As beautiful as one's life can get:
An unwashed hill of cloth,
Hollow packages, contents of which one barely remembers,
Wallpapers that've, with time, patiently rolled off,
The dim light of a blinking, semi-capable bulb…
And me, settled on the torn-apart chair which I am incapable of fixing (Too busy with my schedule), consuming what one may speak of as.. peak.
Nothing of greenery or life to colour my room. No noises to surround me, aside from the subtle voices that I hear from another apartment and rare female screams that are, mostly likely, of physical — or dunno..— abuse.
Well, as I noted, I am far too busy to care, I have a fine list of responsibilities to follow…
And accounting the responsibilities of mine, though, an outside viewer may speak of such accommodations being "Depressing".
Depressing? But I wouldn't bring such a word up to my beloved life; "depressing" is something that you use for "Sad" things, right? And I love it! I am pretty sure there's no "Love" in "Sad", and there is no "Sad" in "Love". Like… Yin and Yang. Real stuff. The reading experience from the novels — visual only, can't stand stuff without pictures, kinda hard to imagine — shows!
Concluding my observations, I grasp the brittle, tiniest of the sharp hairs at my chin and nod in tact to the music of nature — which I call my intelligent giggles, to put it more poetically, — several times; I let the full, content noises leave my mouth, as I stare precisely at the motionless PNG on my monnie.
PAM! The PNG lightly jumps! That's what we call "fine budget" in our house, if authors've resorted to such niche techniques!
Albeit how adorable, the two centimeters of the PNG motion were without a voice actor to accompany it, sadly — as it is in fact text only, — so I glue my reddened eyes to the monitor and smirk again.
A hilarious joke from the same PNG, which would've been lost in the broken phone.
A precisely measured timing by the writers…
"O! I understood that reference!"
"Heh. Heh, heh, heh…"
"Mhe-ha-ha-ha!"
"Muhhe-hhe-hhee!"
The volume beats against the wall, but there are no worries — I may laugh to my heart's content! I live alone, after my parents entrusted this apartment to me, proudly so! And they have begun to send money too, proudly as well!
As after the beginning of this arrangement, I haven't worked a singular day of my life.
Well, be damned: I am far too busy with what I am doing!
I read and watch a tiny bit of fine arts, which are cartoons with big assets: with me speaking of the eyes, as I don't indulge into, heh, carnal love towards big breasts. I prefer them of a good size and form, they don't need to be enormous. Also, the "good size" is the one at the boundary of "small" and "medium", to educate you folks a tiny bit.
The end nears: the PNGs make contact, with an eye-watering scene to follow; a CG (which stands for 'Computer Graphics', but can you truly call art by such a humiliating name?) of the celibate embrace between PNGs: picture number uno and dos, as I almost push my face against the monnie…
And, at last, a kiss.
The game's first volume concludes here.
"...A? I thought their char' arc concludes in this game. This shit's butty!... A-aah…"
I groan in despair, face expressive although viewers are naught.
Two palms clutching onto my face, I collapse onto the backseat of my cha—.. there's none. Nada. This apartment has no office chairs, nor le' gaming ones.
The impact, gladfully, is softened by the discarded clothes! The Alps of mine have secured my life once again.
"Pfeh."
The prudence of mine is celebrated. With a gentle, sneaky rub to the back of my spine, I rise to my feet and return onto the chair.
"...Gotta just–"
Click. Browser. Click
The name of the novel?…
I re-check my desktop, find the fruit, and tap out the thoughtful name of "Rating Stars" at a — turtle has won the race, let it be known, — speed. Volume dos. Loading…
And to confess, I honestly never remember names of the games I play. Nor names of the characters. Nor names of the characters… Who can blame me, man? They're kind of foreign: if I am not able to remember a foreign name, there's nothing wrong.
I peacefully stare at the PNGs and give them labels of "PNG uno" or "PNG dos". Spanish, because it makes me feel more quirky.
As, finally, the imbecilic waves finish the task at hand, I click at the first piracy web-site…
Loading…
"E..? What's wrong with my internet?"
Loading…
Loading…
The blankness of the website stares at me, and I stare back. In the end, it submits to me: I see the ornamented page, as the site loads, covered with all sorts of ads, scam-links, and yet another busty semi-nude woman — or girl? Hard to say with fine arts, — right above the window that consists of the poster, screenshots, slogan, yada-yada…
I skip through all of that, and tap at the safest download link.
A couple of kilobyte files, which'll follow me to the actual download…
And for some reason, the download bar does not cease to celebrate me with the Torrent.
The kilobytes painfully draw out in a turtle-esque way, till it reaches myths, until…
It hits zero. The download concludes right at the end.
Oh.
My nose twitching, I stare at the lower right end of the laptop and find the suspicious quotation mark right above the supposed Wi-Fi.
Mhm.
I come to a fearful conclusion.
As for my bright deduction — and kind of going to their website by tapping onto the Wi-Fi mark, — I realize that my parents have forgotten to pay for my Wi-Fi.
"Hah."
My nerves are of steel: I smirk in the face of what is loathsome, and resort to my special trick…
"You haven't thought of taming my confident spirit, have you, dear company and its predatory tariff?!"
I growl. The ugly beast of mine is released, and yet is to bring ruination! The repugnant gropes the cloth nearing my pants,
Grasps the aluminium object..
LEFT!
UP!
LEFT!
UP!
The slightly outdated phone of mine is drawn to the ceiling, nearing the bulb!
As if to show respect to the sleight of my hand, it blinks; I nod in response and respectfully write a message to my mama. My fire is extinguished as fast as it has begun.
"Please, pay for the Wi-Fi. Thanks"
I sheath the phone, and cross my arms. A pair of swift nods served to mineself, as I awaited the vibration without a motion as, apart from playing visual novels, I don't quite have any other passions. Well, it does not matter.
Just gotta wait for my maman's response, she always writes back fast. Give it five or ten minutes.
A moment…
Two…
Bzzt!
Oh, that one's quick!
"No."
A single word, from the predatory creature that has listed themselves as 'Mama' on my phone.
And those words? They ruin; feast upon me, and rip apart!...
Ah, farewell, Nista. The chapters of your story are to conclude.
You are to perish, and none shall change that…
Unless she pays for my Wi-Fi.
Nimbly, I write back the response…