The voices were growing louder.
Demanding him to become better, to be stronger.
He was so fucking tired of this shit.
Tired of studying nonstop, tired of his father always saying it wasn't enough, tired of the voices in his head saying he had to do more, that he had to be better.
He wanted it to end—to be free of this endless bullshit.
Sometimes, he contemplated trying to give a blowjob to the 12-gauge his father kept in the garage and "accidentally" pulling the trigger.
"So stupid."
He was so stupid for thinking that. Not because of some annoying speech about the value of life, but because he knew he didn't have the strength to actually pull the trigger.
Living like this felt like hell. Maybe hell wasn't about having an oversized stick up his ass, but about becoming stagnant with no hope of changing.
How annoying it was.
Right now, he was playing games again.
"Look at this running clown."
That was what a player said in the chat—and for some reason, that damn trash talk stuck with him.
Was he a clown? Living like this? Doing the same things, same routine, same addictions, same failures, same thoughts.
Was he a clown?
Maybe he was one.
One who had lost all his jokes.
One who failed clown academy.