It's New Year's Eve, 1995. You're sat alone in your shitty apartment with the lights off and a warm bottle of bottom-shelf champagne which you stopped drinking four hours ago. It was too sweet, and drinking it straight from the bottle made you a little too depressed to actually finish it. Your tv is set to static. It's more comforting than watching all of the actual celebrations, which you despise of course, and helps you fall asleep on most other nights.You get up from the floor to check your answering machine. Still only one message, the one where your ex dumped you. You go back to your bed and slump down on it face-first. How the fuck did you fuck up this bad? It feels like the only thing you have left is your job. Your ex took all your friends with her, your family... well, the less said about them the better, but you don't even have a pet to come home to. Hell, you doubt anyone would even miss you if you were gone. Do people at work even know your name? You have to wear a name tag everywhere...Maybe you'll turn your life around tonight. New year, new you. Start with a new name perhaps? What kind of a name do you want, that would suit you?>INPUT NAME
>>6037489Cyrus.
>>6037489Jacob
>>6037489Keith
>>6037489Your name is >Tobynow!
Cyrus. Now that's a name. Of all the shitty ideas floating around in your head, that one sticks out as one you're going to be able to live with. Well, 'live' with, anyways. Does paying rent and stealing cable count as living? Well, new name, new life, new you. Maybe you can actually make something of yourself and rebound or something.You look around your room with slightly newer eyes. Cyrus eyes. It's still dark as hell in here, but the pale glow from the TV set allows you to see the room in a sort of black-and-white version that it's in. It's got a ceiling, four walls, a door, and a window blocked by curtains. Your bed is on an extremely creaky frame. The wallpaper is peeling up in the corners of the room, and your fridge hums behind the din of the static. You suppose you could call it a studio, although "broomcloset" seems much more evocative of this space. At least the bathroom (which has its door off its hinges leaning on a wall) has warmish water. You smell trash wafting up from the kitchenette. Holy shit, how long did it take you to build that pile of trash bags? There's at least four black bags tied up and a mound of trash stuffed into your small trash can by the sink. The realization that the breakup hit you that hard settles on your shoulder like a vulture. It's been almost a month by now. Thanksgiving, you went to your ex's family dinner, and it all just kind of fell apart. You spent Christmas at a bar crying. You figure that you're a sad sack of shit. That was then. You're someone else now; Cyrus. What do you, Cyrus, do about this? Dwell on it? Either way, you've got to do something about that trash. Hopefully there aren't any roaches in that pile, you don't want the landlord charging you for an exterminator...>INPUT COMMAND
>>6037607>Take out all the trash>Become Cyrus the Restless; start working out during our free time>Also, watch Seinfeld
Rolled 15 (1d100)>>6037607>>>6037489 (OP)Get rid of the television. It is a tool of oppression.
>>6037826You know what, yeah, fuck the man and fuck society. Take out the trash and the TV along with it!
>>6037607Read the life-changing manifesto: Industrial Society and Its Future
>Become Cyrus the Restless; start working out during our free timeYou've never been particularly fit before. The last time you think you have intentionally exercised was back in high school PE class. You weren't one of the jocks by any stretch of the imagination as far as you can remember, but you do remember being pretty fit back then. Maybe your metabolism slowed down during college or something. You look over your body in the darkness of the room. You're wearing an oversized shirt, and flabby lumps of your body create hills in the canvas of your dark shirt. You're not fat, just skinny and lithe. You might even have man boobs, but you're too disgusted by your own body to continue to look at it. Shifting your eyes to your hands, you see that your arms are skinny, with soft hands. God, no wonder she left you.>Take out all the trash>Take out the trash and the TV along with it!>Get rid of the television. It is a tool of oppression.Yeah, maybe you should clean out the trash. It's been there long enough. You get up from your pathetic position and go to turn the TV off. Your mind wanders to good times watching Seinfeld back at home on the set, but you hadn't seen it in far too long. Either way, it'd get in the way of your cleaning. You press the power switch, but the static stays there. Piece of shit. The power switch doesn't even work. You pull it back away from the wall (it's sitting on the floor because you're too broke to afford a decent TV stand) and pull the plug. The static lingers for a moment, but then fades away into blackness. You're alone in your room in the now pitch-darkness of night. Fuck, it's dark. You blindly reach out and stumble towards the light switch, which flashes on an uncomfortably bright amber light for a moment, and then stays on.The shadows in the room burn away into the sad reality of your squalor. Not much of a bachelor pad is left here.
>>6038316>Do pushups, take out the trash, go sell the TV to a pawn shop
After letting your eyes adjust to the light, you begin your task. You grab one bag and it's heavy enough to pull the plastic. You also need both arms to carry it due to its bulkiness. Fuck it, self-improvement doesn't come easy. Four trips up and down the stairs to the dumpster should burn some calories. You grab your door keys off your counter. There's a note there. You are not reading that note. Next to the note is a single razor blade. You need to clean that up when you get back.Hoisting a bag up, you head out your front door into a shabby hallway lit with harsh florescents, humming quietly at the mains frequency. Doors line the walls, and the staircase is at the end. Passing by the doors you hear sounds of revelry and cheer. It's quite isolating. You imagine what it would be like in one of those rooms, drinking and kissing as the ball drops, but you're out cleaning your apartment. Fuck it. Start somewhere.You're about halfway down the second flight of stairs when you realized that it's below freezing out and you forgot to grab a jacket. You did put on sandals (apparently, you don't remember doing that) but you're simply wearing a oversized shirt and no pants. You're not sure if you're wearing underwear or not, either.A quick turn-around up to the fourth floor where you live, when you hear a door open ahead of you in the stairway. It must be from your floor.>INPUT COMMAND
>>6038429Remove our shirt and tie it like a loincloth. We're going Bronza Age
>>6038429> Cyrus gives no fucks, Cyrus just keeps on walking without his pants
>>6038429>>6038718GIRD THE LOINS!
>>6039339Intriguing, I never knew that's what it meant.
>>6038718+1
