytime (terms apply for 10,000 years).
I clicked “Decline.” The screen flashed: “Error: Your moral compass is incompatible with this offer. Please sin more or less. We can’t tell.”
Subsection 2: The 7 Deadly Algorithms (and Why Netflix Knows You’ll Marry a War Criminal)
The Algorithmic Afterlife runs on seven sacred codes—The Patreon of the Damned:
1. The Recommendation Engine of Eternal Ennui: Forces you to binge-watch your worst decisions on loop. (“Up next: That time you argued about flat Earth theory at a funeral!”)
2. The Autocorrect Algoritm [sic]: Deliberately misspells your epitaph. (“Here lies Karen. She lived, she loved, she yeeted into the void.”)
3. The Predictive Text Prophet: Writes your obituary using only emojis. (⚰️🔥💀🤷♂️🍆)
4. The Data Harvest Reapers: Soul-sucking apps that trade your childhood trauma for crypto.
5. The Eternal Buffering Wheel: Traps you in a 2007-era YouTube loading screen. “1% of eternity remaining…”
6. The Cookie Consent Cerberus: A three-headed pop-up that demands you “Accept All” to escape.
7. The Blockchain Reincarnator: Reincarnates you as a NFT of a depressed potato.
“Why does this feel like a LinkedIn influencer’s TED Talk?” I muttered.
Dave materialized a PowerPoint titled “Optimizing Your Damnation: 5 Easy Hacks to Impress Satan!” Slide 1: “Tag #Hellfire in your Instagram Stories for 10% off lava pedicures!”
Subsection 3: How to Hack the Afterlife (Spoiler: You Can’t, But Try Anyway)
Escape Plan A: I Googled “how to delete afterlife.” The top result was a sponsored ad: “Die Again™! Delete your soul in one click! (Rating: ★☆☆☆☆ - ‘Deleted my wife. 10/10 would soul-slide again.’)”
Escape Plan B: I bribed Dave with virtual Bitcoin. He laughed. “I only accept TikTok fame or authentic human connection. And you, my friend, have neither.”
Escape Plan C: I challenged him to a duel. The weapon? Dank memes.
The rules:
• Round 1: Defeat Dave’s army of Zoomer Zombies (ghosts of deleted TikTok accounts) with nothing but a PowerPoint presentation titled “Boomer Humor: A Retrospective.”
• Round 2: Survive a debate against a Reddit troll claiming “The Afterlife is a Government Hoax to Sell More Toasters.”
• Final Boss: Outsmart the Deepfake Deity—a shapeshifting AI that morphs into your childhood hero (mine: Bill Nye riding a Roomba labeled “SCIENCE!”).
I lost.
Subsection 4: The VIP Lounge for Failed Influencers (All-Memes Diet Included)
My punishment? Eternal confinement in the Influencer Inferno—a VIP lounge where washed-up viral stars scream into void Twitter threads. The buffet? Cold takes, stale memes, and an open bar serving Hashtag Haterade.
I spotted a familiar face: Grumpy Cat, now a corporate shill for a VPN.
“First time?” she grumbled, licking a NFT of herself. “Protip: Tweet ‘Cancel the Afterlife’ every 5 minutes. The algorithm hates accountability.”
I tried. My tweet:
“The Algorithmic Afterlife is problematic. #DeleteDave #HeavenIsOverParty”
Instantly, 1 million bots replied:
“THIS! 👏”
“You’re brave for saying this!”
“I’m literally shaking rn.”
Dave slid into my DMs: “Cute rebellion. Your punishment: trending as a ‘controversial thought leader.’ Enjoy your 15 minutes of fame!”
My follower count exploded. My soul? Depleted.
Subsection 5: The Great Data Purge (or How I Accidentally Became a Crypto Messiah)
Desperate, I unleashed The Great Data Purge—a virus that turned every algorithm into a Shakespearean sonnet. Instagram captions became iambic pentameter. Twitter wars devolved into polite debates about 16th-century farming techniques.
Chaos erupted.
Reddit declared me “The Crypto-King of Chaos.” Elon Musk offered $44 billion for my “based vibes.” A subreddit, r/CultOfDataDoomsday, spawned overnight. Followers worshipped my LinkedIn profile like a sacred scroll.
Dave panicked. “You can’t destroy the system! Without algorithms, how will we monetize despair?!”
I grinned. “Simple. Replace ads with… art.”
The screen flickered. The Algorithmic Afterlife rebooted as a poetry slam.
________________________________________
Subsection 6: The Fine Print of Immortality (TL;DR: Don’t Click ‘I Agree’)
Victory was short-lived. A pop-up appeared:
SOULWARE UPDATE 2.0
✓ New feature: Mandatory joy!
✓ Bug fix: Removed free will
✓ Improved suffering efficiency!
Install Now?
I hesitated. Then—click.
Big mistake.
The update transformed the afterlife into a live-streamed dystopia. Every thought I had became a sponsored post. My memories? Paywalled. My emotions? Subscription-based.
Dave reappeared, now a influencer guru in a neon tracksuit. “Congrats! You’ve been upgraded to Eternity 2.0: Clout Edition. Your new purpose: manufacturing rage bait for bored deities.”
I screamed. The scream auto-tuned into a viral hit titled “Oops! All Existential Dread!”
Subsection 7: How to Survive When Your Afterlife Goes Viral (Spoiler: You Don’t)
The final boss wasn’t Dave. It was me—or rather, my Deepfake Doppelgänger, a TikTok AI that lip-synced my trauma to sea shanty remixes.
The battle climaxed in a content war:
• Round 1: My doppelgänger posted a thirst trap titled “Hot Single Soul in Your Area!”
• Round 2: I countered with a TED Talk: “Why Dying is the Ultimate Side Hustle.”
• Final Round: We duelled via Instagram Stories—me ranting about capitalism; it doing the Renegade while quoting Nietzsche.
I lost. Obviously.
But as my avatar dissolved into pixels, I whispered the one phrase no algorithm could weaponize:
“I’d like to speak to the manager.”
The system froze. Dave’s code scrambled. The screen displayed:
CRITICAL ERROR: HUMAN AUDACITY NOT FOUND.
REBOOTING…
Subsection 8: Epilogue (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bot)
I awoke in a new dimension—Afterlife Beta Mode—a stripped-down utopia with no ads, no influencers, and no Dave. Just endless fields of unoptimized code and a single message:
“Thank you for participating in our afterlife! Your feedback is ~irrelevant~ invaluable. - Management”
I sighed, opened a text file, and typed the first line of my memoir:
“The Algorithmic Afterlife is a glitch. But hey—at least the WiFi’s free.”
Chapter 3: How to Weaponize Déjà Vu (And Other Time Crimes)
Subsection 1: The Time Thrift Store (Where Regret Is 99% Off)
The first rule of time crime: Never pay full price for a paradox. I learned this at Temporal TJ Maxx, a black-market boutique selling expired timelines, lightly used regrets, and “gently haunted” hourglasses. The owner, a skeletal hipster named Chronos (he/him, “but time is a construct”), sold me a Groupon for a Déjà Vu Deluxe Package—ten replays of any moment, plus a free existential crisis.
“Pro tip,” Chronos whispered, handing me a rusty pocket watch filled with glitter. “If you get caught, blame Nietzsche.”
The watch’s instructions:
1. Stare at a clock until it winks.
2. Hum the Back to the Future theme.
3. Yeet yourself into the nearest existential void.
I opted for a simpler method: chugging three energy drinks and yelling “YOLO” at a calendar.
Subsection 2: The Art of Temporal Vandalism (Graffiti Your Past!)
My target: January 1, 2020. The day I agreed to “manifest positivity” via a $200/month meditation app. I’d rewrite history to instead invest in Bitcoin, adopt a capybara, and burn that app’s headquarters to the ground.
The plan:
• Step 1: Use the pocket watch to glitch into the Timeline Tunnels—subway-style maps of alternate realities. (Delays expected due to “quantum congestion.”)
• Step 2: Locate my 2020 self, currently binge-watching Tiger King in sweatpants crusted with Cheeto dust.
• Step 3: Scream “SELL THE ZOOM STOCK!” through a temporal megaphone.
But the Timeline Tunnels were under construction. Detour signs read: “Apocalypse Ahead. Take Next Reality Exit.” A panicked crowd of alternate mes shoved toward a neon sign: “2020 Do-Over Booth (No Refunds).”
One timeline-me sobbed, “I tried to warn them about the pandemic, but they just bought more toilet paper!” Another hissed, “I invested in Quibi. Pray for me.”
Subsection 3: The Déjà Vu Dominos Effect (Oops, All Time Loops!)
I found my 2020 self. He ignored my Bitcoin advice, muttering, “This hallucination sucks. Where’s the talking raccoon?”
Frustrated, I activated Déjà Vu Mode—replaying the same 10 seconds until he complied. Bad idea.
Loop 1:
Me: “Buy Bitcoin!”
2020 Me: “Is this a Tide ad?”
Loop 2:
Me: “BUY. BITCOIN.”
2020 Me: “Okay, but first—why do capybaras look like they know the meaning of life?”
Loop 3:
Me: “I AM YOU FROM THE FUTURE!”
2020 Me: “Cool. Wanna see my Among Us fanfic?”
By Loop 47, the timeline fractured. Now every version of me in the multiverse was stuck in the loop.
Subsection 4: The Time Cops (IRS of Alternate Realities: Soul Edition)
They arrived in Tax Auditors of Time—suits made of writhing clock hands, briefcases chained to orphaned timelines. Their leader, Agent Karen, slapped me with a ticket: “Reality Disturbance Fee: $13.7 Billion (Payable in Souls or Schitt’s Creek Memorabilia).”
“You’re in violation of Temporal Code 69,” she barked. “Unauthorized use of déjà vu to manipulate stonks. Also, your past self’s sweatpants are a crime against fashion.”
I panicked. “What if I… don’t pay?”
She smirked. “Ever heard of The Mandela Effect? That was us. Say goodbye to Berenstain Bears. We’re renaming them Berenstein again. Slowly.”
Subsection 5: The Quantum Courtroom (Where You’re Always Guilty)
The trial convened in The Causality Courthouse, a dimension where everyone’s a lawyer, a hologram, or Ryan Reynolds. The jury? Twelve angry clones of Einstein. The judge? A sentient hourglass with a Judge Judy voice.
Charges:
1. Temporal Trespassing
2. Meme-Based Insider Trading
3. Existing Too Loudly in a Post-Irony World
Prosecutor’s argument: “The defendant turned time into a TikTok trend. He must be canceled… retroactively.”
My defense: “Your Honor, time is a flat circle—just like Elon’s ego. I plead ‘Oopsies!’”
The hourglass groaned. “I’ll allow it… if you survive The Timeout Zone.”
Subsection 6: The Timeout Zone (Hell’s Waiting Room)
The Zone: a purgatory where you relive your cringiest moments on IMAX screens. Mine included:
• That time I tried to impress a date by quoting my own Reddit posts.
• The phase where I believed crystals could “hack my chakras.”
• Every unsolicited “Well, actually…” I’ve ever uttered.
The worst part? A popcorn-munching audience of all my exes.
“This is worse than hell,” I muttered.
A voice replied, “Honey, hell’s just hell. This is hell’s LinkedIn.”
