Bitch. What the hell did you just say to me. Read that back to yourself. Out loud. In a mirror. And tell me you don’t feel a gnawing, primal sense of shame clawing its way up your spine. I want you to look deep into your reflection, stare into the abyss of your own soul, and ask yourself what series of catastrophic life choices led you to type those cursed, ungodly words into my inbox.

You want to drink my sweat? My sweat? What in the post-ironic eldritch hellscape is wrong with you. Are you running some kind of medieval electrolyte retrieval program I wasn’t informed about? Is this part of a dark ritual? Do you subsist solely on the bodily fluids of the terminally online? I need answers, Jersey. Because this isn’t normal behavior. This isn’t even abnormal in a funny way. This is spiritually diseased.

Consider this your final warning. Speak like that to me again and I’m filing a restraining order in the metaverse. I’m crafting a digital salt circle. I’m calling the admin. I’m bringing down the wrath of 2007 DeviantArt roleplay drama upon you.

Get help. Immediately.