"PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME DO THE KAREOKE-" you scream aloud, sitting up in bed. You're covered in a cold sweat. Your breathing is ragged. You blink. This isn't a stage. You aren't dressed as Princess Elsa.

Good. Then it was all just a terrible dream.

You pull the covers off you, throw on a pair of jeans and a comfy t-shirt before even attempting to figure out what you'll do on your day off. You scratch your hair that hasn't been cut in weeks, and make your way to your kitchen, where you set a kettle on the stove to make some nice, relaxing tea. Today should be easy-going. Simple. This is the kind of day that you'll go at your own pace and - then there are three soft knocks at your door.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST," you shout at the door, stomping across the room. " A GUY TRIES TO ESCAPE HIS OWN STORY FOR ONE FUCKING CHAPTER. JUST ONE CHAPTER. AND THEN-"

You swing the door open and there, standing on the other side is the yellow-eyed menace, Lyler. Yes, you read that right. And by reading, I meant using your eyes to examine the situation around you. Like, reading the room. Get your fourth-wall breaks out of here. Which is in-itself a fourth-wall break.

"ANERN WE DURNT HAVE MERCH TIEM," Lyler screams in her own unique inside voice. "WE NEED TO KILL THE PERASPERTS."

The fucking what?

"The what?" you ask.

"THE PERDASPIRTS."

"One more time?"

"THE PERAPPASTERPS."

"And once more for good measure."

"THE PEPIPASPURTS."

You pretty much picked up the first time that Lyler meant Parasprites, but a part of you takes some sort of inhuman pleasure in getting her to say purposely hard words. One day you'd love to learn how in the hell Lyler's phonetic rules work, but then someone else would have to do something stupid like character building. I think we all know who we're looking at, or my name isn't CadancePope.

"Okay, so there are Parasprites and we need to 'kill them,'" you say, deciding today seems like a genuinely decent time to go along with Lyler's plan. It's also one of the most surefire ways to get her to go to her next distraction. "What do we need to do? Give them the squishies?"

Lyler then whips her head back violently, takes a deep breath, then vomits a shotgun at your feet.

I don't think I have enough words to describe the revoltion that runs through your body. She puked, as in, it is now green, slimy, and has weird white chunks on it, a mother fucking 12 gauge, full length, pump action -- Jesus christ is that a Remington? -- shotgun, in front of your chucks.

"What the actual fuck?" you say, in equal parts disgust and some amount of pride. "How? Just... how?"

"I AM GOOD AT THE SWALLOWS. THEY ARE MY FAVORITE BIRD."

You pick the gun up off the ground, trying not to puke at the feeling of it's texture. Sure enough, it's loaded with two fresh shells.

"O-okay," you say. "S-so. W-where are we going to kill the parasprite? Please don't vomit it."

"THATS GROSS, ANON. DON'T BE GROSS."

"WE'RE HUR!"

"This is my backyard," you say flatly, still holding the gun.

"ThIs IS mY bACKyaRD..."

"How did you just do that?" you ask, unsure of how Lyler just contorted her voice in weird, unexplainable ways.

"MEME POWER."

"Let's just get this overwith," you sigh, wiping more crud off the gun. "Where is this thing?"

She lifts a hoof and points to a small birdcage that's filled to the bursting point with multicolored parasprites that must have fucked until they filled the whole cage.

"How did they get there, Lyler."

"I MADE PINATA AND IT GOT BAD."

You turn to her to say something, then simply shook your head, you lift the rifle, aim, then pause.

"Uh, Lyler, do you have any sort of protection?"

"HORSES NO GET PREGGERS FROM PERASPITES."

"No," you say, groaning. "I mean, for your ears. when I shoot this gun."

"OH!" Lyler screams. "I AM THE DUMB."

"That's one thing we agree on," you mutter as she rifles through her... I dunno. Horse vagina? for something. Fucking pony physics, man.

She then pulls out a gas mask, and puts it on her face.

"READY!" she screams.

You pause for about a minute, to let her logic settle into your brain. How? Why? You know what? No. This does not compute. Let's just shoot this stupid cage and go home. Well, in side.

You lift the gun, aim, then shoot.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QtEljxur6eI

The cage explodes into a mess of confetti, streamers, and multicolored showers of parasprite blood. You drop the gun, unsure what in the world you expected.

"AND THE DAY IS SAVED, THANKS TO THE MASKED AVENGERS!" Lyler screams.

You turn on the spot, go inside, and lock the door behind you.

No. No more. No more Lyler today. Today is devoted to relaxing. You've earned a day off from all the random bullshit that life flings at you on a normal basis, or at least in this case, fucking Lyler.