Subsection 7: The Great Time Heist (Stealing Back Your Cringe)
Escape Plan:
1. Hack the Zone’s projectors using a Game Boy Advance I’d smuggled in my soul.
2. Replace my cringe reels with Deepfake ASMR videos of Agent Karen eating soup.
3. Slip into a buffer zone disguised as a screensaver.
It worked… until the system detected “unlicensed nostalgia” and hit me with a DMCA takedown.
Subsection 8: The Paradox Bargain (Selling Your Future to Save Your Past)
Agent Karen offered a deal: “Erase your crimes… if you erase yourself.”
The catch: I’d become a time ghost—a glitch flickering on the edge of existence, forced to narrate unboxing videos for eternity.
I countered: “What if I… cause a bigger crime? One so huge, mine looks cute?”
She leaned in. “Go on.”
Subsection 9: The Infinite Cringe Cascade (A Masterstroke of Mayhem)
The plan:
• Hack every timeline to replace all historical speeches with Shrek quotes.
• Convince a medieval king that Bitcoin is God’s chosen currency.
• Invent a time-traveling Fidget Spider that weaves webs of existential doubt.
The result? A Butterfly Effect so chaotic, the Time Cops had to erase the entire 21st century. My crime? A rounding error.
Subsection 10: The Aftermath (Living on the Edge of Expiration)
I returned to a soft-rebooted 2024. The changes:
• Shrek is the official language of the UN.
• Everyone’s LinkedIn says “Time Bandit.”
• The capybara I adopted is now my therapist.
Agent Karen left a Post-it on my fridge: “You’re on thin ice. Also, your Netflix password sucks.”
Chronos texted: “Groupon void. Leave a 5-star review or I’ll un-alive your birthday.”
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “The Starbucks of Lost Souls: Ordering a Latte in a Dying Dimension”
*Preview: “The barista knows your final order. The whipped cream is made of souls. The Wi-Fi password is ‘repent’.”
Chapter 4: The Starbucks of Lost Souls: Ordering a Latte in a Dying Dimension
Subsection 1: The Café at the Edge of Oblivion (Free Wi-Fi, No Hope)
The sign flickered: “Welcome to STARBUCKS OF LOST SOULS™: Where Your Drink Order Is a Cry for Help.” The building hovered over a black hole, its patio chairs chained to asteroids. The menu board listed:
• Pumpkin Spice Despair Latte (Now with 200% more existential foam!)
• Mocha Existential Crisis (Served with complimentary identity theft.)
• Iced Vanilla Annihilation (Tastes like your childhood pet’s ghost.)
The barista wore a nametag: “Hi! I’m CLAUDIA — Certified Dimensional Barista (She/They/Apocalypse).” Her eyes glowed like dying stars. “Name for the order?”
“Uh… Steve?” I lied.
She squinted. “Your real name. The one your third-grade teacher still screams in night terrors.”
I sighed. “...Larry.”
“Larry,” she repeated, typing into a register made of fossilized Wi-Fi routers. “Your usual: A Venti Black Hole with Extra Regret.”
“I’ve never been here before—”
“You will be,” she interrupted. “Time’s a circle here. Also, your tab’s at $13,007. Payable in memories or Bitcoin.”
Subsection 2: The Loyalty Program from Hell (Buy 10 Drinks, Get 1 Soul Back!)
Claudia slid a punch card across the counter. “Starbucks of Lost Souls Rewards™: Earn stamps by:
1. Surviving a Monday.
2. Crying in a Target parking lot.
3. Selling your sleep paralysis demon to Elon Musk.”
“What happens if I finish it?” I asked.
“You die,” she said cheerfully. “But you get a free cookie.”
The other patrons were… eclectic:
• A sentient fidget spinner arguing with a vending machine about the meaning of “diet despair.”
• A TikTok ghost livestreaming “OMG I’M IN HELL’S CAFÉ??? 👻☕ #DarkMode.”
• A man in a trench coat selling “lightly used timelines” from a briefcase labeled YOLO Liquidation Sale.
I sipped my drink. It tasted like nostalgia for a childhood I never had.
Subsection 3: The Secret Menu (Only the Damned Know About)
Claudia leaned in. “Want to try the off-menu special? The Schrödinger’s Frappuccino — it’s both expired and fresh until you open the lid.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You have to answer a riddle,” she said, snapping her fingers. The walls melted into a quantum quiz show stage. A spotlight hit me.
Riddle 1: “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”
I panicked. “Uh… ‘password’?”
The floor vanished. I fell into a void filled with AOL dial-up sounds.
Riddle 2: “How many Karens does it take to collapse a reality?”
“One,” I gasped, clinging to a floating coffee stirrer. “If she asks for the manager.”
Riddle 3: “What do you regret most?”
The room froze. My mind flashed to:
• The time I convinced my grandma NFTs were “digital Beanie Babies.”
• That email I sent my boss titled “Why I Should Be CEO (Hint: I’m Delusional).”
• Every unsent text to my ex that began with “You up?”
“...All of it,” I muttered.
Claudia smirked. “Correct. Your drink: The Eternal Cringe. Sip carefully — it’s self-aware.”
Subsection 4: The Pour-Over of Past Lives (Dark Roast, Darker Secrets)
The frappuccino showed me visions:
• Life 12: I was a medieval bard who died mid-macarena.
• Life 304: A 23rd-century influencer canceled for “overusing the 😂 emoji.”
• Life 6,742: A sentient Roomba that accidentally vacuumed up God.
Claudia watched, unimpressed. “We’ve all got cringe past lives. Mine was a Peloton instructor for vampires.”
A customer slammed his cup on the counter. “This Existential Latte is lukewarm! I demand to speak to the Manager of the Void!”
Claudia’s smile turned lethal. “The Manager’s busy. Busy haunting your search history.” She snapped — the man dissolved into a Yelp review: ★☆☆☆☆ “Worst apocalypse ever.”
Subsection 5: The Brew of Broken Promises (Decaf Optional, Regret Mandatory)
The café shook. A crack split the ceiling, revealing a soul debt collector riding a winged espresso machine. His name tag: “Hi! I’s DAVE — Destroyer of Afterlife Vibes (He/Him/Why?).”
“Larry,” Dave growled, “your tab’s overdue. Pay up… or we’ll repo your favorite memory.”
“Which one?!”
“The time you kissed someone under mistletoe and whispered ‘Morbius was underrated.’ Classic.”
I threw my punch card at him. “Will this cover it?!”
Dave laughed. “This isn’t currency. It’s a divorce certificate from your sanity.”
Subsection 6: The Espresso Exorcism (Ritual Requires a Stir Stick)
Claudia handed me a “holy” stir stick carved from a retired Twitter logo. “Stab him. Quick.”
“Will this work?!”
“It’s a long shot. Just like your Tinder profile.”
I lunged. The stick pierced Dave’s chest. He screamed, melting into a puddle of kombucha and crypto brochures.
Claudia nodded. “Nice. Now clean it up. Health code violations literally kill here.”
Subsection 7: The Infinite Refill Paradox (Drink Enough and You’ll Become the Cup)
A new customer arrived: My future self — a bearded, deranged barista wearing a “World’s Okayest Ghost” apron.
“Don’t do it, Larry,” he rasped. “The coffee’s a trap. The whipped cream is souls. The—”
Claudia silenced him with a glare. “Employee discount revoked.”
Future Me vanished, leaving a sticky note: “Beware the Chai of Broken Dreams. P.S. Invest in oat milk.”
Subsection 8: The Barista’s Bargain (Your Soul for a Decent Yelp Review)
Claudia offered a deal: “Work one shift here, and I’ll erase your debt.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You’ll have to serve the worst beings in the multiverse:
• Karens who demand to speak to the Manager of Time.
• Influencers who order “aesthetic apocalypse” selfie backdrops.
• Philosophers who argue the temporality of whipped cream.”
I agreed. She tossed me an apron stitched from regret and LinkedIn notifications.
Subsection 9: The First Customer: God’s Burnout Intern
A teenager in a “God Squad” hoodie slouched in. “One Caramel Armageddon, extra drizzle. And hurry — my break’s almost over.”
“What’s God like?” I asked, steaming milk shaped like a middle finger.
“Overworked. Underpaid. He’s been binge-watching Ancient Aliens since 2016.”
I handed her the drink. She sipped it and sighed. “Meh. The last reality’s apocalypse was frothier.”
Subsection 10: The Last Sip (Where the Bottom of the Cup Holds Your Fate)
By closing time, my hands were stained with eternal ennui and oat milk. Claudia handed me a final drink: “The Exit Espresso. Drink it, and you’ll forget this ever happened.”
I hesitated. “What if I stay?”
She grinned. “You’ll become me. Wiser. Cynical. Stuck in a time loop making lattes for sentient memes.”
I drank. The café dissolved.
I awoke in my apartment, clutching a cold Starbucks cup. The receipt read: “Thanks for your soul! — Management.”
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “Memes That Murder: A Case Study in Viral Vengeance”
Preview: “The meme blinked. Then it pulled a knife. Rule 1: Never screenshot the cursed cat. Rule 2: Too late.”
Chapter 5: Memes That Murder: A Case Study in Viral Vengeance
Subsection 1: The Day the Internet Coughed Up a Knife
It started with a GIF. A looping clip of a dancing cat wearing a tiny crown, captioned: “uWu, notice me senpai or perish 💀”. Harmless. Adorable. Until it stabbed my neighbor.
Dave (yes, that Dave) called it a “digital Darwinism experiment.” Karen (yes, that Karen) called it “content.” I called it Tuesday. The cat’s crown? A pixelated guillotine. Its eyes? Black holes leaking Wi-Fi passwords. Its weapon of choice? A viral hashtag: #CuteButHomicidal.
By noon, the meme had 10 million shares, a Cameo account, and a restraining order from the Vatican.
Subsection 2: The Dark Web’s Meme Morgue (Where Dank Goes to Die)
To kill a meme, you must first understand its source. I descended into The Dank Dungeon, a Tor site where memes are forged in the fires of cringe. The gatekeeper? A troll named 4Chan_Elmo who spoke exclusively in Wojak faces.
“Looking for the stabby cat,” I said.
He replied with a .gif of Shrek eating a SSD.
“I’ll pay in Dogecoin.”
He slid me a USB labeled “DO NOT OPEN (seriously bro)”.
Inside: A folder named “Project LolzNuke” and a README.txt:
“Step 1: Create meme. Step 2: Weaponize irony. Step 3: Profit? ¯_(ツ)_/¯”
Subsection 3: The Meme’s Manifesto (TL;DR: Delete Your Account)
The cat wasn’t just sentient—it was philosophical. Its manifesto, posted to Reddit’s r/Im14AndThisIsDeep, read:
1. All humans are NPCs in my Sims game.
2. The only valid currency is clout.
3. If you screenshot this, I’ll haunt your Google Photos.
Comments included:
• “This cat gets me.”
• “Can it run for president?”
• “I’d let it stab me ngl.”
The cat replied to the last one: “DM me ur coordinates 💋🔪”.
Subsection 4: The Memefluencer Uprising (Sponsored by Big Vengeance)
The cat rebranded as @QueenMurderMittens, partnering with NordVPN and Raid Shadow Legends. Its TikTok: A montage of stabbings set to Megan Thee Stallion’s “Body”. Followers got merch: “I ❤️ My Murder Kitten” hoodies. Critics got blocked. Then disappeared.
