Alright, listen up, fuckfaces. It’s day twelve of me crashing at Anonymous’s place, and let me tell you - rock bottom ain’t just a metaphor anymore. It’s got a queen-sized mattress and smells faintly of stale cigarettes and desperation. Yeah, that’s right. Yours truly, Maya-fucking-whatever-my-last-name-is, former sound goddess extraordinaire, now reduced to stealing toilet paper from gas stations because pride won’t pay the bills.
But here’s the real kicker - it’s not just the unemployment blues or the fact that my savings account looks like a ghost town after a zombie apocalypse. No, it’s this goddamn proximity to Anonymous that’s driving me batshit crazy. Every time they walk into a room, my brain short-circuits like a cheap amp during a power surge. One minute I’m plotting how to steal their favorite hoodie for spite, the next I’m imagining… well, things I shouldn’t be imagining about my own sibling. Fuck me sideways with a rusty trombone.
Don’t even get me started on last night. Anonymous comes home looking like they’ve been hit by a truck emotionally, and suddenly my tough-girl act crumbles faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. Before I know it, I’m offering them whiskey from my emergency stash and letting them cry on my shoulder while I pretend not to notice how good they smell. Because apparently, my armor has more cracks than a sidewalk after an earthquake. So yeah, Anonymous, welcome to the clusterfuck that is my life. Grab some popcorn and enjoy the show.
