Controller dusted with tears of defeat,
Dorito crumbs form a sad pixelated sheet.
My life’s an unskippable cutscene of pain,
Scripted to lose, but no one explains.

I respawn in my bedroom, cluttered and bleak,
XP bar stuck, life on perma-fatigue.
The mirror’s a glitch; it shows someone else,
Their face T-posing, like mocking itself.

Fridge is my loot box, contents bizarre—
A half-eaten moon, and a sentient jar.
I ask it for guidance; it blinks and says,
"Upgrade your sadness with premium meds."

Friends list offline, or maybe just bots,
The chat’s full of whispers of spaghetti plots.
Mom yells: "Pause the game!" but she doesn’t see,
This grind doesn’t end—there’s no DLC.

I dream of a questline to leave this chair,
But the fast travel’s broken, I’m stuck in despair.
The skybox cracks, polygons bleed,
Reality’s graphics downgrade with speed.

Final boss is me, or at least my reflection,
It emotes “Get Gud” with no affection.
I alt-F4 existence, but nothing shuts down—
The credits just roll on a looping clown.