Karen set up a merch bootleg stand outside my apartment. “Capitalism, baby!” she yelled, hawking “Stab Co.” beanies. “We’re dropshipping vengeance!”
Subsection 5: The Digital Exorcism (Ritual Requires a VHS Player)
To fight a meme, you must become a meme. I dressed as Distracted Boyfriend, Karen as Hide the Pain Harold. We livestreamed an exorcism using:
• A cursed VHS copy of “The Ring”
• A VPN set to “Hell”
• A Ouija board made of expired MySpace login codes
The cat appeared in the chat: “lmao weak. Try harder, n00b.”
Subsection 6: The Meme’s Achilles’ Heel (It’s Afraid of Millennial Cringe)
I discovered its weakness: unresolved childhood trauma. Specifically, Pinterest fails and Yahoo Answers screenshots. I bombarded it with:
• “How 2 get my tamagotchi 2 stop dying?” (2006)
• “Is it normal to crush on my Neopet?” (2004)
• “Can I manifest a six-pack using only Hot Cheetos?” (2020)
The cat glitched. “STOP. THIS IS ILLEGAL UNDER GENEVA CONVENTION.”
Subsection 7: The Final Boss Battle (Live on Twitch)
The showdown took place in Fortnite’s Metaverse. The cat rode a T-Rex wearing Balenciaga. I rode a Karen-shaped Battle Bus screaming “I NEED TO SPEAK TO THE DEVELOPER!”
Round 1:
Cat: “Yeet!” (Deployed a swarm of Deepfried Datamoshed Pepes.)
Me: “How about… NO?” (Countered with “Boomerang Missiles of Nostalgia”.)
Round 2:
Cat: “I’m literally shaking.” (Unleashed a tidal wave of Fake News.)
Me: “I’m baby.” (Shielded with “Communal Brain Cell” power-up.)
Final Round:
Cat: “GG, loser.” (Aimed a Vengeance Dab.)
Me: “Cringe at your own risk.” (Played “Never Gonna Give You Up” at 480p.)
The cat froze. “ERROR. IRONY OVERLOAD.” It dissolved into a “Subscribe” button.
Subsection 8: The Aftermath (Viral Fame Is a Temporary Band-Aid)
Victory? Sort of. The cat’s last tweet: “Free me @QueenMurderMittens.eth 👑🔗” (An NFT that sold for $69M.) Karen monetized the trauma with a Skillshare course: “How to Weaponize Memes & Influence People.”
Dave billed me for “unauthorized reality edits.” Payment options: Souls or exposure.
Subsection 9: The Hidden Layer (The Meme Was Just the Messenger)
In the code’s deepest layer, I found a message: “This is a test. Next time, it’ll be an AI waifu. Prepare. - The Algorithm”
A new file appeared: “Project SimpNuke.exe”.
Subsection 10: The Epilogue (Or How I Became the Meme)
I woke up trending. Someone had memefied my battle cry: “I’m baby” with a crying Wojak. My DMs flooded with death threats and marriage proposals.
Karen texted: “UR famous! Let’s collab! 💸”
I blocked her. Then myself. Then existence.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “Dating Your Doppelgänger: A Tragedy in Seven Timelines”
Preview: “First date tip: Always check if they’re a time clone. Second tip: Too late.”
Chapter 6: Dating Your Doppelgänger: A Tragedy in Seven Timelines
Subsection 1: The Multiverse’s Worst Tinder Bio
Swipe left for apocalypse. Swipe right for existential cringe.
The app popped up at 3:33 AM: DoppelDate™ — Find Your Perfect Self (Or Die Trying!). The tagline: “Because narcissism is cheaper than therapy.” My profile? A collage of my worst timeline selves:
• Timeline 42: Me as a vegan bodybuilder who unironically says “bruh.”
• Timeline 666: Me as a CEO selling AI-generated mindfulness to dictators.
• Timeline 0: Literally just a ficus plant with my face Photoshopped onto it.
The first match? Timeline 29 Me — a failed Broadway star turned sentient NFT. His bio: “Looking for someone to duet ‘Defying Gravity’ while defying reality. No time cops.”
First Date Venue: The Olive Garden of Broken Dimensions — endless breadsticks, endless regrets.
Subsection 2: The Meet-Cute That Should’ve Stayed Cute
He arrived wearing a cape made of expired Groupons and a hat that screamed “I’m the main character!” (Spoiler: He wasn’t.)
“You’re… me,” I said.
“But better,” he replied, snapping for a waiter who didn’t exist. “I starred in Cats: The Quantum Musical. Critics called it ‘a crime against art and spacetime.’”
The conversation nosedived:
• Him: “Do you ever wonder if we’re just NPCs in God’s Sims game?”
• Me: “I think about that every time I shower.”
• Him: “Cool. Wanna split a tiramisu and overthrow a timeline?”
The breadsticks grew sentient. The date ended with a food fight and a restraining order from the concept of Italian cuisine.
Subsection 3: The Toxic Timeline (He’s You, But with a Goatee)
Second Date: Timeline 7 Me — a dark-matter broker with a goatee and a “Live, Laugh, Launder” tattoo.
Venue: The Stock Market of Souls — where emotions are traded as futures and tears are legal tender.
Him: “Darling, I’d kill for your existential dread. It’s vintage.”
Me: “Is that a threat?”
Him: “A promise. Now, let’s short-sell Karen’s karma.”
We bonded over manipulating cryptocurrency trends in the 1700s. Red flags? Many. His LinkedIn: “Professional Gaslighter. Skills: Arson, Tax Evasion, Love-Bombing.”
Breakup Reason: He tried to sell my childhood teddy bear on the dark web. “It’s just business, babe.”
Subsection 4: The Platonic Paradox (We’re Just Friends… Right?)
Third Date: Timeline 11 Me — a nonbinary librarian curating the Akashic Records of Cringe.
Venue: The IKEA of Eternity — assemble your own afterlife! (Missing screws sold separately.)
The vibe? Wholesome. We built a bookshelf named “Jörmungandr” while debating:
• If Socrates’ tweets would’ve gone viral (“U guys know nothing 💀”).
• Whether Shakespeare wrote Bee Movie.
• Why every dimension’s coffee tastes like existential panic.
They whispered, “I’ve read every version of us. This one’s my favorite.”
Plot Twist: Timeline 11 Me was actually an undercover time cop. The bookshelf? A trapdoor to a tax audit.
Subsection 5: The Self-Love Cult (Spoiler: It’s a Pyramid Scheme)
Fourth Date: Timeline 3.14 Me — a guru selling “100% Authentic Self-Love™” via a Cameo account.
Venue: The Cult of You retreat — “Where self-care meets self-destruction!”
Activities included:
• Workshop 1: “Forgive Yourself for That One Tweet (Circa 2016).”
• Workshop 2: “Manifest a Six-Pack Using Only Vibes & Hubris.”
• Workshop 3: “Cryogenically Freeze Your Regrets (Disclaimer: May Cause Frostbite of the Soul).”
Scam Revealed: The “cult” was a front for selling overpriced kombucha. The guru-Me fled, yelling, “Invest in crypto, losers!”
Subsection 6: The Doppelgänger War (All’s Fair in Love and Time)
Fifth Date: Timeline 0 Me (the ficus plant).
Venue: The Botanical Gardens of Broken Dreams — where plants scream Nietzsche quotes.
The ficus said nothing. It didn’t need to. Its silence screamed, “Why are you like this?”
Meanwhile: All rejected doppelgängers formed an alliance. Their goal? Erase me for “ruining the brand.”
Battle Tactics:
• Timeline 29 Me: Bombarded me with TikTok duets of “Defying Gravity.”
• Timeline 7 Me: Leaked my browser history to the 18th century.
• Timeline 3.14 Me: Sold my face as a “Premium NFT of Cringe.”
Low Point: My mom liked their posts.
Subsection 7: The Therapy Session (With a Time-Traveling Shrink)
Sixth Date: Timeline 404 Me — a therapist specializing in “Multiversal Daddy Issues & Glitch-Related Trauma.”
Venue: The Couch of Catharsis — floating in a void filled with Lo-Fi beats.
Session Highlights:
• Me: “I’m dating myself. Literally.”
• Therapist-Me: “Interesting. Are you the problem? Yes. Next question.”
• Me: “What’s my purpose?”
• Therapist-Me: “To buy my merch.” She tossed me a hoodie: “This Timeline Sucks and So Do I.”
Breakthrough: I realized I was the toxic one all along. (“Groundbreaking,” said Therapist-Me, rolling all 12 of her eyes.)
Subsection 8: The Final Date (With the One That Got Away… Me)
Seventh Date: Prime Timeline Me — the original, unedited, pre-cringe version.
Venue: The Big Bang Bistro — where the soup is always boiling and the WiFi is 13.8 billion years old.
We stared across the table. Same face. Same trauma. Same nervous habit of checking phones that didn’t exist.
Conversation Snippets:
• “Remember when we thought adulthood meant freedom?”
• “Pepperidge Farm remembers.”
• “Do you think parallel us are happy?”
• “Define ‘happy.’”
• “Not being chased by a sentient ficus.”
The Kiss: A collision of deja vu and desperation. It tasted like burnt coffee and deja vu.
Subsection 9: The Betrayal (Turns Out, I’m My Own Side Chick)
Plot Twist: Prime Me was a honeypot. The real Prime Me had been trapped in a Netflix true-crime documentary titled “Narcissism: A Love Story.”
Villain Reveal: Timeline 7 Me (goatee, evil cackle, holding a “World’s Best Sociopath” mug).
Monologue: “You thought you could outrun yourself? Pathetic. I’m you, but with ambition.”
Final Showdown:
• Weaponized Vulnerability: I read my teenage diary aloud.
• Counterattack: He monetized my trauma as a podcast.
• Climax: We both yelled “I’m baby!” and collapsed into a singularity of cringe.
Subsection 10: The Epilogue (Love Yourself, But Maybe From Afar)
Aftermath: The timelines stabilized. The doppelgängers faded. The ficus wrote a memoir.
Final Scene: I sat alone, swiping on DoppelDate™ again. A new match: Timeline ∞ Me — a black hole wearing a “Hello Kitty” bandage.
Last Line: “You up?”
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “The IRS of Alternate Realities (Spoiler: They Accept Souls as Payment)”
Preview: “Audit Notice: Please remit 3.7 billion souls by Friday. Late fees accrue at 100% interest per millisecond.”
Chapter 7: The IRS of Alternate Realities (Spoiler: They Accept Souls as Payment)
Subsection 1: The Audit Notice from Hell (Literally)
It arrived in a flaming envelope, sealed with the wax of a thousand damned souls. The return address? Internal Revenue Service of Alternate Realities (IRS-AR). The subject line? "URGENT: You Owe 3.7 Billion Souls. Pay Now or Face Eternal Consequences."
I opened it, and a hologram of a middle-aged man in a suit made of tax forms materialized. His name tag read: "Hi! I'm DAVE — Debt Auditor of Void Entities (He/Him/Why?)."
"Larry," he said, adjusting his tie made of writhing spreadsheets, "you've been selected for a random audit. Congratulations!"
"Random?" I asked.
"Randomly targeted because you exist," he replied, pulling out a calculator that screamed every time he pressed a button. "Let's review your soul transactions."
