I wake up to light pouring through the slits in my blinds and pooling at the center of my bed, creating a pattern of pale yellow stripes and splotches on my duvet. The sky glows its powdery blue shade, setting a beautiful backdrop for the morning-fresh clouds plump from last night's rain. I rub my eyes for clarity, noticing I actually have a few notifications for once. I smile, thoughtfully; I'm sure it's one of my, like, three friends wishing me a happy nineteenth birthday. Hmm. That's odd. It's a retweet, well, oh my god...its 167.4k retweets. Oh my god. What the fuck? I can already feel waves of heat rising to my cheeks and the gurgle of energetic butterflies in my stomach as I begin to open the app. I barely enter my handle and password correctly with the sweat forming at my fingertips. Am I going viral? Which tweet? Hopefully not the one about-
It's the tweet. I check and double check again to be sure. No, it's definitely THE tweet. The short, nine word sentence that will seal my identity on the internet forever as a sex-starved teenager is punctuated against the black aesthetic of dark mode with crisp, white letters that read...
"I want Anonymous to finger me like his keyboard."