"Stop! Stop that kid!"
But I was already gone. I’d started out making memes in middle school. I thought of them as a funny outlet for my boring, mundane life. Little did I know that they would soon turn my world upside down. In the past six months I’d transformed from Anthony, the awkward lanky kid who ate lunch in the computer lab to a full-blown memelord. I started out hustling a couple memes here and there to my closest friends but soon I was moving more meme-weight in a day than I knew what to do with. It baffled me how all of these memes could possibly be consumed, but I didn’t ask questions. I was the funniest kid in school and every girl wanted my dick — ironically.
“Heh, nice meme, kid. Pretty well thought out. But you’re gonna need a lot more than that to stay afloat in this corner of the Internet,” he said. The hallway cleared in anticipation of our showdown.
I smirked and slowly reached for the ninja star in my left breast pocked. "Looking for this?" He asked as he held up my ninja star.
"H-how did you—"
"Heh, you’ve got a lot to learn, punk. SHORYUKEN!"
He lunged at me with his special Rising Dragon Fist attack but I narrowly dodged it. Thinking quickly I grabbed my fedora and shot it from my hand with the speed of thousand Frisbees. It sliced his leg clean off.
"Agh! It is true! Y-you really are… the chosen one!"
My trusty fedora boomeranged back and I shot my hand in the air, catching it at the last second. "Warn your friends," I said. "If I catch one of you punks sharing my memes without liking them first, next time I’ll take more than a leg."
It was an ugly way to live, really. I lived each day with regret. I looked around the dinner table and suddenly knew a deep sadness I hadn’t known for years. I looked in awe of my beautiful mother, who had no idea how reckless and siiick her sweet Anthony really was. I wondered if my father, a retired EMT-turned-volunteer-fire-fighter, ever came close to witnessing the horrors I came into contact with firsthand every single day of my life. I looked to my little brother, Jack, and could only hope that he’d never be dragged into the meme game the way I was.
After dinner I walked back up to my room and did what I do best: memed. I was ripping on everybody: Trump, Ken Bone, Jimmy who sharted in Pre-Calc, Mrs. Dunkirk. But it wasn’t filling the gaping hole in my heart. I sighed and let my hands do the work. I was at such an advanced stage in my memery I could do this shit blindfolded. Notifications were flooding my screen: likes, “lol”s, people questioning my sexuality. I derived no pleasure from reading them anymore.
After what seemed like hours I crawled back into bed and grabbed my rig from my side table drawer. I loaded up a shot of memes into the syringe and let out a big sigh as they coursed through my veins. Finally I was home.