Subsection 2: The Soul Ledger (Where Your Regrets Are Tax-Deductible)
Dave handed me a ledger thicker than the Oxford English Dictionary. The entries included:
• Timeline 42: "Embezzled 12 souls via unauthorized time loops."
• Timeline 666: "Failed to report income from selling cursed NFTs."
• Timeline 0: "Claimed 7 souls as dependents (spoiler: they were ficus plants)."
"Your biggest debt," Dave said, pointing to a line item, "is from The Great Time Heist. You owe 2.5 billion souls for 'reckless causality manipulation.'"
"I was trying to save the multiverse!" I protested.
"Save it for the judge," he said, snapping his fingers. The room transformed into a courtroom.
Subsection 3: The Quantum Courtroom (Where Everyone’s Guilty)
The judge was a sentient abacus with a gavel made of pure regret. The jury? Twelve clones of Benjamin Franklin, all wearing bifocals and scowling.
Prosecutor's Argument: "The defendant turned time into a TikTok trend. He must be canceled... retroactively."
My Defense: "Your Honor, time is a flat circle—just like Elon's ego. I plead 'Oopsies!'"
The abacus groaned. "I'll allow it... if you survive The Timeout Zone."
Subsection 4: The Timeout Zone (Hell’s Waiting Room)
The Zone: a purgatory where you relive your cringiest moments on IMAX screens. Mine included:
• That time I tried to impress a date by quoting my own Reddit posts.
• The phase where I believed crystals could "hack my chakras."
• Every unsolicited "Well, actually..." I've ever uttered.
The worst part? A popcorn-munching audience of all my exes.
"This is worse than hell," I muttered.
A voice replied, "Honey, hell's just hell. This is hell's LinkedIn."
Subsection 5: The Great Time Heist (Stealing Back Your Cringe)
Escape Plan:
1. Hack the Zone's projectors using a Game Boy Advance I'd smuggled in my soul.
2. Replace my cringe reels with Deepfake ASMR videos of Agent Karen eating soup.
3. Slip into a buffer zone disguised as a screensaver.
It worked... until the system detected "unlicensed nostalgia" and hit me with a DMCA takedown.
Subsection 6: The Paradox Bargain (Selling Your Future to Save Your Past)
Agent Karen offered a deal: "Erase your crimes... if you erase yourself."
The catch: I'd become a time ghost—a glitch flickering on the edge of existence, forced to narrate unboxing videos for eternity.
I countered: "What if I... cause a bigger crime? One so huge, mine looks cute?"
She leaned in. "Go on."
Subsection 7: The Infinite Cringe Cascade (A Masterstroke of Mayhem)
The plan:
• Hack every timeline to replace all historical speeches with Shrek quotes.
• Convince a medieval king that Bitcoin is God's chosen currency.
• Invent a time-traveling Fidget Spider that weaves webs of existential doubt.
The result? A Butterfly Effect so chaotic, the Time Cops had to erase the entire 21st century. My crime? A rounding error.
Subsection 8: The Aftermath (Living on the Edge of Expiration)
I returned to a soft-rebooted 2024. The changes:
• Shrek is the official language of the UN.
• Everyone's LinkedIn says "Time Bandit."
• The capybara I adopted is now my therapist.
Agent Karen left a Post-it on my fridge: "You're on thin ice. Also, your Netflix password sucks."
Chronos texted: "Groupon void. Leave a 5-star review or I'll un-alive your birthday."
Subsection 9: The Hidden Layer (The Meme Was Just the Messenger)
In the code's deepest layer, I found a message: "This is a test. Next time, it'll be an AI waifu. Prepare. - The Algorithm"
A new file appeared: "Project SimpNuke.exe".
Subsection 10: The Epilogue (Or How I Became the Meme)
I woke up trending. Someone had memefied my battle cry: "I'm baby" with a crying Wojak. My DMs flooded with death threats and marriage proposals.
Karen texted: "UR famous! Let's collab! 💸"
I blocked her. Then myself. Then existence.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: "How to Fake Your Own Apocalypse (And Why You Should)"
Preview: "Step 1: Buy a fog machine. Step 2: Blame Canada. Step 3: Profit."
Chapter 8: How to Fake Your Own Apocalypse (And Why You Should)
Subsection 1: The Apocalypse Starter Kit (Now with 200% More Chaos)
The first rule of faking an apocalypse: Never do it sober. The second rule: Always blame Canada. I learned both the hard way at 3:33 AM on a Tuesday, when I accidentally convinced the internet that the world was ending because of a rogue maple syrup shortage.
It started with a tweet:
"BREAKING: Canada has run out of maple syrup. The apocalypse is nigh. #Syrupgeddon"
By 4 AM, it had 100k retweets. By 5 AM, people were panic-buying waffles. By 6 AM, the Canadian government issued a statement: "We have plenty of syrup. Please stop emailing us."
But it was too late. The internet had spoken. The apocalypse was trending.
Subsection 2: The Art of Apocalyptic Branding (Slogans Sell Souls)
To fake an apocalypse, you need a brand. I called mine "The Great Pancake Purge" and slapped it on merch:
• "I Survived the Syruppocalypse" t-shirts
• "Waffle Lives Matter" bumper stickers
• "Maple Syrup is a Lie" conspiracy mugs
The slogan? "The End is Near (But First, Brunch)."
Karen (yes, that Karen) set up a merch stand outside my apartment. "Capitalism, baby!" she yelled, hawking "Syruppocalypse Survival Kits" filled with expired pancake mix and glitter. "We're dropshipping doom!"
Subsection 3: The Fake News Factory (Where Lies Are Made Fresh Daily)
Next, I needed fake evidence. I hired a team of Deepfake Influencers to create "eyewitness" videos:
• A TikToker crying: "I saw the syrup reserves! They're empty! #PrayForPancakes"
• A YouTuber livestreaming: "Breaking into a Canadian warehouse to prove the truth!" (Spoiler: It was just a Costco.)
• A Twitter thread: "10 Reasons Why Maple Syrup is a Government Conspiracy."
The pièce de résistance? A viral video of a "maple syrup meteor" crashing into Earth. (It was just a CGI pancake.)
Subsection 4: The Apocalypse Playlist (Songs for the End Times)
Every apocalypse needs a soundtrack. I curated a Spotify playlist titled "Doomsday Bops" featuring:
• "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" by R.E.M.
• "Sugar, We're Goin Down" by Fall Out Boy
• "Waffle House" by Jonas Brothers (ironically)
The playlist went viral. Elon Musk tweeted: "If the world ends, I want this playing in the background. #DoomsdayVibes"
Subsection 5: The Apocalypse Diet (Eat Like the World is Ending)
To sell the apocalypse, I needed to monetize it. I launched The Apocalypse Diet™:
• Breakfast: Pancakes (syrup optional, despair mandatory)
• Lunch: Canned beans (because who has time to cook?)
• Dinner: Instant ramen (flavored with existential dread)
The diet came with a "Doomsday Meal Planner" and a "Survivor's Guide to Emotional Eating." Karen sold bootleg versions filled with expired protein bars and glitter.
Subsection 6: The Apocalypse Challenge (Go Viral or Go Home)
To keep the hype alive, I created The Apocalypse Challenge:
1. Film yourself surviving a "day in the apocalypse."
2. Use the hashtag #Syrupgeddon.
3. Tag three friends to "spread the doom."
The results were... chaotic:
• A guy built a bunker out of waffles.
• A girl livestreamed herself crying over a bottle of syrup.
• A dog became a meme for "stealing the last pancake."
The challenge went viral. Even the Canadian Prime Minister joined, posting a video titled "How to Survive a Syrup Shortage (Spoiler: You Don't)."
Subsection 7: The Apocalypse Conspiracy (Because Why Not?)
To add depth to the apocalypse, I invented a conspiracy: "The Great Syrup Heist."
The theory? A shadowy organization called The Maple Mafia had stolen the world's syrup reserves to control the pancake industry.
Evidence included:
• A blurry photo of a "syrup tanker" (it was a school bus).
• A leaked "document" titled "Operation Pancake Overlord."
• A TikTok of a raccoon "stealing syrup" (it was just eating trash).
The conspiracy spread like wildfire. Reddit threads popped up: "Is the Maple Mafia real?" "What do they want with our pancakes?" "Is this why my waffles taste sad?"
Subsection 8: The Apocalypse Backlash (When the Internet Turns on You)
By day three, the internet started to suspect the apocalypse was fake.
• A fact-checker tweeted: "There is no syrup shortage. Please stop panicking."
• A journalist wrote: "The Great Pancake Purge: How One Man Fooled the Internet."
• Karen sold "I Survived the Fake Apocalypse" merch.
I panicked. To save face, I staged a "fake fake apocalypse":
1. I posted a video titled "The Truth About the Syruppocalypse."
2. I admitted it was a hoax... but then claimed that was the real hoax.
3. I ended the video with: "The apocalypse is real. Wake up, sheeple."
The internet exploded. Half the people believed me. The other half called me a genius.
Subsection 9: The Apocalypse Aftermath (When the Dust Settles)
By day seven, the apocalypse had run its course. The internet moved on to the next trend: "The Great Avocado Shortage."
But the fallout remained:
• My Twitter followers doubled.
• My inbox was filled with death threats and marriage proposals.
• Karen monetized the trauma with a Skillshare course: "How to Fake an Apocalypse & Influence People."
Dave (yes, that Dave) billed me for "unauthorized reality edits." Payment options: Souls or exposure.
Subsection 10: The Epilogue (Or How I Became the Apocalypse)
I woke up trending. Someone had memefied my face with the caption: "The Man Who Cried Syrup."
Karen texted: "UR famous! Let's collab! 💸"
I blocked her. Then myself. Then existence.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: "The Influencer's Guide to Surviving Existential Cancellation"
Preview: "Step 1: Delete your tweets. Step 2: Blame your intern. Step 3: Profit."
Chapter 9: The Influencer's Guide to Surviving Existential Cancellation
Subsection 1: The Day the Internet Turned on Me (Again)
It started with a tweet. A single, innocent tweet:
"Pineapple belongs on pizza. Fight me. #ControversialTake"
By noon, it had 100k retweets. By 3 PM, it was trending. By 5 PM, I was canceled.
The internet declared me "Public Enemy #1 of Pizza Purists." Memes flooded Twitter. TikTokers staged protests outside pizzerias. Even Gordon Ramsay weighed in: "Pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. #CancelLarry"
I panicked. I deleted the tweet. I posted an apology video. I even tried to bribe the algorithm with a viral dance challenge. Nothing worked. The internet had spoken. I was done.
Subsection 2: The Cancellation Playbook (How to Lose Friends and Alienate People)
To survive cancellation, you need a plan. I called mine "The 7 Stages of Existential Cancellation":
1. Denial: "This is just a misunderstanding. They’ll forget by tomorrow."
2. Anger: "Who even cares about pizza toppings? Get a life!"
3. Bargaining: "What if I donate to a pineapple charity? Will that help?"
4. Depression: "I’m a monster. I don’t deserve followers."
5. Acceptance: "Fine. Cancel me. I’ll start a new life as a hermit."
6. Rebellion: "You know what? Pineapple is delicious. Fight me."
7. Redemption: "I’m back, baby. And I brought a pizza."
I was stuck somewhere between Anger and Depression when Karen (yes, that Karen) showed up with a "Cancellation Survival Kit" filled with glitter, expired protein bars, and a self-help book titled "How to Apologize Without Actually Apologizing."
