SWARTHOS

Man, the digital wasteland spit me out again, left me twisting in the pixelated wind like some rogue avatar nobody picked for the raid. This gamer, this brother-in-arms—we were tight, you know? Blasting through alien swarms, creeping through paramilitary hellholes, torching demonic scum in the underworld’s neon glow. Hours, man, hours of shared carnage, the kind of bond forged in the heat of virtual lead and plasma. Then—poof—ghosted. Vanished. Another buddy of his didn’t vibe with my frequency, and just like that, I’m the odd man out, drifting in the void like a scrapped spaceship.

It’s the old story, isn’t it? The tribe picks its favorites, and I’m left holding the controller, staring at a blank friend list. But hell, I’ve been preaching the gospel of the loner for years—solitude’s my church, my sacred dive bar where the jukebox only plays my tunes. Whining now would be like spitting on my own altar. So, no complaints, just a bitter chuckle and a nod to the abyss. This is fuel, man. This is the raw, jagged edge of the human condition, and I’ll carve it into something sharp enough to cut.

Still, it stings when you’re storming strongholds solo. Dungeons don’t fall easy without a squad, and those boss fights hit harder when you’re the only target. So, I’ll crank the stakes: slug back a river of caffeine, let it burn through my veins like rocket fuel. Maybe I’ll raid the cupboard, pop a couple of those sketchy pills stashed behind the instant noodles, or—why not?—nibble a hallucinogenic gummy and let the walls of reality melt into a kaleidoscope of chaos. See what the universe coughs up when I kick it in the teeth.

Friends? Pfft. That word’s a trap, a shiny lure for suckers. Do I really want to drag another soul into the howling vortex of me? Nah, man, I’m a walking glitch, a rogue signal too weird for the mainframe. Let the normies have their cozy clans. I’ll be out here, gaming in the dark, tossing my rage and my rhymes into the void. The void don’t ghost you—it just listens, cold and eternal.