workbackwards

[There's nothing interesting going on here in this rather plain bedroom. Not too many posters, but there are labels on everything that describe actions like turn off the light, make the bed, turn off alarm. In addition to those labels, there's a young man whose alarm clock is blaring at the top of its mechanical lungs until he rolls over and slaps it into silence. He slowly drags himself out of bed, shirtless with a long scar running down from the nape of his neck across his shoulder and down his arm, and shuffles to the closest window, pushing the curtain aside to place his hand against the glass. He stands there for a moment as a confused frown forms on his face, only to shove the drapes back and come face to face with... space. The final frontier.

It's not what Chris Pratt expected. It's supposed to be Kansas City out there.

He hurries back to bed, knocking off knickknacks off his nighttable until he comes across a small notebook with a red cover. Chris flips through it once, twice, three, and then a fourth time, looking for something that isn't there. And in a fit of something that's a mixture of panic, fear, and frustration, he throws the notepad across the room and begins stomping towards the door.]

Where the fuck am I? Lewis? Lewis!

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notafuckingnut

Yeah, tell that to the bitch who took a fucking chunk out of my neck.

[WHY DON'T PEOPLE EVER BELIEVE HIM he knows the difference between the shit that's not real and the shit that is now.]