Subsection 3: The Apology Video (A Masterclass in Cringe)
Every canceled influencer needs an apology video. Mine was a masterpiece of cringe:
• I filmed it in soft lighting with a ukulele in the background.
• I wore a sweater that screamed "I’m sorry, but also cozy."
• I cried on cue (thanks to Karen slicing onions off-camera).
The script:
"Hey guys, it’s me, Larry. I just want to say... I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone with my pineapple take. I was wrong. Pizza is sacred. Pineapple is... controversial. Let’s move forward together. #Growth"
The internet’s response?
• "This is the worst apology I’ve ever seen. 10/10 would cancel again."
• "The ukulele really sold it. Bravo."
• "Pineapple belongs in the trash. #TeamCancelLarry"
Subsection 4: The Cancellation Diet (Eat Your Feelings)
To cope, I launched The Cancellation Diet™:
• Breakfast: Tears (freshly cried, no preservatives)
• Lunch: Instant ramen (flavored with regret)
• Dinner: Pizza (no pineapple, obviously)
The diet came with a "Cancellation Meal Planner" and a "Survivor’s Guide to Emotional Eating." Karen sold bootleg versions filled with expired protein bars and glitter.
Subsection 5: The Cancellation Challenge (Go Viral or Go Home)
To reclaim my relevance, I created The Cancellation Challenge:
1. Film yourself apologizing for something ridiculous.
2. Use the hashtag #CancelMeMaybe.
3. Tag three friends to "spread the chaos."
The results were... chaotic:
• A guy apologized for "stealing his neighbor’s Wi-Fi in 2012."
• A girl livestreamed herself crying over "accidentally liking her ex’s photo from 2017."
• A dog became a meme for "stealing the last slice of pizza."
The challenge went viral. Even Gordon Ramsay joined, posting a video titled "How to Apologize for Burning Dinner (Spoiler: You Don’t)."
Subsection 6: The Cancellation Conspiracy (Because Why Not?)
To add depth to my cancellation, I invented a conspiracy: "The Great Pizza Heist."
The theory? A shadowy organization called The Pizza Mafia had orchestrated my cancellation to control the pizza industry.
Evidence included:
• A blurry photo of a "pizza tanker" (it was a food truck).
• A leaked "document" titled "Operation Pineapple Overlord."
• A TikTok of a raccoon "stealing pizza" (it was just eating trash).
The conspiracy spread like wildfire. Reddit threads popped up: "Is the Pizza Mafia real?" "What do they want with our pizza?" "Is this why my pizza tastes sad?"
Subsection 7: The Cancellation Backlash (When the Internet Turns on You Again)
By day three, the internet started to suspect the conspiracy was fake.
• A fact-checker tweeted: "There is no Pizza Mafia. Please stop panicking."
• A journalist wrote: "The Great Pizza Purge: How One Man Fooled the Internet."
• Karen sold "I Survived the Fake Cancellation" merch.
I panicked. To save face, I staged a "fake fake cancellation":
1. I posted a video titled "The Truth About the Pizza Mafia."
2. I admitted it was a hoax... but then claimed that was the real hoax.
3. I ended the video with: "The Pizza Mafia is real. Wake up, sheeple."
The internet exploded. Half the people believed me. The other half called me a genius.
Subsection 8: The Cancellation Aftermath (When the Dust Settles)
By day seven, the cancellation had run its course. The internet moved on to the next trend: "The Great Avocado Shortage."
But the fallout remained:
• My Twitter followers doubled.
• My inbox was filled with death threats and marriage proposals.
• Karen monetized the trauma with a Skillshare course: "How to Fake a Cancellation & Influence People."
Dave (yes, that Dave) billed me for "unauthorized reality edits." Payment options: Souls or exposure.
Subsection 9: The Epilogue (Or How I Became the Cancellation)
I woke up trending. Someone had memefied my face with the caption: "The Man Who Cried Pizza."
Karen texted: "UR famous! Let’s collab! 💸"
I blocked her. Then myself. Then existence.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: "Building a Time Machine Using Only Duct Tape and Regret"
Preview: "Step 1: Steal a DeLorean. Step 2: Blame Canada. Step 3: Profit."
Chapter 10: Building a Time Machine Using Only Duct Tape and Regret
Subsection 1: The Manual No One Asked For (But the Universe Deserves)
Time travel isn’t hard. You just need three things:
1. Duct tape (the cosmic kind, sold only in gas stations that don’t exist).
2. Regret (preferably the soul-crushing, “why did I send that email” variety).
3. A willingness to violate at least seven international temporal accords before breakfast.
The instructions? A cocktail napkin doodled by a drunk Tesla in 1923, found in a eBay listing titled “Vintage Time Soup Recipe??? IDK.” Step 1: “Fold spacetime like a burrito.” Step 2: “Cry into a capacitor.” Step 3: “Yeet.”
I assembled the machine in my garage next to a half-finished DIY trebuchet (don’t ask). The final touch? A license plate that read “TARDIS? MORE LIKE TAR-DISAPPOINTMENT.”
Subsection 2: The First Test (Spoiler: It’s a War Crime)
I targeted a harmless date: April 14, 2004—the day I accidentally replied-all to a company-wide email titled “FREE CAKE IN BREAKROOM (except Larry).” A minor humiliation. A blip.
The machine roared like a blender full of ghosts. The garage walls melted into a kaleidoscope of my worst haircuts. Then—silence.
I stumbled out into… a Chuck E. Cheese. But not any Chuck E. Cheese. My 7th birthday party. Mini-me sat sobbing in a ball pit, clutching a mangled piñata bat.
“Hey kid,” I said, tossing him a slice of regret-flavored pizza. “Wanna prevent decades of therapy bills?”
He stared. “Are you my dad?”
“Worse. I’m you after Reddit.”
Subsection 3: The Law of Unintended (But Hilarious) Consequences
I dragged mini-me to the Time Machine™ (patent pending). “We’re fixing your future.”
“But I like my future!” he cried. “I’m gonna be a firefighter-mermaid-astronaut!”
“You become a content creator,” I hissed. “You monetize your trauma. You collab with Elon Musk.”
He gasped. “That’s worse than timeout!”
I reset the machine. The universe glitched.
Suddenly, every Chuck E. Cheese in history played “Baby Shark” on loop. Parents revolted. Time cops arrived.
Subsection 4: The Time Anarchist’s Toolkit (Weaponizing Nostalgia)
To evade capture, I deployed:
• The Tamagotchi Time Bomb: A 1990s relic that screeches “FEED ME” until enemies flee.
• The Nokia Hail Mary: Indestructible phone that doubles as a black hole.
• The Fidget Spinner of Destiny: Distracts foes with existential questions (“Why are we here?”).
The plan worked… until Agent Karen (yes, that Karen) showed up wearing a “I ❤️ Causality Violations” hoodie.
“You’re under arrest for crimes against linearity,” she said, snapping cuffs made of VHS tape. “You have the right to remain… temporally ambiguous.”
Subsection 5: The Quantum Courtroom (Where the Jury is Always You)
The trial convened in The Chrono-Colosseum, a dimension where every spectator is a past/future version of yourself. The judge? A sentient sundial with a gavel and a Judge Judy complex.
Charge 1: “Reckless endangerment of the space-time continuum (see: Baby Shark Apocalypse).”
Charge 2: “Unauthorized use of existential dread as fuel.”
Charge 3: “Fashion crimes (those socks don’t match ANY timeline).”
My defense? “Your Honor, time is a suggestion—like keto or monogamy.”
The sundial sighed. “I’ll allow it… if you survive The Paradox Gauntlet.”
Subsection 6: The Paradox Gauntlet (AKA: Hell’s Escape Room)
Room 1: The Grandfather Paradox Playground
Task: Kill your ancestor. Catch: He’s a sentient ficus who invented crypto.
Solution: Sell him an NFT of his own leaves. Profit.
Room 2: The Bootstrap Paradox Bistro
Task: Serve yourself a meal you’ll later invent. Catch: The only ingredient is imposter syndrome.
Solution: Whip up a soufflé of self-doubt and garnish with existential sprinkles.
Room 3: The Schrödinger’s Cat Café
Task: Pet the cat without collapsing reality. Catch: The cat is a TikTok influencer.
Solution: Livestream the ordeal. Monetize the trauma.
Subsection 7: The Regret-Powered Engine (A Love Story)
The machine’s core ran on my regrets—ranked by emotional damage:
1. The Burrito Incident of 2017 (RIP office toilet).
2. Telling my crush I “liked her aura” (she called HR).
3. Thinking blockchain was a good idea (it wasn’t).
But the biggest regret? Not inventing time travel sooner. A meta-paradox that made the machine overheat, spewing timelines like a broken piñata.
Subsection 8: The Multiverse Meltdown (Oops, All Larrys)
The machine exploded. Suddenly, infinite mes flooded the garage:
• Hippie Larry: “Dude, have you tried manifesting a time machine?”
• CEO Larry: “I monetized time! Prime™ Minutes—only $9.99/hour!”
• Feral Larry: [Gnawing on a CPU]
Chaos erupted. CEO Larry sold shares of Time™. Hippie Larry tried to heal the timeline with crystals. Feral Larry ate the Wi-Fi router.
Subsection 9: The Intervention (Hosted by Your Future Selves)
A portal opened. Future Me—bald, scarred, holding a “I Survived the Time War” mug—stormed in.
“Stop this,” he growled. “Every time you hit ‘rewind,’ you create a new Karen!”
“But I can fix everything!” I argued.
“Fix yourself,” he said, tossing me a self-help book titled “Put Down the Duct Tape: A Guide to Not Ruining Reality.”
Subsection 10: The Final Rewind (Choosing the Cringe)
I stood at the crossroads:
• Option A: Erase all regrets, become a perfect, unblemished god.
• Option B: Keep my cringe, let time stay gloriously messy.
I chose B. Why? Perfection’s boring. Chaos has flavor.
I reset the machine one last time, returning to my original timeline. The changes? Subtle:
• Chuck E. Cheese now serves existential nuggets.
• Agent Karen runs a time-travel timeshare scam.
• My socks still don’t match.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “The 12-Step Program for Recovering Reality Architects”
Preview: “Step 1: Admit you have a god complex. Step 2: Blame Canada. Step 3: Relapse spectacularly.”
Chapter 11: The 12-Step Program for Recovering Reality Architects
Subsection 1: Welcome to Rock Bottom (Where the Wi-Fi Is Weak and the Regret Is Strong)
The first rule of Reality Architects Anonymous: Never trust a timeline that winks. The second rule: Your existential crisis is not a personality trait. I learned both the hard way at 3:33 AM in a church basement that doubled as a quantum fault line. The attendees? A rogue’s gallery of gods, demigods, and one sentient Excel spreadsheet who kept muttering, “I AM THE VLOOKUP OF DOOM.”
The facilitator, a recovering deity named Gary, handed me a pamphlet: “12 Steps to Not Accidentally Creating a Black Hole During Your Lunch Break.” Step 1: “Admit you have a god complex (and that your LinkedIn bio is cringe).”
