FAILED FIRE ALARM!
It wasn't a sound. It was an entity. As if the demon of chaos had interned in alarm clock hell and decided: "Today, I'm torturing Bia with a snippet of rusty metal being dragged across concrete by a giant fingernail."
I leaped out of bed like a shrimp hitting hot oil, got tangled in the blanket, and executed an involuntary pirouette that ended with me nearly decapitating the lampshade. My heart? A heavy metal drum solo played by someone with Parkinson's.
The door burst open with the subtlety of a meteor landing in the living room.
Leo entered, brandishing a can of deodorant like it was the Excalibur of hygiene. He wore swimming goggles from the era when neon was cool and a clothespin on his nose, looking like a low-budget supervillain.
"BIOLOGICAL HAZARD ALERT!" he bellowed, spraying the toxic cloud directly into my face. "Stench Level: CATASTROPHIC. Initiating Operation 'Save Humanity from Bia's Stench 2.0'!"
I coughed, choked, and replied with the eloquence of an anemic frog:
"GO AWAY, YOU CHEMICAL WEAPON PSYCHO!" I screamed, flailing my pillow like a medieval shield. "THAT'S MOM'S DEODORANT! YOU'RE GOING TO KILL US AND THEN HAVE TO EXPLAIN AT THE FUNERAL WHY HEAVEN DIDN'T WANT EITHER OF US!"
Leo laughed, reloading the spray like an anime villain:
"Even the skunk on the corner sent a DM saying: 'Call SWAT, dammit!'"
The battle raged on:
"I AM A PERSON!" I yelled, trying to hit him with a slipper that only existed in my imagination. "A PERSON WITH RIGHTS AND A LEGITIMATE DESIRE NOT TO DIE FROM INHALING FAKE LAVENDER!"
"RELAX, IT'S JUST HOLY WATER WITH A HINT OF LAVENDER AND HATE!" He dodged my kick and did a ridiculous little dance. "AND THERE'S NO HEAVEN FOR YOU, ANYWAY. YOU'RE GOING TO STINKY LIMBO!"
When he left, triumphant, my breathing was an asthmatic wheeze after a marathon. The room looked like it had been invaded by a psychotic cleaning gnome.
The Dry Shower Saga:
I tried cleaning myself with wet wipes, but the real tragedy began when I noticed my manga shelf.
"WHO MOVED THE BLUE NEXT TO THE GREEN?" I yelled at the empty room, like an 80-year-old lady arguing with her potted plant. "IT'S THE CHROMATIC SCALE OF THE APOCALYPSE!"
I rearranged the manga by hue, saturation, and the level of trauma caused by their endings. Mid-process, I realized I was using a baby-scented wipe as an eyepatch.
Phone Notification:
@StarryNight88: "Good morning, neighbor."
The "Good morning, neighbor" flashed on the phone screen, and it was as if the device had turned into a grenade about to explode in my hand. Panic. Pure, uncontrollable, overwhelming. My brain screamed in every possible voice: RUN! TURN IT OFF! THROW IT AWAY!
Without thinking, in a purely instinctive reflex, I hurled the phone across the room. It flew in a clumsy arc, nearly hitting the manga lamp (which luckily survived unscathed), and landed with a muffled thud on the pile of dirty hoodies in the corner. Phew. Momentary relief. The digital threat, temporarily neutralized.
But the relief lasted less than a breath. The instant the phone hit the floor, reality struck me full force: I HAD REPLIED! In that moment of impulsive insanity, amidst the whirlwind of panic and curiosity, my fingers had moved on their own and typed that pathetic, evasive reply: "Good morning."
"NO! IDIOT! MORON! SOCIALLY INCOMPETENT!" I screamed at the empty room, my high-pitched voice echoing off the walls (probably scaring the actual neighbors, not just the mysterious stalker). I had done the exact opposite of what my anxious brain told me to do. Instead of ignoring, blocking, disappearing off the digital map, I had… interacted. I had given the stalker/neighbor/teenage-crush(?) fuel to continue the bizarre saga.
I sat on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest, my body trembling slightly. Regret gnawed at me from the inside, a stomach acid of the soul. Why had I replied? Why, why, WHY?! A thousand internal voices screamed in my head, each more accusatory and desperate than the last.
