Originally Published November 30th, 2012

>Blackness surrounds you, floating in a void which seems composed of an infinite depth of ink.
>You are still Anon, only unconscious from pain and morphine.
>sweetmorphine.exe is running with 99.9% efficiency
wheeeeeeeee.
>You’re slowly drifting downwards, caught on an unseen current which whisks you deeper into the carbon abyss.
>Three feet above the ground, you drop. 
>You hit hard.
AHRRHGHRHGHRHGHRHGH.
>Timetogodeeper.jpg.
>”Anon. What’s the matter?”
>Look around and see your lifelong friends, Superego, Ego and Id.
>Superego is white and funny looking.
>Ego is black and bald.
>Id is Asian, but you’re still not sure which kind.


>RUNNING ZOOLANDER OS…..
I don’t know. I’m pondering things.
>”You know who you should ponder? Fluttershy.”
>”That’s gross.”
>”Earth to Superego, I was making a joke.”
>”Earth to Id, I knew that.”
STOP IT!
>Everyone stares at you.
>Even the ridiculously good-looking pictures of the four of you.
Don’t you think there’s something more to life than discussing whether or not to fuck my stalker?
>Blue_Steel.gif
I never did like that picture.
>Ego looks confused. ”Who are you talking to Anon?”
>Id open-hand punches Ego in the crotch, then quickly jabs him in the forehead.
>”I meant to do that.”
>Right. Superego starts speaking.
>”Look guys, Anon is confused, and you know what would help him get through these troubling times?”


>Their three voices cry out in manly unison:
>”ORANGE MOCHA FRAPPUCINOS!”
>dothejitterbug.mp3
>There is much manliness in the man-wagon as you and your three hetero-life-partners make their way to the gas station.
>While your friends are having a gasoline fight, you walk over to a trashcan.
>An old bastard threw out a paper that had your beautiful face on it.
>Avoid the used condoms. +10 dexterity.
>On the cover of the magazine is a clumsily photo-shopped picture of you dicking Yellow Quiet.
>It reads:  Anon.   A horsefucker.
Anon:  A horse, fucker.
>You glance in your pants, a confused look on your face.
Well, I wouldn’t say “horse”…
>Look up and see Spike staring at you with the beddiest of bedroom eyes.
>Did he just hear that?
>Ohgodnightmares.jpg
>Turning around, it looks like the guys are done with their gas fight full of non-erotic-subtext.
>You put on a big smile, and see Id fumbling around in his pockets, then bringing something up to his mouth.
>Is that a cigarette?



>Yup.
>Like the beautiful (no homo) dumbass that he is, he pulls out his lighter.
ID!
>A massive explosion of flames, mocha, and homo-erotic subtext launches you back into the black void of your unconscious mind.
What the hell is wrong with me?
>I don’t even know man, and I’m the narrator.
Hey, your voice sounds familiar…
>No it doesn’t.
No…I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before…
>Listen. Let’s just forget about it and move on wit-
YOU’RE THE NARRATOR FROM THE POWERPUFF GIRLS!
>FUCK YOU IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP!



>SYSTEM REBOOT IN PROGRESS…
>”A-anon, are you alright?”
>Dammit.  You’re on a sofa in Fluttershy’s cottage.
>You slowly move your head around, stopping in front of the big, fuzzy, pink&yellow monster in front of you.
weherermi?
>”What?”
werahmy?
>”I c-can’t understand you An-”
WHERE AM I?!
>”eep!”  Fluttershy jumps up into the air, crashing into one of the support beams and falling to the floor.
>In your blurryvision(tm), you can see a white blob shaking its head.
>You remind yourself to put Angel on your “Do not steal from” list, and watch as Banana Hush pulls herself off the floor.
>”Well, Dr. Stable transferred you to my cottage because I have better knowledge on how to fix this.”
I saw you bribe him!
>”Well, how else would I get to take care of you, my little baby-kins?”
>Oh god, she just said ‘baby-kins’.
>Angel has a similar expression of disbelief on his face; you’re liking this rabbit more as time goes on.
>Ignoring you, Flutterbutt goes upstairs. “Now you stay right there while I go get your medication.”
Florence Nightingale Syndrome isn’t my fetish!
>You should try and get out of here man.
Smart thinking, Brain!
>*clank*
>Every limb is chained to the couch…even your penis, for some weird reason.
AND NEITHER IS STOCKHOLM SYNDROME!



	
>Later that evening…
>You’re not chained to the sofa anymore, but you are now chained to the fridge.
>Life’s just getting better, huh?
>”…alright, thank you Doctor Stable.” Silent canary hangs up the phone.
Oh sure, the ponies are advanced enough to have telephones, but I get sent to a rapist for “medical expertise.”
>”If loving you means that I’m a rapist, then I guess I’m the biggest rapist of all!” Her pupils turn into hearts as she’s saying this.
>The innocence of the ponies is enough to drive you insane sometimes.
>Granted, they do have massive and thriving Red-Light districts, but the terminology is just a little different than Earth’s.
>”Anyways, the Doctor says that you should be fine in 4-6 weeks…”
WHAT!?
>Bug Butt blushes a slight shade of orange, and begins fiddling with her hooves “I accidentally dropped you a couple times on the way over.”
Dumbass.
>”But that you shouldn’t attempt to masturbate or have sex before your cast disappears.”
Well, that makes sen…disappearing cast? Is this a ‘magic’ cast?
>She nods. 
>”The Doctor said your stitches and cast should disappear when you’re…”
>She’s biting her lip. Why is she biting her lip?
>”…Back in working order.”
>The emphasis she put on “working” sends shivers up your spine. 
>But at least there’s no sponge baths! For 4-6 weeks…