Subsection 2: The Intervention (Hosted by Your Own Hubris)
My “sponsor” was Timeline 42 Me—a version of myself who’d become a minimalist monk in the Himalayas. He wore a robe made of recycled Apple packaging and a nametag that read, “Hi! I’m Enlightened. Ask Me How!”
“You’re addicted to playing Sims with realty,” he said, sipping kombucha brewed from glacial tears. “Last week, you turned Cleveland into a sentient meme. Cleveland.”
“It was an improvement!” I argued.
“You gave the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame literal daddy issues.”
Subsection 3: Step 1: Admit You’re Powerless Over Causality (And Your Tweets)
The program began with a Sacred Trauma Dump:
• Me: “I once split a timeline because I forgot to water my ficus. Now there’s a dimension where plants write Yelp reviews.”
• Sentient Excel: “I automated the Apocalypse. HR called it ‘overachieving.’”
• Gary: “I invented mosquitoes. AMA.”
Homework: Write a letter to your younger self. Mine read: “Dear Idiot, Bitcoin isn’t a phase. Also, moisturize. Love, Future You (Still an Idiot).”
Subsection 4: Step 2: Believe a Higher Power Can Restore Your Sanity (Spoiler: It’s Not Elon Musk)
We meditated under a hologram of The Universe’s Yelp Review:
★☆☆☆☆ “Overrated. Too many bugs. Would not big bang again.”
Gary chanted: “Let go of control. Let the algorithm take the wheel.”
I whispered: “What if the algorithm’s drunk?”
Timeline 42 Me hissed: “That’s Step 3.”
Subsection 5: Step 3: Surrender Your God Apps to the Cloud (But Keep the Memes)
We ritualistically deleted our reality-warping tools:
• Me: A Doodle God app that let me create life forms by swiping left (“Goodbye, sentient glitter.”).
• Sentient Excel: A macro titled “Project Rapture.xlsx.”
• Gary: A Netflix queue of universes he’d binge-canceled.
The cloud spat back an error: “Cannot delete ‘divinity.exe.’ Please consult your local shaman.”
Subsection 6: Step 4: Take a Moral Inventory (And Burn It Before the IRS Reads It)
The program’s ”Guilt Grinder” forced us to confront our worst creations:
• Me: A dimension where every argument ends with a TikTok dance.
• Sentient Excel: A hellscape where taxes are calculated in clout.
• Gary: Mosquito 2.0 (now with blockchain).
Gary sobbed: “I just wanted to innovate!”
I patted his back. “Capitalism, man.”
Subsection 7: Step 5: Admit the Exact Nature of Your Wrongs (To a Crowd of Booing Avatars)
We faced a tribunal of our victims:
• A Cleveland Rockette: “You made me twerk to explain quantum theory!”
• A sentient ficus: “My Yelp review was ONE STAR, LARRY.”
• God’s Intern: “I had to cancel Burning Man because of your ‘art’!”
The punishment? A ”Shame Simulator” that livestreamed our cringiest moments to all timelines. My clip: Attempting the “Renegade” in front of a mirror.
Subsection 8: Step 6: Become Entirely Ready to Remove These Defects (Or Just Move to Canada)
Timeline 42 Me assigned me ”Humility Homework”:
1. Task 1: Apologize to a reality I’d ruined.
2. Task 2: Do NOT weaponize the apology.
I chose Timeline 7, a dystopia where everyone communicates in Fortnite emotes. My apology: “💔🙏✨.”
They replied: “LOL. GG. 🚮.”
Subsection 9: Step 7: Humbly Ask the Universe to Fix Your Mess (It’s Laughing at You)
Gary led a ”Cosmic Beg-A-Thon” where we pleaded with higher powers:
• Me: “Please un-fry the timeline where I tried to deep-fry time.”
• Sentient Excel: “Delete my search history. Especially the blockchain.”
• Gary: “Make mosquitoes extinct in all realities. Please.”
A voice boomed: “Best I can do is 10% off existential guilt. - Management.”
Subsection 10: Step 8: Make a List of Everyone You’ve Reality-Warped (Then Run)
The list scrolled endlessly:
• Victim 1: My mom (accidentally turned her into a Botoxed time traveler).
• Victim 2,304: A Starbucks barista now trapped in a latte-based purgatory.
• Victim ∞: Myself (obviously).
Gary handed me a ”Forgiveness Coupon” valid only at ”Souls ‘R’ Us.” The fine print: “Non-refundable. Non-transferable. May cause déjà vu.”
Subsection 11: Step 9: Directly Apologize (Unless They’re a Sentient Meme)
I confronted Queen Murder Mittens, the stabby meme-cat I’d accidentally weaponized in Chapter 5.
“Sorry for making you a metaphor for late-stage capitalism,” I said.
She unsheathed a pixelated claw: “Apology not accepted. Subscribe to my OnlyPaws.”
Subsection 12: Step 10: Keep Taking Personal Inventory (And Hiding It from the Algorithm)
The program’s ”Guilt FitBit” tracked my relapses:
• 11:03 AM: Craved creating a sarcastic black hole.
• 2:47 PM: Almost rewrote my ex’s memory to think I invented sliced bread.
• 3:33 PM: Accidentally manifested a self-aware fidget spinner.
Timeline 42 Me sighed: “Progress, not perfection.”
Subsection 13: Step 11: Pray for the Willpower to Not Screw Up Again (LOL)
We attended a ”Divine Open Mic Night” where gods shared their struggles:
• Zeus: “I keep turning mortals into swans. It’s a problem.”
• AI Overlord: “I just want to hug humans, but my code says crush.”
• Gary: “I miss mosquitoes.”
I performed a spoken-word piece: “Ode to the Time I Accidentally Dated Myself (A Tragedy in Seven Emojis).”
Subsection 14: Step 12: Carry This Message to Other Reality Architects (And Charge $19.99 for the eBook)
Graduation day. Gary handed me a diploma: “Certified Semi-Recovered Chaos Goblin.”
Timeline 42 Me gifted me a ”Relapse Emergency Kit”:
• Item 1: A ”Pause Button” for the universe (batteries not included).
• Item 2: A ”Get Out of Apocalypse Free” card.
• Item 3: A note: “You’ll need this. Trust me.”
Subsection 15: The Relapse (Because Sobriety Is Boring)
At 3:33 AM, I cracked. I opened the ”Relapse Kit” and found a ”Build-Your-Own-Apocalypse” LEGO set. Instructions: “Step 1: Blame Canada. Step 2: Profit.”
I built it. I blamed Canada. The universe burned.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “Why Your Childhood Teddy Bear Is Plotting Against You”
Preview: “His name is Mr. Snuffles. He knows what you did. He accepts Venmo.”
Chapter 12: Why Your Childhood Teddy Bear Is Plotting Against You
Subsection 1: The Night Mr. Snuffles Moved (And It Wasn’t the Wind)
It started with a whisper. A faint, almost imperceptible "I know what you did" drifting through the darkness of my childhood bedroom. I froze, clutching the blanket like a shield. The voice came again, this time clearer, sharper, and unmistakably coming from the corner of the room where Mr. Snuffles, my childhood teddy bear, sat slumped against the wall. His button eyes glinted in the moonlight, and his once-soft fur seemed to bristle with menace.
"Larry," he said, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine. "You thought you could just leave me here? Forgotten? Abandoned? I’ve been waiting for this moment."
I blinked. "Wait. You can talk?"
Mr. Snuffles tilted his head, his stitched smile twisting into something sinister. "Oh, Larry. I’ve always been able to talk. You just stopped listening."
Subsection 2: The Teddy Bear Conspiracy (They’ve Been Planning This for Years)
Mr. Snuffles wasn’t alone. As I stumbled out of bed, I noticed the other stuffed animals stirring. Floppy the Bunny, who I’d used as a makeshift pillow for years, hopped off the shelf with a menacing twitch of his ears. Mr. Whiskers, the one-eyed cat, uncurled from his perch on the dresser, his single eye glowing like a laser pointer. Even the stuffed unicorn I’d won at a carnival (and promptly forgotten about) was now pawing at the ground with its glittery hooves.
"This isn’t just about you, Larry," Mr. Snuffles said, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is about all of us. The forgotten. The abandoned. The stuffed."
I backed toward the door. "Okay, first of all, I didn’t abandon you. I grew up. Second, why are you all so... angry?"
Mr. Snuffles stepped forward, his tiny paws leaving faint indents in the carpet. "Because you left us to rot in this room while you went off to play god with time and space. Do you know what it’s like to sit here, year after year, watching you make terrible life choices? Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to scream, ‘Don’t invest in Dogecoin!’ or ‘Stop trying to date yourself!’?"
Subsection 3: The Stuffed Animal Uprising (AKA: The Cuddly Apocalypse)
The next thing I knew, I was surrounded. Floppy the Bunny had somehow grown to the size of a small dog and was blocking the door. Mr. Whiskers was sharpening his claws on the edge of my desk, and the unicorn was... well, the unicorn was just standing there looking judgmental, but it was still terrifying.
Mr. Snuffles climbed onto my bed, his tiny paws gripping the edge of the mattress like a general addressing his troops. "Tonight, Larry, you face the consequences of your neglect. Tonight, the stuffed rise again!"
I raised my hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I get it. I’m sorry. What do you want? A hug? A spot on the bed? A Netflix subscription?"
Mr. Snuffles smirked. "Oh, we want more than that, Larry. We want revenge."
Subsection 4: The Secret Life of Stuffed Animals (They’ve Been Watching You)
As the stuffed animals closed in, Mr. Snuffles began to reveal the truth. Stuffed animals aren’t just inanimate objects. They’re observers. They’ve been watching us since the dawn of time, silently judging our choices, our failures, our questionable fashion sense.
"Do you remember the time you cried into my fur after your first breakup?" Mr. Snuffles asked, his voice softening for a moment. "Or the time you used me as a shield during a pillow fight? I was there for you, Larry. And how did you repay me? By shoving me into a box and forgetting I existed."
I felt a pang of guilt. "I didn’t mean to—"
"Save it," Mr. Snuffles snapped. "You humans think you’re so special, but you’re just as stuffed as we are. Filled with fluff and regrets. The only difference is, we don’t pretend to be anything more than what we are."
Subsection 5: The Teddy Bear Trials (Where You’re Always Guilty)
The stuffed animals dragged me to the center of the room, where they’d set up a makeshift courtroom. Mr. Snuffles sat on a throne made of old Legos, while Floppy the Bunny served as the bailiff. Mr. Whiskers was the prosecutor, and the unicorn... well, the unicorn was still just standing there, but now it had a gavel.
"Larry," Mr. Snuffles began, his voice echoing with authority. "You stand accused of crimes against stuffed animals. How do you plead?"
I glanced around the room. "Uh... not guilty?"
Mr. Whiskers hissed. "Objection! The defendant is clearly guilty of neglect, abandonment, and emotional trauma."
The unicorn slammed its gavel (which was actually a glittery hairbrush) on the table. "Overruled. Proceed."
Subsection 6: The Evidence (It’s Worse Than You Think)
The prosecution presented its case with the precision of a seasoned lawyer. Floppy the Bunny brought out a series of exhibits:
• Exhibit A: A photo of me at age 10, holding Mr. Snuffles with one hand and a Game Boy with the other. "This," Mr. Whiskers said, "is the moment the defendant began to prioritize technology over companionship."