"Now he knows you're online!" "He'll think you're desperate for attention!" "You just confirmed you're a socially inept idiot!" "He's going to stalk you in person now! He'll show up at your door with a pizza and handcuffs!"
"PIZZA AND HANDCUFFS?!" my brain shrieked, like a badly written porn script. "SINCE WHEN IS MY MIND A TRASHY NETFLIX MOVIE?!"
I threw myself onto the pile of hoodies, grabbing the phone like someone disarming a bomb. Dark screen. No notifications.
"Breathe, Bia. Breathe before your heart turns into a skull emoji."
I opened the app. The conversation still there. My "Good morning" glowed like a neon sign of shame.
Nothing. Silence. Is he typing? No. Will he reply? No. Is he a psychopath? A hottie? YES!
I threw the phone back onto the pile. Mistake. The device bounced, hit the floor, and the screen lit up: @StarryNight88 seen at 3:03 PM.
"AAAAAAAAGH!" I screamed at the ceiling, now officially my own yandere. "MY INTERNAL DRAMA IS A HORROR LOOP!"
I unlock the phone with trembling fingers and open the streaming app. Objective: find the most sugary anime of the season — "Cherry Blossoms in Love's Ass" or something. The more cliché, the better. I need an overdose of blushing protagonists, flying petals, and impossible loves to shut down my brain.
I click the first episode and toss the phone onto the bed, arranging a "couch" with crumpled pillows. The opening explodes with J-pop screams that, on another day, would make me roll my eyes. Today, even a yogurt commercial jingle would be better than silence.
The animation starts: students tripping over lockers, accidental gazes lasting centuries, slow-motion flowers. Perfect clichés. I try to focus, but my mind hijacks the controls.
Did he reply? Did he think my message was stupid? FOCUS ON THE ANIME, BIA.
On screen, the heroine finally confesses her love to the sparkly-eyed pretty boy. He holds her hand. The soundtrack screams romance.
And then… the kiss. Not the cliché petal-and-wind kiss. Tongue. Saliva. Hands on necks. The camera zooms in on the lips. Too realistic texture for a shoujo anime.
"WHO ALLOWED THIS?!" I yell at the phone, as if it would answer.
Too late. My brain, always ready for chaos, fires up: French kiss. Fluids. Marina probably already did this with Steven. And with Dante. And with the guy from the grocery store. Me? I can barely look the pizza delivery guy in the eye without sweating.
In my twenties, my virginity is an active failure. Not a "romantic choice," but a black hole generated by anxiety and social panic. "My hoo-ha never croaked," I think, as the protagonist sighs on screen.
"SUCCESS, BIA!" I say sarcastically, looking at the manga pile. "Former math trophy girl."
"FIVE PUBLIC EXAMS BY 20. Why? Because my family thought it was cute to show off my brain like a science fair trophy. And what did I do when I passed? Freaked out. Literally. Panic attack in the university bathroom, crying because 'accepting the position' sounded like 'signing a pact with the social devil.'"
USELESS.
My photographic memory? Good for memorizing logarithm tables while forgetting how to breathe near the pizza delivery guy. Self-taught programming? I can code a game, but can't ask for "no onions." IQ 150? Only lets me see, in high definition, how broken I am.
"Thirty minutes of small talk?" I grumble, punching the pillow. "That's enough time to calculate the escape velocity of a black hole, but not enough to say 'hi' without sounding like a malfunctioning robot."
On screen, the anime progresses: sugary kiss, cherry blossom petals, cheesy soundtrack. Perfect Marina pops into my mind like an unwanted ad. "She kisses without fear," I think. "She laughs without sounding like a hysterical hyena. She… exists."
I turn off the phone. Too late. The anxiety has already become a mental loop: Academic failure → social failure → existential failure.
And amidst this, the anime's unintentional porn scene adds fuel to the fire: "What would it be like? To be touched? Not die of panic?"
"Go screw yourself, brain," I growl, burying my face in the hoodie. "I don't need a high IQ to know I'm a flawed beta-test of humanity."
Cherry Blossoms on the Wind of Love was at its climax: the protagonist, a boy with graphite-blue hair and eyes sparkling like faulty LEDs, finally kissed the heroine. Not a basic peck, but a kiss with texture. Tongue. Saliva. The soundtrack whined like a cat in heat.
