TWELVE HOURS. TWELVE. FUCKING. HOURS. THAT'S HOW LONG IT TOOK TO RESTORE THE DOMESTIC BOMB CRATER THAT THE @HANDMAID SO BENEVOLENTLY LEFT BEHIND FOR ME TO SOMEHOW ALCHEMIZE INTO SOMETHING RESEMBLING A HABITABLE NUTRITION BLOCK. AND WHEN I SAY "ALCHEMIZE," I DON'T JUST MEAN IT LITERALLY. I MEAN THAT NOTHING SHORT OF GENUINE FUCKING MAGIC COULD HAVE RESTORED THIS SMOKING RUIN FROM THE CATACLYSMIC POST-AFUCKALYPTIC STATE THAT THIS BLOCK WAS IN WHEN I CHARGED IN MOP-FIRST LIKE A LANCE-WIELDING CAVALREAPER BLASTING MY MIGHTY FUCKTRUMPET TO THE CLARION CALL OF BRUTAL, UNGLAMOROUS, SOUL-BLACKENING WAR. A WAR ON MESS. A WAR ON *ALL* MESSES. A WAR ON THE *IDEA* OF A MESS. A WAR THAT I, KARKAT VANTAS, THE CHALKBOX, RENOWNED LEADER OF THE LEGIONS OF THE MOST OBNOXIOUS, SHIT-SPEWING SLOBS IN THIS OR ANY UNIVERSE, HAVE MARKED BY STAKING MY BANNER IN THE FIRST GROUND GAINED. A GREAT BATTLE WAS WON HERE. A CULINARY BLOCK WAS FUCKED. AND I HAVE UNFUCKED IT. BEHOLD. SO CLEAN, YOU CAN SEE YOUR REFLECTION IN IT. AT THE RISK OF STARING AT YOUR UGLY MUG FOR LONG ENOUGH TO VOMIT ALL OVER MY HARD WORK, AT WHICH POINT I'LL BE THERE TO BEAT YOUR HEAD WITH THIS MOP UNTIL IT RECEDES INTO YOUR TORSO LIKE A SHELLBEAST BEING WALLOPED INTO MEEK, FABULOSO-SCENTED SUBMISSION. AND THEN I'LL CLEAN AGAIN, BECAUSE THE MESS MAY NO LONGER ENTER HERE. IT IS CONQUERED. IT IS GUARDED. IT IS GROUND THAT I HOLD. AND YOU CAN PRY IT FROM MY COLD, TWITCHING PRONGSTUBS. AND BY THE WAY, THE ONLY REASON I KNEW THAT IT HAD BEEN TWELVE HOURS IS BECAUSE I *ASKED* SOMEONE AFTER IT WAS OVER. I HAD TO NEARLY FUCKING BLINDFOLD MYSELF TO KEEP ANY VISIBLE TIMEPIECE OUT OF MY LINE OF SIGHT, LEST I UNDO ALL OF MY HARD WORK WITH ONE SINGLE RUBBER-BANDING GLANCE OF TIMELINE-DISRUPTING CHUCKLEFUCKERY. DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING HARD IT IS NOT TO LOOK AT A CLOCK IN THIS COCKAMAMIE NIGHTMARE MANSION? IT'S LIKE ASKING ME TO PICK FLY SHIT OUT OF PEPPER. WHICH I FRANKLY WOULD HAVE RATHER DONE. BUT INSTEAD, I MANAGED TO PLAY TROLL MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE WITH MY GANDERBULBS. I PHYSICALLY BLOCKED EVERY CLOCK FROM SIGHT, EVEN AS THE ENDLESS, CACOPHONOUS TICKING DRONED ON. AND ON. AND ON. AND ON. UNTIL I COULD SWEAR THAT EACH TICK, TOCK, AND PITCH MICROVARIATION OF THE TWO THEREAFTER WAS HAMMERING ACTUAL NAILS INTO MY AURICULAR CLOTS. AND I DID IT. I GAMED THIS STUPID MC ESCHER SAW TRAP. I LEARNED THE RULES OF THIS FUCKED UP FUNHOUSE OF TEMPORAL DEVILRY AND I DID MAJESTIC BACKFLIPS OVER THEM WITH THE GRACE OF AN ARCTIC SEA MAMMAL. I STRUNG MY UGLY GREEN TIE AROUND ITS NECK AND GAROTTED IT OVER MY BACK UNTIL IT WENT SLACK IN MY TAUT, GLOVED PRONGS. I HAVE EMERGED BLOODY, BRUISED, AND EMOTIONALLY CALLUSED TO THE POINT OF A NUMBNESS THAT HAS STILL NOT SUBSIDED. AND I HAVE EMERGED VICTORIOUS. I THINK. I MIGHT. START SMOKING. ANYWAY. FEEL FREE TO COME IN HERE AND MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN TEA. I ORGANIZED EVERYTHING BY TYPE, BRAND, LOOSE-LEAF OR BAGGED, STEEPING TIME, AND KEPT LIKE COLORS ADJACENT JUST TO KEEP EVERYTHING MARGINALLY MORE COPACETIC. I DIDN'T HAVE TO DO IT, BUT I DID. AS ONE FINAL FLOURISH OF A FUCK YOU. I'M GOING TO GO AND COLLAPSE ON A LOUNGEPLANK FOR FIFTY-NINE MINUTES, OPEN ONE GANDERBULB, STARE AT ANOTHER FUCKING CLOCK, AND REPEAT THIS PROCESS UNTIL I'VE HAD SOMETHING RESEMBLING EIGHT HOURS OF RAW, SOPORLESS, BLOODSHOT REST BEFORE I START ON THE ABLUTION TRAP. THE LONG DAY CONTINUES. HTTPS://CDN.IMGCHEST.COM/FILES/E7F333FBB437.PNG
NOT BAD. KUDOS.
:o) Ah, a job well done Mr. Vantas! :o) Thank you for your hard work :o) When you're available, report to me. :o) I will make us some tea!