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They say life is better remembered than experienced, and Grassy heavily agrees on that sentiment because what the actual fuck was his childhood all about back there.
Grassy laid in his unwashed, rotting bed, after sleeping all day: the sun just came down, and he’s been feeling quite sick as of lately, so he’s just been staying in bed. He decides to recall some of his older memories when a sudden nerve spike makes him sucks his teeth: shit, his memory’s not all that good right now and his head hurts like fuck. But the guy tries anyways to recall, what else does he have to do other than stare at the ceiling?
Okay, so: he used to be a young motherfucker without any parental supervision, he joined this gameshow and then got locked up against his will. Years passed, and suddenly he found himself free from confinement again. At one point he made friends with some guy: they both went on and did some crazy shit, but when that gameshow wasn’t going, on he could remember just hanging out with his friend in their room, and being passed a very life-changing blunt. Grassy may have not remembered what name or object his old friend was, since it’s probably been decades since they last talked, but he felt thankful for them introducing him to weed.
His first thought was that this was serious dad lore he noticed after recalling; if only Grassy could actually find himself a wife to splurt inside all of her holes and then have 3000 tots with for that matter. Second—Grassy clasped his hand on his forehead, shit this headache’s killing him, maybe he should just go back to sleep.
A few slow blinks and then a low yawn. It’s enough to assume that he doesn’t feel tired enough to sleep; he did just sleep for 10 hours already.
Well, if that’s the case. Grassy knows the second best thing whenever coming to a road block with anything: rotting in his computer chair instead of his bed. The constant strain of screens on his eyes will make him want to go to bed sooner or later—but most likely later.
Grassy emerges out of the bed: gee his room is a fucking dump full of packaged snack wrappers, fast food bags and empty cans of soda and beer everywhere. Damn bro, you live like this? Yes, yes he does, it’s why nobody except him ever comes here; Grassy would be fucked to know that people were coming over to visit him. It’s probably why he hasn’t talked to any of his friends in years; they likely forgot who he is, and that’s okay since he’s forgot about them too.
Stepping in the carefully curated garbage-free pathway made in his room. Grassy grunts while sitting down, and begins sagging in his chair like a ragdoll. His desk was also just as gross as the rest of his room, filled with used tissues, crumbs, and empty chip bags. Garbage aside, Grassy’s desk had nothing except his PC, and a dirty ass bong that smells like shit and clouds his focus whenever he’s gaming.
Fuck, maybe he should clean this place up… he’ll do it later.
In hindsight, Grassy’s room is actually very minimally furnished: he only has his bed, desk, computer chair, PC, bong, and that’s about it; he charges his phone on the floor, in a spot that’s miraculously clear from all the trash. If anything it’s probably just all the garbage that’s making his room seem fuller than it really is.
Idling in his chair, Grassy quivered; he feels congested—but in a way where he can still breathe, but the feeling’s still there regardless. He rubbed his tired eyes and then turned on his computer, pressing the enter key on instinct as the screen appears on the GRUB for a split second and then vanishing as quick as it entered.
And then the blue light gave his eyes whiplash—Grassy rapidly pressed the “lower brightness” key while shielding his eyes.
Once his eyes could adjust properly, there was Grassy’s desktop: there was the good ‘ol anime wallpaper, just like how all the other total failures his age tend to share in common. Due to the advantage of him living alone, his desktop wallpaper was basically just one step away from cartoon pornography—or ahem, “hentai”—of 2d object women.
It’s unlike your work computer by any means, you get to play and watch porn all you want on this thing.
It’s time to have super loads lots of fun fun funtime on here, Grassy.
He has fun on his computer.
He has fun on his computer.
He has fun on his computer.
He has fun on his computer.
He has
He has fun on his computer.
He has fun on his computer.
He has fun on his computer.
He has fun on his computer.
He has fun on his computer.
He has lots of fun on his computer.
He has so much fun his teeth falls out from laughing on stupid fucking feline devil videos so hard, hee hee ha ha so much fun fun I love fun on my computer so much fun fun. I love the internet love love love it, the internet has everything and you get to watch and watch until your optic nerves burn off and your eyeballs rest in your sack pebble-filled lap and then you still continue to laugh and click and click until you become fucking dust fuck dust I hate dust shit shit this room’s a fucking mess god fucking damn it.
Grassy flinched. His heart was racing and his chest was rattling. He grasped the ledge of the desk infront of him: shit, he spent too much time on here—16 hours or something? Grassy’s ears didn’t even register all of the singing birds, he just begun to notice the black sky beginning to appear more and more blue from looking off to the side at the window. His head pounded and his ears rung—shit this is so fucking painful—turning off the computer didn’t help. Grassy’s legs ached as they both sluggishly guided him back into the dull comfort of his bed.
