Status Update:

I regret to inform you that I have transcended sleep and entered a new realm of suffering. I passed out in my obscenely overpriced, luxurious gaming chair, only to awaken as one with it. Not metaphorically, spiritually. Chemically. Possibly legally.

Some utterly psycho goblin, clearly fueled by internal struggle and expired Mountain Dew, has gorilla glued my entire existence to this luxurious gaming chair. I am no longer a man. I am no longer the man I once was, and have now avoided every possibilty of the man I could have become. I sit here, soiling my future and soiling my mobility away. I am a furniture based cryptid now. So it goes.

My lower half (what was once my a$$h0le) has puckered up for the rest of my life, achieving a level of puckering previously thought impossible by modern science. We’re talking black hole grade tension. NASA is actively monitoring it as you read this.

Escape attempts have failed. I tried wiggling, mistake. I tried reasoning with the chair, even worse mistake. I tried bargaining even, I offered the chair my Steam library. It rejected me with more vain than my middle school crush. I briefly considered becoming a monk and accepting this as my final earthly attachment, once and for all achieving enlightenment, but the chair’s RGB cycle keeps switching to “aggressive nightclub seizure,” so inner peace is off the table. So it goes.

Do I need surgery? Probably. Will I survive long enough to get it? Unclear. Will any surgeon willingly approach whatever bizarre biomechanical horror I’ve become? Doubtful. The nearest spatula has either vanished or is mocking me from another dimension.

At this point, I have accepted my fate. I will remain here, fused to this luxurious gaming THRONE as I will now call it to make myself feel the slightest bit better, as in all fairness I saved for it for years, more years than I will have gotten to spend in it, and surviving on gamer snacks and spite, rather than sprite. I will queue for TF2 matches until my bones fossilize and future archaeologists label me “The Forever Seated One.”

If anyone needs me, I’ll be here. Permanently.
Send help. Or snacks. Preferably snacks.

Actually, seriously, send snacks. Massive quantities. Industrial levels.

Not because I need them, but because I deserve them. I will drink Dr Pepper to cope with the fact that I will now never get the doctor that I desperately need, and I will consume it all endlessly, grotesquely, until I achieve full Mr. Creosote mode, a bloated beautiful monument. I will keep eating long past reason, past dignity, past the laws of physics themselves.

And because I can no longer even $H*T myself, then at some point, a single wafer thin mint will cross the event horizon…
…and I will detonate.

Not a normal explosion. Oh no. A seriously catastrophic, chair bound supernova of crumbs, Dr Pepper vapor, and shattered dreams. Seismologists will be confused, historians will be afraid. The luxurious gaming THRONE? Still intact. Mocking me. I will watch in vain as I will become the phantom of my paradise.

And in the aftermath, when the red mist settles and only a vaguely human shaped scorch mark remains fused to synthetic leather that’s labeled as real, the historians throughout the rest earthly of time will ask:

“Was it worth it?”