It's a wonderful day in Flyover Country, Kentucky Division - at least I'm assuming as such because it's 10 AM and I haven't contemplated putting a bullet in my head yet, though there is still quite a bit of day to go - and here I am: sprawled out on the small pull out couch, feet hanging over the edge, while behind me my ex-fiance sits in a chair that wasn't there when I passed out fell asleep last night, obviously on some classic Freudian psychoanalysis shit. Of course, this is absolutely absurd: Victoria's been dead for three years.

Yes, that's the important part of all this: not the fact that I'm in Kentucky of all places or that it's 10 AM and I don't want to die already, despite the throbbing headache that I woke up threatening to change that. Those are small potatoes. Minor distractions. Of course this Victoria isn't real. This is just what's left of my sanity telling me that I need to see a therapist or some pussy shit. I ain't no fuckin' loser.

This is my standard operating procedure. I make rather astute observations about myself at the most inopportune times. Now it's me realizing that therapy is on the list of things I should should do but won't because a sane, happy me is a fucking terrifying thought when my main appeal is being a barely contained lunatic with a veneer of pretentious pseudo-intellectual bullshit. Like the time I realized that every opportunity I have to turn my life around, I choose to throw that shit away and plunge deeper and deeper into nihilism and suicidal idealization while gargling some Thai ladyboy's semen - no it wasn't Mia Yim I may be a massive with no standards but I have standards.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

It's like I'm not even trying at this point. Victoria's voice is my own, only in falsetto. Whiny and nasally, like nails on a chalkboard. Do I really sound like that? Shit, I should talk more, really rub it in.

"What I've always done."

"Losing to fucking Thaddeus Duke of all people?"

"What do you mean of all people? He's the perfect guy to get the shit beat out of ya by. Think about it, it's all a part of the niche appeal. Do you think people like me because I'm a good wrestler? Fuck no! They like me because I'm an asshole and have a blasé attitude about the whole wrestling business. I can say I don't give a fuck about professional wrestling, that I don't give a fuck about anyone I'm squaring off with and they'll eat that shit up because they know that someone for once in the entire history of the business is telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I'm a fucking beacon of light in the abyss and everyone loves it."

Victoria-but-really-me sighs in frustration, no doubt shaking her head with her hand covering her face. Such is life. I roll over onto my back and then roll right off the side of the bed and tumble to the floor, arms flailing in an exaggerated manner as I brace for the landing. The carpet feels rough against my face, but I don't bother to push myself up to my feet and instead lay spread eagle CROSS THE BLOCK.

I sexually identify as a Death Grips album cover.

"Yeah and that's all fine and dandy I guess but think about it; you're this big bad legend or something - I don't know if that's for real or only in your fucking head since the only real accomplishment you've had in your career is usurping the position of King of the Midcarders from Mark Flynn (whose shtick you relentlessly bit to even get yourself to that position need I remind you) - but whenever you come back no one even bothers to give you any kind of respect--"

"Fuck respect! Are you joking? You think I care if anyone in the business respects me more than they want me shot? Nah you got me all wrong if you're implying that I care about shit like my reputation. For fuck's sake I'm calling myself the fucking #MemeQueen. I'm the epitome of third-rate joke trash but since people want third-rate joke trash that's in the slightest bit self-aware - because there isn't a soul in the wrestling business, let alone the XWF who has a modicum of that and there hasn't been since Fernando proved to be too cool to live - I'm still over as fuck while languishing little like Bad Attitude scrap and claw for some kind of relevance. I mean shit, they're the real big boy tag team primed and set to fuck everyone's days up but here Dolly and I are: drug addict memeslut and teenage girl getting the opportunity that 'legitimate' teams would kill for. Legitimacy is dead, dude. All hail our shitty post-ironic irony gods!"

"You talk a big game, so why do you bitch whenever people don't give it up for you when you stumble back through the door?"

"You got me all wrong. I ain't mad when people act like they're tougher than me when I pop my head back in the door long enough to remind people of when wrestling was good, I expect that shit. I made my career out of disrespecting and punking them out but you know what I did that none of them could? Back that shit up convincingly. And stay fuckin' consistent but who's counting all the ways amirite? We could be here all day if we did that. Nah nah, I'm so dedicated to this ironic deconstruction shit that if this shit somehow gets aired - which we all know it will because this shit always gets aired - I'm gonna make sure they play some whiny ass emo song over it to make people think this is gonna be some super srs edgy bawwffest since this is all a hallucination and a thinly-veiled vent. People are gonna think I'm gonna talk about how I hate myself or some shit but then the script will be flipped like three times. Maybe we'll go with that chick from The Wizard's band. Then the title promo after a different of their songs just because 'y knot kek'.

"Fuckin' hell, I'm the best thing about wrestling, and I ain't even a rassler man."

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Awww fuck. That must be the plot. Good talk, me."

I push myself up to my feet and stumble over towards the door, pulling it open to see my wonderfully smug manager Zane Kingsley III in the doorway, standing next to my tag partner/the set of coattails I'm riding this time, Dolly Waters.