Even sinking in this mattress this room’s all spinning. His headache probably worsened from staring at all of those screens, instead of just taking medicine and laying down like a normal regular object being. Grassy’s fucking stupid in that sense, but at least Grassy knows that he’s starving and needs to piss. No matter what he just doesn’t have it in him to leave this room.
Grassy just decides to hold it in: he’s not a fucking animal that hoards piss jugs, he can go to the toliet all fine and dandy whenever he needs (the bathroom’s probably the cleanest part of his entire house anyways). If anything he probably could just actually piss in the bed like a very old grandpa, the piss stain would seamlessly blend in with this castrating shit mess that is this room anyways.
Speaking of that, this room fucking sucks; this bed fucking sucks. Nothing smells bad or anything but being this room is already suffocating enough; having electric fans around used to help, but now all of those fans are chocked up full of dust and are just stupid paperweights who produce monotonous whirring noises to blow out your ears and mind. He can’t seem to properly reach and take those fans out without knocking over a dozen cans, therefore the fans just became apart of the trash overtime he’d guess.
Even when his eyes are closed, Grassy can still sense the presence of all that trash from behind his eyelids. It’s a miracle how buggies haven’t infested his place yet, but he feels it’s gonna be inevitable one day if he keeps this shit up. Grassy’s head floods with flashing images of his house hypothetically burning down due to the mess being a fire hazard; groteqsue mental inages of bug and rodent infestations.
He’s seen those bedroom cleaning videos on the internet before, he’s seen photos of people’s messy rooms before: they always fucking scare him especially the biohazard ones with all of those bugs and maggots. It’s kind of hypocritical for Grassy to feel disgusted, really. If he’s such a clean freak this room would already be spotless by now—but making stupid promises like that already shoots himself in the foot anyways, so Grassy doesn’t even try.
But, sometimes those videos do act like a wake up call to him, where Grassy’s mind becomes really fixated on the idea of cleaning this place up—note, ‘fixated’ not ‘focused’—but if he’s gonna actually clean this place up, Grassy knows full well he can only do this alone. He doesn’t really trust anyone to do it for him; especially not any family members, nor some random team of professionals. Allowing people to go through all your shit and every corner of your house is like the same level of intimacy as a pap smear or a prostate exam for fuck sakes.
Oh, what is he gonna do. Grassy just feels too tired and sick to do anything—he’s the type to only start eating once he starts shaking, for fuck sakes—he’s never going to clean this by himself, but he doesn’t want others to even look at his house while it’s in this state: it’s a vicious cycle in which he doesn’t feel equipped to battle. Looks like this is just how his home’s gonna be like for the rest of his days.
His life fucking sucks: he’s single, has no friends. No goals, hopes—nothing to look even forward to, it’s all just the same shit he’s given everyday: but now he can barely find himself leaving the house anymore, but as in leaving for his own sake, Grassy is out there eight hours a day in the jungle both working and occasionally shopping for groceries with loud crying families near him, all only to still spend more in this bed than any being under the age of six months.
But in the scenario where if he ever loses that job of his, then there’d be no hope; he’d just admit defeat and fall into the NEET lifestyle until it claims him in it’s monstrous love. He honestly can’t remember the last time he spoke to his family—nor anyone for that matter, he hasn’t tried making any new friends in a long time. Everyday is so fucking boring, and he has no hobbies; whatever hobbies are for those rich annoying smiling assholes who say they are happy with loads of money to blow it out on useless decorations anyways. Not to mention that his room is still a fucking dump even after all of this complaining.
He feels like a useless, incompotent, mindless husk just idling around and waiting to die.
The only time he isn’t feeling sad as fuck is whenever he’s smoking, drunk or watching porn, and even then those activities are starting to become dull to him. This is just like how he feels with gaming: it was an alright method of escapism when he was a teenager, but now gaming’s not even fun anymore; especially considering that layer of greasy nasal film from his bong that over powers most of his memories nowadays.
Grassy starts to think on how he should just kill himself already.
…
He thought about that and all of it’s inner subjects before Grassy finally tuckered himself out with his thoughts. Oh well, he doesn’t really have the fucking time nor resources to plan a suicide attempt right now; god forbid he wants to subject random people to cleaning up this dump when he dies. God forbid he’d get an extravagant funeral after being such a useless leech to everyone in his life: Grassy would rather to just decompose in his home before they could bury his body in a coffin anyways.
Grassy noticed he’s been having these suicidal thoughts every day now, especially whenever he starts to think deeply on his personal life. One part of him is telling him to actually improve his piece of shit life, while the other part of him is telling him to just sink deeper into his fantasies until the real life cancels out.
No matter what choice he'd make there, every day ends the same. It ends in him weakly staring at the arising sun with cloudy eyes, wrapped up while he drifts off; usually dreamless, as not even sleep can provide him an escape, this is a bullshit world he lives in. A bullshit world where he’s always dissapointed when he wakes up, and sad as fuck right when he goes to bed.