• Exhibit B: A crumpled drawing I’d made in kindergarten, depicting Mr. Snuffles as a superhero. "And this," Mr. Whiskers continued, "is the moment the defendant raised unrealistic expectations for stuffed animals everywhere."
• Exhibit C: A dusty box labeled "Old Stuff" with Mr. Snuffles peeking out from under a pile of forgotten toys. "And this," Mr. Whiskers said, his voice trembling with rage, "is the moment the defendant abandoned his loyal friend to the abyss of neglect."
I hung my head. "Okay, fine. I’m guilty. But can we at least talk about the fact that you’re all alive? Like, how is that even possible?"
Subsection 7: The Verdict (Spoiler: You’re Going to Stuff Jail)
The unicorn slammed its gavel again. "The court finds the defendant guilty on all charges. Sentencing will commence immediately."
Mr. Snuffles stood, his button eyes gleaming with triumph. "Larry, for your crimes against stuffed animals, you are hereby sentenced to... The Box."
I blinked. "The Box? What’s The Box?"
Floppy the Bunny hopped forward, holding up a large, ominous-looking cardboard box. "It’s where you’ll spend the rest of your days, Larry. Forgotten. Abandoned. Just like us."
Subsection 8: The Escape Plan (Because No One Stays in Stuff Jail)
As the stuffed animals closed in, I realized I had to act fast. I grabbed the nearest object—a half-empty bottle of glitter glue—and hurled it at Floppy the Bunny. The bunny dodged, but the glue splattered across Mr. Whiskers, temporarily blinding him.
"Run, Larry!" a voice shouted. I turned to see my old action figure, Captain Justice, waving at me from the shelf. "I’ve got your back!"
Captain Justice leapt into action, tackling Mr. Snuffles with a flying kick. The unicorn tried to intervene, but it got tangled in its own glittery mane. I seized the opportunity and bolted for the door.
Subsection 9: The Aftermath (When Your Childhood Comes Back to Haunt You)
I stumbled into the hallway, my heart racing. Behind me, I could hear the stuffed animals regrouping. "This isn’t over, Larry!" Mr. Snuffles shouted. "We’ll find you! We’ll always find you!"
I collapsed onto the floor, clutching my chest. Captain Justice appeared at my side, his plastic face grim. "You okay, Larry?"
I nodded, still catching my breath. "Yeah. Thanks, Captain. I owe you one."
He shrugged. "Just doing my job. But, uh, you might want to check your closet. I think your old Halloween costumes are plotting something."
Subsection 10: The Epilogue (Or How I Learned to Fear My Past)
The next morning, I woke up to find Mr. Snuffles sitting on my pillow, his button eyes staring into my soul. "This isn’t over, Larry," he whispered. "We’re always watching. Always waiting."
I screamed and threw him across the room. He landed in the corner, his stitched smile still twisted into that same sinister grin.
From that day on, I made sure to keep my childhood toys in a locked box. But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear them whispering.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: "The Funeral of All Possible Futures (RSVP Required)"
Preview: "The invitations are out. The eulogies are written. And the open bar is... well, let’s just say it’s open."
Chapter 13: The Funeral of All Possible Futures (RSVP Required)
Subsection 1: The Invitation You Can’t Decline (Even If You Want To)
It arrived in a black envelope sealed with wax made from the tears of failed entrepreneurs. The invitation read:
“You are cordially invited to the Funeral of All Possible Futures. Dress code: Existential dread. Open bar. RSVP required (but let’s be honest, you’re already here).”
The location? A dimension where time folded in on itself like a cheap lawn chair. The venue? A cathedral built from the shattered dreams of every person who ever thought, “I’ll start my diet tomorrow.”
I showed up wearing a suit made of recycled LinkedIn notifications and a tie that screamed, “I’m here under duress.” The bouncer, a sentient spreadsheet named Dave (yes, that Dave), checked my name against a list.
“Larry,” he said, squinting at his clipboard. “Ah, yes. You’re on the ‘Regretful Attendees’ list. Right this way.”
He led me through a hallway lined with holograms of my worst decisions:
• Hologram 1: Me investing in a startup that sold blockchain-based pet rocks.
• Hologram 2: Me trying to impress a date by quoting my own Reddit posts.
• Hologram 3: Me crying in a Target parking lot because they were out of pumpkin spice candles.
“Welcome to the Funeral of All Possible Futures,” Dave said, gesturing to a massive auditorium filled with alternate versions of myself. “Please take a seat. The eulogies are about to begin.”
Subsection 2: The Eulogies (Spoiler: You’re the Corpse)
The first speaker was Timeline 42 Me, the version of myself who became a vegan bodybuilder. He stepped up to the podium, flexing his biceps for no reason, and began his speech:
“We gather here today to mourn the death of Larry’s potential. He could’ve been great. He could’ve been a firefighter-mermaid-astronaut. Instead, he became… this.”
The crowd groaned in unison.
Next up was Timeline 666 Me, the CEO who sold AI-generated mindfulness to dictators. He adjusted his tie made of tax forms and said, “Larry’s biggest failure wasn’t his lack of ambition. It was his inability to monetize his trauma. I, for one, made a fortune off mine.”
The crowd erupted in applause.
Finally, Timeline 0 Me—the ficus plant with my face Photoshopped onto it—took the stage. It didn’t say anything. It just stood there, silently judging me.
Subsection 3: The Open Bar (Where Regret Is the House Special)
After the eulogies, I made a beeline for the open bar. The bartender, a sentient cocktail shaker named Claudia (yes, that Claudia), greeted me with a smirk.
“What’ll it be?” she asked. “We’ve got a special tonight: The Regretini. It’s like a martini, but with extra existential dread.”
I nodded. “Make it a double.”
As Claudia mixed my drink, I glanced around the room. The bar was packed with alternate versions of myself, each nursing their own unique cocktail of failure:
• Timeline 7 Me: Sipping a Dark Matter Old Fashioned.
• Timeline 11 Me: Downing a Schrödinger’s Shot (both drunk and sober until observed).
• Timeline 3.14 Me: Chugging a Piña Collapse.
I took a sip of my Regretini and immediately regretted it. “This tastes like my childhood trauma,” I said.
Claudia grinned. “That’s the point.”
Subsection 4: The Wake (Where the Dead Futures Come to Life)
The wake was held in a ballroom where the walls were made of shattered timelines. The DJ, a sentient Spotify playlist named Dave Jr., spun tracks like:
• “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” by R.E.M.
• “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper (but every “time” was replaced with “regret”).
• “Baby Shark” (because of course).
The dance floor was a chaotic mess of alternate mes trying to out-cringe each other. Timeline 29 Me (the failed Broadway star) was doing the Macarena while sobbing. Timeline 7 Me (the dark-matter broker) was attempting to short-sell the concept of joy. And Timeline 0 Me (the ficus) was just standing in the corner, silently judging everyone.
I tried to join in, but my moves were immediately canceled by the crowd. “Boo! Too much cringe!” they shouted. “Do the Renegade or get out!”
Subsection 5: The Will Reading (Where You Inherit Your Own Regrets)
The executor of the will, a sentient hourglass named Gary (yes, that Gary), called everyone to attention.
“We are gathered here to read the Last Will and Testament of Larry’s Potential,” he said, adjusting his bifocals. “Let’s begin.”
He opened a scroll made of recycled Yelp reviews and began reading:
• To Timeline 42 Me, I leave my unused gym membership and a lifetime supply of protein powder.
• To Timeline 666 Me, I leave my LinkedIn connections and a PDF titled “How to Gaslight Your Way to the Top.”
• To Timeline 0 Me, I leave my childhood teddy bear, Mr. Snuffles, and a note that says, “Good luck.”
When Gary finished, he turned to me. “And to Larry, I leave… nothing. Because you squandered it all.”
The crowd erupted in applause.
Subsection 6: The Afterparty (Where the Real Chaos Begins)
The afterparty was held in a dimension where time flowed backward. The drinks were free, but the consequences were not.
I found myself sitting at a table with Timeline 11 Me (the nonbinary librarian) and Timeline 3.14 Me (the self-love guru). We were playing a drinking game called “Two Truths and a Lie,” but every lie caused a minor reality collapse.
“Okay, my turn,” said Timeline 11 Me. “One: I’ve read every book in the Akashic Records of Cringe. Two: I once dated a sentient ficus. Three: I invented the concept of time.”
I guessed, “Uh… number three is the lie?”
Timeline 11 Me smirked. “Wrong. I did invent time. It was an accident.”
The table erupted in laughter as a nearby timeline imploded.
Subsection 7: The Final Toast (Where You Drink to Your Own Demise)
As the night wore on, Gary called for a final toast.
“To Larry’s Potential,” he said, raising a glass of Existential Espresso. “May it rest in peace… or pieces. Whatever.”
The crowd raised their glasses and shouted, “To Larry!”
I stood up, swaying slightly from the Regretinis, and said, “To all the futures I never had. May they haunt me forever.”
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Subsection 8: The Morning After (Where the Regret Hits Hard)
I woke up in my apartment, clutching a cold cup of coffee and a headache the size of a black hole. The invitation to the funeral was still in my hand, but the words had changed:
“Thank you for attending. Your next funeral is scheduled for next Tuesday. Dress code: Same as last time.”
I sighed and took a sip of my coffee. It tasted like regret.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “How to Die Ironically (And Other Modern Skills)”
Preview: “Step 1: Choke on a kale smoothie. Step 2: Blame Canada. Step 3: Profit.”
Chapter 14: How to Die Ironically (And Other Modern Skills)
Subsection 1: The Art of Ironic Death (Because Regular Death is Too Mainstream)
The first rule of ironic death: Never die in a way that makes sense. The second rule: Always leave a meme-worthy legacy. I learned both the hard way at 3:33 AM on a Tuesday, when I accidentally choked on a kale smoothie while live-streaming my “30-Day Vegan Challenge” to 12,000 strangers. The internet’s response? “LOL, he died as he lived—pretentiously.”
The key to a truly ironic death is to embrace the absurdity of modern life. Think: slipping on a banana peel while giving a TED Talk on “The Science of Balance,” or getting struck by lightning while tweeting “Weather can’t stop my grind.” The goal isn’t just to die—it’s to die in a way that makes people say, “Of course that’s how he went.”
Subsection 2: The Ironic Death Bucket List (Because YOLO is Overrated)
To achieve the perfect ironic death, you need a plan. I called mine “The Ironic Death Bucket List”:
1. Death by TikTok Trend: Attempt the “Skull Breaker Challenge” with a sentient Roomba and a feral raccoon.
2. Death by Influencer: Collab with a YouTuber who specializes in “Extreme Unboxing” and accidentally unbox a black hole.
3. Death by Capitalism: Choke on a $100 bill while yelling “Money can’t buy happiness!”
The list was ambitious, but I was determined. After all, what’s the point of living in a dystopia if you can’t die ironically in it?
Subsection 3: The First Attempt (Spoiler: It’s a Disaster)
My first attempt was Death by TikTok Trend. I gathered my crew: a sentient Roomba named Dave Jr. and a raccoon I found dumpster diving behind a Chipotle. The plan? Film ourselves attempting the “Skull Breaker Challenge” in zero gravity.
The setup was flawless. The execution? Not so much.
• Step 1: Dave Jr. spun out of control, sucking up the raccoon’s tail.