"THIS ISN'T SHOUJO, IT'S A MARINE BIOLOGY DOCUMENTARY!" I yelled at the phone, as if it would answer back. "WHERE ARE THE CHERRY BLOSSOM PETALS? WHERE'S THE METAPHOR FOR PURE LOVE? THIS IS A TUTORIAL FOR ME, ISN'T IT? 'HOW TO KISS WITHOUT DYING OF ANXIETY'!"
On screen, the heroine moaned something like "Kya~!".
"KYA? KYA IS THE SOUND I WOULD MAKE IF SOMEONE TRIED TO KISS ME!" I buried my face in the pillow, trying to muffle my own mind's voice: "You're a failure, Bia. Perfect Marina has already done this, like, 47 times. And you? You can barely look the delivery guy in the eye without shaking!"
The Spiral of Despair:
I got up, staggering, and faced the mirror.
"LOOK AT YOU!" I yelled at my reflection, which stared back with deep dark circles and "just got electrocuted" style hair. "A 22, ALMOST 23-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN WHO COLLECTS MANGA AND FAILURES SHAPED LIKE TROPHIES!"
The math trophies on the shelf gleamed mockingly.
"'FIRST PLACE IN CALCULUS,' BUT CAN'T CALCULATE HOW TO GET OUT OF THIS SITUATION!" I shouted, kicking a stray sock. "WHAT'S THE NEXT STEP, HUH? BUY A VIBRATOR? OH, SURE! I'LL SEARCH 'HOW TO RELIEVE TENSION' AND THE SEARCH ENGINE WILL SUGGEST 'THERAPY' OR 'A GIANT MINT'!"
The Epic (and Disastrous) Search:
I opened the browser with trembling hands. Typed: "How not to be a sexually inexperienced idiot using only household objects".
The search engine replied: "Results for 'how not to be an idiot using a wooden spoon'."
"THANKS, SEARCH ENGINE. SUPER HELPFUL."
Tried again: "Devices for… relieving… loneliness… discreetly."
The list included: "Relaxing massage with aromatic candles". "WILL IT CALM ME DOWN OR MAKE ME SMELL LIKE A FUNERAL?"
"Discreet cucumber-shaped vibrator". "PERFECT. I'LL MAKE A SALAD AND SOLVE MY EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS!"
"Guide to female masturbation: step by step". "WILL THERE BE A STEP CALLED 'DON'T DIE OF SHAME'?"
I clicked the link. The page had a pompous title: "Discover Your Body (without leaving the couch)".
"OH, SURE!" I said aloud, as if the site could hear me. "I'LL DISCOVER MY BODY WHILE LEO DISCOVERS MY SEARCH HISTORY AND MAKES FUN OF ME UNTIL THE YEAR 3000!"
The Climax (Almost):
In the middle of the text, a sentence in bold: "Free yourself from sexual repression!"
"I'M NOT REPRESSED!" I yelled at the empty room. "I'M… I'M… A PERSON WHO CHOSE TO BE A VIRGIN FOR… FOR… ECOLOGICAL REASONS!"
On the screen, the anime returned: the protagonists were now in a beach scene, with tiny bikinis and glistening muscles.
"IT'S OFFICIAL," I announced to the universe, throwing the phone onto the bed. "MY ONLY SERIOUS RELATIONSHIP IS WITH THE SKIP BUTTON FOR ROMANCE SCENES."
"Rubber penis" — the phrase flashed in my head like a porn pop-up. No. Too direct. Leo would find out and turn my history into a meme.
"Sex toy"? Still sounded like an instruction manual for robots.
"Devices for relieving female tension" — I typed, like someone submitting a resume to hell. Enter.
The page loaded: "Relaxing massages" vs. "Vibrators for beginners".
"Vibrator," I murmured, as if testing a secret password. "Sounds… scientific?"
I clicked the "Modern Women and Self-Pleasure" guide. Modern women? I wore E=mc² t-shirts as pajamas.
The screen displayed products with gadget names: "Magic Wand", "Mini Massager".
"Is this a vibrator or an ergonomic mouse?" I grumbled, reading descriptions full of "free yourself!" and "awaken your power!".
Until a bold sentence exploded on the screen: "Discover the power of self-knowledge and free yourself from the shackles of sexual repression!"
"Oh, sure," I growled, imagining the "Porn Pop-up": "Question: How not to die of shame? Answer: Buy our premium package!"
Sexual repression?...