Chapter 4:

Blip's Wife

HoneyBalls Writing Club: A HoneyFeed Romantic Comedy

And if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. And then you get an erection. — Anonymous

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“S-sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Um, are you—”

“I’m BlipXP,” I say in my most seductive Spanish accent. “I have a novel with over ten thousand views, and I moderate a Discord server with nearly thirty members.”


“That’s not all. I’m also the lead producer of a visual novel that’s budgeted and on track to enter pre-pre-pre-production once I finish a successful Kickstarter. On top of that, my uncle happens to be an author with over one hundred thousand combined views on all writing platforms and seven ex-girlfriends.”


She doesn’t sound impressed, but based on the scale and grandeur of my achievements that’s simply not possible. It’s shock. After thinking for a bit, I (correctly) decide to toss her a softball question to facilitate the unlocking of her feminine desires rather than piling even more achievements onto her plate — for instance, the fact that my uncle was a semi-finalist in a very reputable writing contest held in 2021. That’s the key to winning a girl’s heart, you see: slowing down when necessary rather than just mindlessly jackhammering. (If you’re curious, I learned that from my other uncle who’s good at Japanese and sex and has a [very hot] wife [who is braless at the moment].)

“Are you not impressed?” I ask, modestly.

“Oh! Um, nothing like that,” she says. I can tell she’s still nervous despite my tension relieving question, but I don’t blame her — I know I’d be nervous too if I ran into someone so well-accomplished (and at only 16-years-old too, holy shit!) “It’s just, you know, I thought you were upset… but I was clearly wrong, so maybe it’s better if I just go now...”

“Oh, okay then.”

“Yep. Bye! Have a great week ahead!”

She gives me a smile, a cute little chest wave and pitter patters away at a pace I can only describe as “not a girl’s normal speed.” But just before she turns the corner, I realise something.

Something… important.



She turns around, her jet-black hair splaying in all directions.

“You never told me your name.”

“O-oh. It’s Sophia,” she smiles. For some reason, it looks like she’s in pain and about to shit her pants. Also, I don’t care.


“It’s, um. It’s ‘Woo’.”

“That’s a made up name. I don’t know any Japanese girls with that name, and I know a lot of Japanese girls: Hanekawa Tsubasa, Pearlyn Mirabella, Kirara Asuka…”


“Hatano Yui, Fukada Eimi, Mikami Yua, Honjou Suzu, et cetera. So tell me the truth.”

“I’m Chinese.”

“Still sounds too stupid to be real. Like, your surname is a celebration? HAHAHA. Give me a break. What’s next, you’re gonna tell me you’re Sophia Yee? YEEHAW? Come on. Do better than that. I’m good at telling lies because I write a supernatural detective story, so you’d best think carefully before you spew.”


“Or don’t. Because I know who you are: you’re that new transfer student, aren’t you?! Soph—”

“There you are, potadd! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

In the corner of my vision springs out brown hair, white skin, and the face of Ion Popescu. He must’ve finished whatever he was doing at his desk and come here to cockblock my fun (AS USUAL), that fucking cretin.

“I-I told you not to call me that!” shrieks potadd.

Why doesn’t he go publish a novel instead of ruining my day? Or continue texting his gay buddy Oscar? Fucking fucker. Even worse, he actually seems to know this girl because he’s run up next to her and slung his arm across her shoulder and begun to lead her away from me. I mean, good job, Ion — this is probably the first girl you’ve touched since becoming the president of HoneyBalls — but like… I don’t give a shit? I obviously didn’t even like her anyway, she’s neither Japanese nor from Atlanta, Georgia. And probably a feminist too. I fucking hate feminists.

“What, I can’t call my cousin by her first name?” asks Ion.

“Come on, you know I hate my real name!”

“That makes two of us.”

I watch as their silhouettes slowly recede into the HoneyBalls club room; disappear into fine dust; get absorbed into an infinite purgatory until all I can feel is the dull tingling of my groin from a once-erect penis.

So much for moderation standards. Bastard doesn’t even make eye contact while cucking people.

“Man, I wish I had a hot cousin too,” I say as I crumple to the floor. Then, I go home and masturbate seven times.


Hungry Sheep
Robin Paharya