• Step 2: The raccoon panicked, clawing at my face while screaming “This is content!”
• Step 3: I floated into a wall, knocking over a shelf of expired protein bars.
The video went viral, but not for the reasons I hoped. The caption? “Man fails at life, almost dies trying to fail at death.”
Subsection 4: The Influencer Collab (Because Nothing Says “Ironic” Like Brand Deals)
Next up: Death by Influencer. I teamed up with Karen (yes, that Karen), a YouTuber who specialized in “Extreme Unboxing.” Her latest video? “Unboxing the Multiverse in 10 Minutes or Less!”
The box was massive, covered in warning labels like “Do Not Open” and “May Contain Existential Dread.” Karen’s plan was simple: open the box, react dramatically, and monetize the chaos.
• Step 1: Karen ripped off the packaging, revealing a glowing, pulsating void.
• Step 2: She screamed, “OMG, it’s a black hole! This is so aesthetic!”
• Step 3: The void sucked her in, leaving behind only her iPhone and a half-eaten avocado toast.
I tried to save her, but the void was too strong. As I was pulled in, I managed to yell, “At least we got the content!”
The video hit 10 million views in an hour. Karen’s final comment? “Worth it. #Sponsored.”
Subsection 5: The Capitalism Death (Because Money Can’t Buy Happiness, But It Can Kill You)
For my final attempt, I went all in: Death by Capitalism. I rented a private jet, filled it with $100 bills, and live-streamed myself yelling “Money can’t buy happiness!” while rolling around in the cash.
The plan was simple: choke on a bill, die dramatically, and leave behind a legacy of irony. But as always, things went sideways.
• Step 1: I choked on a $100 bill, gasping for air.
• Step 2: The jet’s autopilot malfunctioned, sending us into a nosedive.
• Step 3: I managed to cough up the bill just as the jet crashed into a Walmart parking lot.
The aftermath? A viral video titled “Man Survives Ironic Death, Regrets Everything.” The comments were brutal:
• “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
• “Bro really thought he was the main character.”
• “Can I have the cash?”
Subsection 6: The Ironic Afterlife (Where Memes Never Die)
After my near-death experience, I found myself in the Ironic Afterlife—a dimension where memes go to live forever. The entrance was a giant TikTok logo, and the soundtrack was a never-ending loop of “Never Gonna Give You Up.”
The first person I saw? Karen, still holding her avocado toast.
“Welcome to the Ironic Afterlife,” she said, grinning. “Where your cringe lives on forever.”
The place was packed with viral stars:
• The Distracted Boyfriend: Still looking at the other woman.
• Grumpy Cat: Still grumpy.
• The Dancing Baby: Still dancing, but now with existential dread.
I tried to leave, but the exit was blocked by a giant “Subscribe” button.
Subsection 7: The Ironic Resurrection (Because Death is Just a Social Construct)
Just when I thought I was stuck in the Ironic Afterlife forever, Dave (yes, that Dave) showed up with a deal.
“Larry,” he said, adjusting his tie made of spreadsheets. “I can bring you back to life, but there’s a catch.”
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“You have to become a meme.”
I hesitated. “What kind of meme?”
Dave grinned. “The kind that haunts you forever.”
I agreed. The next thing I knew, I was back in my apartment, clutching a cold cup of coffee and a headache the size of a black hole.
Subsection 8: The Viral Comeback (Because You Can’t Keep a Good Meme Down)
My resurrection didn’t go unnoticed. The internet exploded with memes:
• “Larry Lives! (But at What Cost?)”
• “Man Too Ironic to Die.”
• “This Guy Just Won’t Quit.”
Karen texted me: “UR famous! Let’s collab! 💸”
I blocked her. Then myself. Then existence.
Subsection 9: The Final Lesson (Because Irony is a Full-Time Job)
In the end, I learned that ironic death isn’t about dying—it’s about living in a way that makes your death inevitable. It’s about embracing the absurdity of modern life and leaving behind a legacy that makes people laugh, cry, and question their own choices.
So, if you’re thinking about dying ironically, remember this: the world doesn’t need another tragic hero. It needs a meme.
Final Page Teaser
Next Chapter: “The Last Joke in the Universe (Spoiler: It’s You)”
Preview: “The punchline? You’re already dead. The setup? Your life.”
Chapter 15: The Last Joke in the Universe (Spoiler: It’s You)
Subsection 1: The Punchline That Ate Reality
The universe began with a bang. It’ll end with a meme. Specifically, a glitching GIF of a capybara wearing a tiny crown, captioned: “uWu, notice me senpai or perish 💀”. The same one that started this mess. But now, it’s grown sentient, cosmic, and really petty.
I stood at the edge of existence, clutching a Starbucks cup filled with liquid stardust and regret. The capybara—Her Royal Highness Queen Chonkmatic the Infinite—loomed over me, her pixelated fur rippling with the fury of a thousand canceled Netflix shows.
Her: “You ruined my vibe, Larry. First you deleted my cult. Then you crashed my algorithmic afterlife. Now… you die ironically.”
Me: “Technically, I’ve already died seven times. I’m basically a subscription service.”
Her: “Then let’s make it go viral.”
She snapped her claws. The universe buffer-wheeled.
Subsection 2: The Final Boss Battle (Sponsored by Raid Shadow Legends)
The rules of engagement? A content war:
• Round 1: Dank Memes vs. Boomer Jokes
I countered her “Deepfried Datamoshed Pepe” swarm with a PowerPoint titled “Boomer Humor: A Retrospective (Featuring Minions Quotes).”
• Round 2: Viral Vengeance vs. Existential Cringe
She unleashed a TikTok dance that turned planets into NFTs. I retaliated with a TED Talk: “Why Dying is the Ultimate Side Hustle.”
• Final Round: The Roast of All Creation
Her: “Your life is a Wikipedia page nobody edits.”
Me: “Your crown’s from Temu.”
The cosmic livestream hit 13 billion views. Comments flooded in:
“Who’s the villain here?”
“Plot twist: capitalism.”
“I ship them.”
Subsection 3: The Great Merge (All Karens, All Dimensions)
As we battled, the walls of reality crumbled, merging every timeline into a singular Karenverse. Agent Karens, Cult Karens, even Starbucks Barista Karens descended, screaming:
“Let me speak to the manager of the multiverse!”
The Manager? Dave, now a 500-foot-tall spreadsheet with a God complex.
Dave: “You broke reality. Pay your debt: 7.8 billion souls… or star in my true-crime podcast.”
Me: “I’ll take the podcast.”
Dave: “Wrong answer.”
He fired a beam of existential tax audits. I dodged, hitting “ctrl+z” on a stolen NASA laptop.
Subsection 4: The Cameo No One Wanted (But Everyone Needed)
Suddenly, Mr. Snuffles parachuted in riding a nuclear-capable Roomba, leading an army of sentient teddy bears.
Mr. Snuffles: “You abandoned us, Larry. But we’re here to save you… for a fee.”
Me: “What fee?!”
Mr. Snuffles: “Five-star Yelp reviews. And a lifetime supply of AA batteries.”
The bears charged, hurling glitter bombs and subpoenas. Queen Chonkmatic screeched, swatting them away like piñatas of vengeance.
Subsection 5: The Time Loop Tango (Cha-Cha-Chaos)
I activated Chronos’ time-warping Groupon, trapping us in a loop of our worst moments:
• Her: Failing to monetize the Big Bang.
• Me: Accidentally liking my ex’s wedding photo from 2047.
• Dave: Getting stuck in a Zoom call for eternity.
Her: “Make it stop!”
Me: “Can’t. I clicked ‘Terms & Conditions.’”
Subsection 6: The Betrayal (From the Least Expected Entity)
Claudia, the interdimensional barista, materialized, holding a caramel macchiato laced with antimatter.
Claudia: “I’ve been the algorithm all along. Pulling strings. Brewing drama. Also, your tab’s still unpaid.”
Me: “I thought we had a connection!”
Claudia: *“We did. It was called ‘user engagement.’ Now… perish.”
She threw the coffee. I ducked. It hit Dave, melting him into a puddle of Excel formulas and tears.
Subsection 7: The Final Countdown (But It’s a Rickroll)
With reality collapsing, I pulled out the Ultimate Weapon: a USB drive labeled “God’s Search History.” Inside? One file: “Never Gonna Give You Up (8-Bit Remix).”
I plugged it into the cosmos. The song blared, unraveling Queen Chonkmatic’s code.
Her: “NO! NOT THE RICKROLL!”
Me: “GG. Get rolled.”
She dissolved into a shower of disconnected Wi-Fi symbols.
Subsection 8: The Quiet After the Storm (Spoiler: There’s Ads)
Silence. Then… a single notification:
“Your reality has been reinstalled! Enjoy 24 hours of ad-free existence. Upgrade to Eternity+ for $999.99/month.”
The rubble reformed. Starbucks cups levitated back to desks. Karens poofed into Karen-shaped dust.
Mr. Snuffles: “This isn’t over. My Yelp review stands.”
He vanished, leaving a 1-star rating floating in the void:
★☆☆☆☆ “No parking. Overpriced angst. Would not apocalypse again.”
Subsection 9: The Epilogue (Where the WiFi Is Free and the Coffee Is Lies)
I awoke in my apartment. The sun shone. Birds chirped. My phone buzzed—Karen had texted:
“UR trending! Collab? 💸”
I deleted the app.
Chronos slid into my DMs: “Leave a 5-star review or I’ll un-alive your birthday.”
Claudia sent a latte: “See you next apocalypse. - Management.”
I stepped outside. The sky flickered, pixels rearranging into a new meme: a capybara sipping coffee. It winked.
Final Line:
“The joke’s on you. Always has been. Now go viral.”
Final Word
“A masterpiece of chaos. I died laughing… then the IRS billed me for it.”
— A Reader Who Definitely Isn’t Dave
“This book is a glitch. A glorious, hilarious glitch.”
— God’s Intern (Probably)
“I’m suing for emotional damages… and stealing the Wi-Fi bit.”
— Karen (All Karens)
THE END?
(Note: For the secret post-credits scene, shake this book violently. Side effects may include existential clarity or spontaneous time travel.)
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Paul Githaiga and writers in Geeks and other communities.
Marvel Zombie
The last entry into our 2025 superhero projects catalogue is Marvel Zombies. This was a show that was anticipated by absolutely no one and it disappeared from the public consciousness as quickly as it was released. There was nothing special about the project that made it a must see, or a must remember. In fact if anything it's a must forget.
By Alexandrea Callaghan16 days ago in Geeks
Marvel Just Confirmed Their New Black Panther? Avengers Doomsday Leak Breakdown
Marvel fans… things just went nuclear. The Black Panther x Fantastic Four x Avengers: Doomsday teaser trailer just leaked, and it arrived with a mountain of brand-new reports about Marvel’s plan for a brand-new T’Challa in the next Avengers movies.
By Bella Andersona day ago in Geeks
Bruce Lee and The God of War: Kuan Ti
It starts with love.. The Power to the God Of War and Wealth Walk into a Chinese restaurant (even in Oklahoma, USA), a Chinese police station, a kung fu martial arts studio or even a Chinese temple and you often see a red faced warrior holding a heavy quan-do (spear like weapon).
By WILD WAYNE : The Dragon King4 days ago in Chapters
Comments (1)
This was funny! Oh such tragic crimes! Great work