Latest Posts by jowasfounddead - Page 4

I'm just now realizing how fucking dramatic this post was, oh well 🤷🏻‍♀️

HOLY SHIT, HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE! "CALL ME WHAT YOU LIKE" BY LOVEJOY IS PLAYING ON THE RADIO, OMFG! ALT NATION ON SXM, HOLY SHIT, I CAN'T STOP SMILING! MY MOM SAID SHE HEARD IT ON THE RADIO BEFORE THIS AND WHY THE FUCK WASN'T I TOLD?

Pt.2 of Horror Ads

pov: uh oh, you didn't do your Spanish lessons today

You're frantically searching for your phone. Oh no, oh no, this is bad, you say inwardly. You finally locate your phone on your bedroom nightstand. While you're pulling up the app, you hear a small object rolling in the hall. It's coming towards you. They are already coming for you. Silence sweeps over your house. You take one last look around your room, knowing this is the last time you will see it.

You slowly open your eyes. A bright, white light is nearly blinding you. You steadily start to realize what you have done. These are the consequences of your actions. Your eyes, having already scanned the room, see no possible escape route. Pulling and tugging on the ropes that bind you would be no use. There is no escaping what you have done. The room looks to be soundproof. The floor is a solid, gray concrete, accompanied by pastel amber walls. The aura around you reeks of exhaustion and defiance. Crimson blood, still wet and fresh, is splattered across one of the corners. The wooden door to your left is painted white. Some paint is chipped off, revealing a startlingly bright red. The red is a suspiciously similar shade to the splattered blood. The door slowly creaks open, but nothing moves towards you. Then it happens, a small, bright green bird shuffles forward, through the creaky door. Where you're from this bird is a symbol of life, death, and growth. You curse under your breath, you are truly doomed now. Any sliver of hope you had before, is burned and disintegrated. With your heartbeat bursting in your ears, you silently pray to the gods for forgiveness. This bird is an omen. A cursed omen. Stories of El Pájaro Verde were spread to your ears as a child. Your past self would never have thought you would find yourself in this situation.

The toxic green bird lunges at you. You brace yourself for impact, but the impact never comes. You look up to find the foul fowl looking directly into your eyes. It's only centimeters from your face. Those piercing, black eyes seem almost hypnotic. You can't look away, mesmerized. Suddenly, after what feels like hours of gazing into those captivating orbs, a loud slam comes from outside the room, breaking your eye contact. A tall man in a lab coat casually struts into the room. He looks extremely out of place in your surrounding environment. He is wearing a semi-casual, blue work shirt under his coat. Brown, rounded glasses frame his face. His dark brown hair is piled up on his head, giving him a little more height. He's about 6 foot, you would say. "Hello," he says. You notice he has a little name tag pinned onto his lab coat. "Luis von Ahn," it reads. Luis von Ahn, Luis von Ahn, Luis von Ahn, you repeat over and over again in your head. I've heard that name before, come on think. Only then does he seem to realize that your restraints prevent you from responding to him. He reaches over and gently rips the tape, which previously covered your mouth, off.

You immediately inhale a sharp breath, savoring the bitter taste of the air around you. The man in front of you, Luis, looks expectant, a hoarse "Hello," falls from your dry lips, in response. Soon after your response, a thought hits you like a freight train, Luis von Ahn, the owner of the company that's ruining my life, he probably owns me too. He grins, a smile so genuine, warm, it almost hides the psychotic intent behind this man. That grin is the last memory you have for a while.

One week later

You look around, not knowing who you are or how you got here. Your life has turned into a company scheme. Luis is your only friend in this bare corporate world. You're a tiny worker bee in a giant hive. You know you could be exterminated at the snap of his fingers. You often find yourself wondering what your life was like before they took you or what you did to get yourself here. You have many theories, but none of them seem likely. You will spend the rest of your pathetic little life buzzing away for the capitalist pigs that own your soul. Your forever has been stolen from you, there is no hope in getting it back.

I saw a Grammarly ad today and got inspired lol

pov: one, two Grammarly is coming for you

You hear Grammarly in the distance, their long nails scraping across the walls of the hall. You're trying hard not to hyperventilate. Hand flies over your mouth in horror when your childhood lamp falls, then shatters. The lamp was made by your late-great grandmother in 1939. She was a film writer with a side hobby of making pottery. You look at the ceiling, Sorry, Grandma, you inwardly apologize to yourself, and everyone you've ever wronged too. This is what it feels like when your life flashes before your eyes. The scraping stops, you inhale sharply. This is it, this is how I die, is the only thing you find yourself thinking. A soft knock follows shortly after the scraping stops, You imagine their tall pale head snapping towards your door, fingers clawing at it. Surprisingly there is no clawing, just a gentle knock. You check to make sure the door is locked, firmly. You whip out your phone, then put it away again. No use in calling the police now, it's already over for you. You know your family is next. A soft hum can be heard from outside your bedroom, then a loud slam. You peer out from your hiding place. A long, white hand with lengthy nails has broken through your door. There is a hole in the door, right above the silver handle. You retract your body back immediately, but you know it's no use. They will get you eventually. You are eternally doomed. As you expected, they sniff you out. The last thing you see is that haunting pale hand. The last thing you smell is fear. The last thing you touch is the fine brown carpet of your childhood bedroom. The last thing you taste is your bloody lip, which you damaged earlier in the frantic escape. You will never escape again. The last thing you hear is this quiet, almost angelic serenade, "Writing isn't easy. That's why Grammarly can help. This sentence is grammatically correct, but it's wordy, and hard to read. It undermines the writer's message and the word choice is bland. Grammarly's cutting edge technology helps you craft compelling, understandable writing that makes an impact on your reader. Much better. Are you ready to give it a try...?"