Act 1 - Chapter 1 .- The Parasite Theorem, Shon The Professional NEET

Life is a poorly constructed equation where X always equals suffering.

My name is Shon. I'm 24 years old. I'm the older brother. I have dark brown hair that I haven't cut in months. I'm 5'9" and i'm a professional NEET with four years of experience.

My younger sisters are everything I should be and am not. And they know it. And I know it. And we all pretend it doesn't hurt.

My daily routine is a masterpiece of parasitic efficiency:

2:00 p.m. - Wake up (the sun is already high in the sky, less vitamin D i guess)
2:30 p.m. - Eat what Miki left (a ritual of guilt disguised as lunch)
From 3:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m., I am free. I can do anything. I could learn a language, write a novel, change the world. The absolute freedom of the NEET.

I use that freedom to argue with strangers about why their opinions are fundamentally wrong.

3:00 p.m. to 3:00 a.m. - “Work” (flexible term for: reading manga or watch anime, for rating purpose)
6:30 a.m. - Sleep (yes, sleep)

Peak NEET performance.

It's 2:28 p.m. I know without looking at my phone. My stomach is more punctual than I am.

"Knock knock."

The sound is soft, almost apologetic. Miki never knocks loudly, as if she doesn't want to disturb me. As if I'm the one doing favors here.

I get up from the chair. My knees creak (from sitting with my PC for 1 hour). I open the door just enough for the exchange.

“Nii-san, dinner's ready.”

Miki, 20 years old. Brown hair in that ponytail she's worn since middle school, when she still believed her older brother would go to college. Pink eyes that still look at me with something that isn't exactly hope, but isn't total resignation either. She's in that limbo of “maybe someday.” 5'3" of digital marketing talent, wasting her lunch hour feeding a parasite.

Her favorite parasite, at least.

Today's menu: spaghetti with irregularly chopped vegetables (she made this in a hurry), perfectly cooked spaghetti (the spaghetti never fails, it's her pride and joy), and a subtle note that screams “cooked between meetings.”

“Did you eat?” I ask, breaking protocol.

She blinks, surprised. “Yes, I ate with the team.” she is referring to her marketing team

“The dish smells good,” I say, taking the plate.

She looks at me for a second too long. That look of “I wish you were different” mixed with “did you just pay me a compliment?” reminds me why I avoid human interaction.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, and I don't know if she's thanking me for the compliment or for taking the food without drama.

She smiles. Small, tired, but real. And she leaves.

I close the door and sit down at the computer. Today's forum topic: “Why is human effort fundamentally futile?”

First comment: “Effort gives meaning to life.”

I write my response while eating:

"Meaning is a post-hoc construct to justify suffering. If effort gave meaning, office workers would be the most fulfilled people. But instead, they have the highest rate of depression." Send.

As i send the message i try the spagetthi, is good. Miki cooks better when she's worried, but not because her grief has better seasoning. She cooks better because when she worries, cooking is her way of caring without words, without confrontation, without disappointment.

Mental note: I should tell her it's good.

Mental note 2: I won't.

Mental note 3: I'm trash, but conscious trash.

I keep eating. I keep writing. The guy on the forum responds with a wall of text about the dignity of work. I find seven logical fallacies in the first paragraph. Great evening. Then my phone vibrates. 

A Message from Akari (goodbye great evening):

“Family gathering on Sunday. Not optional.”

Sunday. Four days to go. Enough time to come up with a believable excuse.

I reply: “OK.”

Akari writes... writing... writing...

“OK is not a confirmation.”

“OK, I'll attend.” - dang, she is making it diffucult to avoid, but im a professional NEET after all.

A pair of headphones on his shelf began to shine as he smiled triumphantly. With these i cant hear nothing about job.

“No headphones allowed like the last time.”

“Ok?.”  How did she..?

“SHON.”

“I'll attend without headphones. Satisfied?”

“No.., but it's progress.”

I forgot, she's a professional NEET hunter.

22 years old and already sounding like a tired mother. My fault, probably. No, definitely.

I finish the spaghetti. I leave the plate in the same place as always (Miki will pick it up when she comes back, part of the ritual). I go back to the chair with my PC.

3:00 p.m. Officially “working hours.”

A DM on Discord: “Hey, did you see the new anime of the season?”

It's XxDarknessMaster2003xX. I don't know his real name. We've talked daily for two years. My most stable relationship.

“It's trash,” I reply. “The protagonist is a self-insert of the author with a messiah complex.”

“is everything trash to you? lol”

“Not everything. Today's spaghetti was high decent.”

“Did you cook?”

“My sister did.”

“The one in marketing?”

“Yes.”

“She must love you very much to cook for you every day. if I were the one who had to cook you everyday, I would have poisoned you long ago.”

I don't answer. Not because I don't have an answer, but because the real answer is too sincere for my personal brand. Yes, she loves me. For some reason that defies logic, my sisters love me.

And I love them.

That's why I stay in my room. Because as long as I'm a shut-in parasite, I'm a manageable problem. If I went out, if I tried and failed (again), I'd be a real problem.

Love is keeping your toxicity contained. Love is eating spaghetti or anything without complaining. Love is pretending not to see the exhaustion in their eyes. Love is being a predictable disappointment rather than a broken hope.

But I write: “First, I doubt you know how to cook. Second, it's convenient for both of us. She practices cooking, I don't starve.”

“Ouch, FYI, I know how to boil water, enough for instant ramen :p, second, how cold of your part.” He's not lying, I can assure you, not only because of my senses but also because of the photos on his social media of the (horrible) dish (disgusting) that (unfortunately) he cooked.

“Efficient but enought piggy, talk me about the new season of the great magician that flies and (...)”

"Dont call me piggy, slug, and the new season of great magician is trash"

"And I'm the one who always says everything is trash? Is there a second season that you like?"

"Second seasons suck, man. trash, trash, trash xD"

The conversation continues toward character power levels. Safe territory. I can do this until 3 AM.

My life isn't set in stone. I could do anything. I am free. I can do anything. I could learn a language, write a novel, change the world. The absolute freedom of the NEET.

But

I choose to do nothing.

Because nothing is the only thing I do without disappointing anyone.

Except that disappoints them too.

The NEET paradox: To exist is to disappoint, not to exist is to disappoint more.

I keep writing. The spaghetti settles in my stomach. Outside, the world keeps spinning. My sisters keep working.

And I'm still here, in my room, winning arguments that don't matter against people I don't know.

Peak NEET performance.