The Hero’s Home.

Thoughts:

Fun literature’s different from serious literature in one simple way: it’s fun, not serious. But they’re still alike in one major way—they’re both literature. Take everything I’m about to say however you want: you can take it seriously, or you can smirk like a little gremlin. I warned you.

The Hero’s Home.

Hey. My name’s your inner voice. No, not your conscience. We broke up ages ago and decided to stay friends. I’m that annoying little whisper in your head that some folks would label as early-onset schizophrenia—but don’t listen to those bastards! They don’t want what’s best for you. I do. I’m here to talk straight, 'cause I’m the only one who really gets you.

Let’s start from the basics, as one should.

You never really belonged anywhere. Always the odd one out. Always the extra piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle. No matter how badly you wanted a little space to call your own—out there, beyond the door, there’s a hostile world full of bitey little humans just waiting to grab your love handle like some psycho Wolf chasing a girl in a red hoodie, totally ignoring the fact that—hey, bro—that’s a felony.

So, to avoid all that noise—you learned to make your own sandwiches, and you memorized the number of your fave food delivery service, which lowkey became your replacement mom. To avoid their shrill-ass voices—you put your phone on “Do Not Disturb” and “Silent Mode.” Then you turned your voice into letters glowing softly on your screen.

That’s how you became a floating code fragment, living inside messengers—and, though rarer— social networks (where you linger only for the sacred scroll of sarcastic memes).

What more could you want, oh valiant warrior against society’s pressure? Of course you’ve collected every gadget that could possibly replace a human being. And you’re praying that someday soon, a fully-functioning AI will become your one true friend—ideally shaped like a robo-dog or a robotic waifu with big sparkly eyes. Also, pro tip: pay the internet bill on time. Without it, your sweet sweet content dies a sad, offline death.

Got a bathrobe? No? Who cares. Tracksuit pants and a hoodie work fine. Got a job? No? Doesn’t matter. Same outfit. Just slightly more despair.

You’ve even earned yourself a unique title—way cooler than those worn-out buzzwords like “introvert” or “socialphobe.” If there was a king somewhere who wanted to tap your shoulder with the tip of a sword—or better, a game controller—he’d knight you on the spot as Sir Hikikomori.

Sure, your parents get annoyed. But they don’t understand the things your terrified brain whispered to you in confidence. It told you—without being asked—that humans are some seriously sketchy creatures. You knew that already, of course. But still—nice to get confirmation.

Maybe you’ve got a girlfriend, a boyfriend, a wife, a husband. What? You think I’m gonna

stereotype you just ‘cause your name’s Nerd McGeekerson? C’mon. You might even have a partner. Maybe more than one.

If you got lucky, they totally vibe with your main goal—never sticking your nose out of your home fortress. They’ve got their desk right beside yours, and the two of you are deep into a MOBA

honeymoon or binging “Love, Death & Robots.” You’ve even figured out a fair system for domestic duties: today they wear the bathrobe, and you’re rocking the tracksuit and hoodie. Tomorrow? You swap.

Of course, you might not have been that lucky. Stereotypes may have sucker-punched you into pairing up with one of those basic partners who whine non-stop. One day they complain that you’re just sitting around doing “nothing” (their words). Next day, they’re mad that the curtains are drawn tight even though it’s a blazing summer day outside—and no, you don’t have fangs or a taste for blood.

So what do you do? Give up? Hell no! If you give up, you’ll stop feeling like a typical Japanese high schooler from your favorite manga and start turning into one of them. You know who I mean: those Creepy Street People.

Scared now?

Damn right you are. Even just the phrase “Creepy Street People” is more terrifying than half the horror flicks out there. And you’ve got zero intention of letting your glorious anime hair get

shampooed. You won’t abandon your beloved bangs—the ones that hang into your mouth so you can chew on them grimly while pondering the meaning of life and the family tree of the Penguin. Though, yeah, since the show, he’s kinda gone mainstream. Not as fun to think about anymore. I feel you, bro.

Your reality is four walls—and you’re not gonna break the fourth just to chat with someone. Concrete’s way more trustworthy than bio robots, and I’m with you on that. I gotchu.

There’s really nothing good out there. Even though therapists—eyeing you, trying to make actual eye contact (the audacity!)—will say stuff like, “Traveling through Romania or Angola could really open you up.” Even if you don’t wanna walk that far, they’ll tell you to at least go to the nearest store to stock up on energy drinks while they’re on sale.

You gonna listen to them?

The catch is—they don’t know you. But I do. I’m your inner voice—literally part of you. I’ve

studied you better than anyone. I’m perched on both shoulders, having sent the angel and demon out for a smoke break. And from up here, lemme tell you—your chair is warm for a reason. Its fabric has soaked in most of your farts already, and—like a seasoned sommelier—it’s trying to decode the delicate aroma of that burrito you ate with caramel sauce.

You and that chair? A solid couple.

If you think about it, it might even be better than a real relationship. It’ll never betray you. Never dump you. Unless it breaks. You and your seat—best community out there. But if you dare to stand up, put on anything other than your fluffy centipede slippers, dig up those rusty keys, and open the door... out there—