May 28th, 2025 — The Day My Sanity Died.
There I was. Living the dream.
Couch? Check.Controller? Check.Sweatpants that hadn't been washed since I rage-quit Elden Ring? Big ol' check.And on screen? Arthur Morgan, my mustachioed cowboy dad, politely robbing trains and shooting raccoons in the face.
I was vibing hard. Like, yee-haw and yee-beer hard.
My fridge—a sacred temple of carbonation and processed regret—was loaded. I had enough beer to drown a Viking. I was prepared for a full weekend of cowboy roleplay, bad decisions, and the occasional pause to shout at squirrels from my window.
And then...
DING!
A text from Davis. Aka my brother-from-another-mother-who-also-hates-humanity.
The sound of modern doom. A text. I already knew. I felt it deep in my gamer gut.
Davis (Fuc*er):"Bro... GTA 6 delayed. Again. 😂😂😂"
...
I didn't respond.
I stood up.
Walked to the fridge.
Grabbed a can like it owed me child support.
Cracked it open with the wrath of Zeus on laundry day.
Then, to the gods above, I roared:
"ROCKSTARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
The walls shook. Birds scattered. Somewhere, my neighbor dropped her cat.
"Rockstar!" I shouted to the gods of gaming, "Do you enjoy watching grown men cry?!"
Somewhere, a neighbor yelled, "Shut the hell up!"
I yelled back, "I will fight you, Karen!"
Mature. I know.
But come on. GTA 6 delayed?! Again?! It's 2025. We've had five COVID variants, two crypto collapses, and at least one confirmed alien encounter. And still no GTA 6?
"At this point," I muttered to myself, "GTA 7 will drop first. In VR. Controlled by thoughts. While we live in bunkers run by AI cats."
I chugged half the can. Took a breath. Slumped back onto the couch.
Arthur Morgan was still just... standing there. Judging me.
"Don't you look at me like that, cowboy," I pointed. "At least your game exists."
I barely had time to wallow before...
DING! Again.
I swear Davis times his messages like he's got a camera in my living room.
Davis:"Also... Avengers: Doomsday and Secret Wars got pushed back too. 😬"
...
I died.
I ascended.
And then I came back purely to curse.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!" I shouted, standing dramatically with the grace of a drunk giraffe. "IS EVERYTHING A LIE?! Are we back in 2020 again?!"
My neighbor banged the wall.
I banged back.
Not sexually. Just passive-aggressively.
With another beer now firmly in hand, I sat, opened the news on my phone—because clearly I hate myself—and read the headline:
"COVID Variant XZ-91 Detected. Officials Urge Precaution. Lockdown Not Off The Table."
I laughed. Out loud. Alone.
"You hear that, future me? We're doing this again. I survived the last lockdown by learning how to bake bread and cry at 3 AM while watching penguin documentaries. I will not survive another."
Arthur Morgan still judged me. Beer in hand, cowboy hat on. Silent. Loyal. The best fictional friend I never deserved.
"I still got Doom: The Dark Ages, right?" I asked the gods. "Right?!"
That released last week. Ripping demons in half with medieval weapons? It was the only reason I hadn't thrown myself into traffic after the Netflix One Piece season 2 got delayed too.
I took another sip. Sighed. Turned back to Red Dead.
And then...
Something weird happened.
My vision... flickered.Like someone turned off the world and back on again.I blinked. The screen warped. The controller vibrated like a mini-exorcism.
"Huh... that's new."
Then everything started spinning. The room. The screen. My soul.
"Oh no. I'm either passing out, getting abducted by aliens, or the expired cheese finally reached my brainstem."
I dropped the beer.
My body hit the couch like a sack of regret.
The last thing I saw was Arthur Morgan looking dead at me... and smirking.