"I love you undyingly," you try to say but the words get jumbled in your mouth. Out comes streaming a fetid pile of gray putty. It's bubbling and steaming. Your imouto screams.

The room is slowly filling with seething mud and the stench of putrid sulfur. This is the physical embodiment of your self-loathing, laid bare for the world to see. Your imouto desperately tries to crawl for safety, but the sticky substance cradles her tightly. The cucumber has already drowned.

You feel inexplicably cold. All the wasted opportunities, all the unfulfilled dreams, all the sloth and pampered worthlessness spills out of every orifice of your body. Your eyeballs bleed thick, slimy insecurity, your eardrums spit soupy depression. Your nostrils vomit worthless jelly, curdled and wrinkly like elephant skin. Sloppy regrets drip out of your colon and urethra.

The putty is boiling but you're cold, oh so cold. You try to hug your imouto close but she has already disappeared into the gray aquarium of your whole meaningless life.

To boldly take control of your life, go to >>9999.
To find a shortcut to empty pleasure like you always do, go to >>999.
To give up, go to >>99.
To play video games, go to >>9.