Memoirs of a basement dweller

I wake up and begin the rounds.  First, I get on MySpace. Need to make sure my profile is as loud and colorful as possible so people will think I'm fun.  I set "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga as the profile song, change the background to a bunch of spinning 3-D bling-blings and post up approximately 20 personality quizzes and a streaming video of a squirrel riding a jet ski. People need to know that I am fun and random and which anime character I am most like. 

Next I've got to Facebook-it-up in this joint.  My status has to be something mundane that I'm doing that day, except now that it's my profile status people actually have to care.  Let's see, I've got 25 new friend requests. Accept, accept, accept, accept.  My worth as a social entity is decided by the sheer mass of Facebook friends I have.  Right now I'm at 942 and I'm hoping to break 1,000.   

Wait, that guy I met in class whom I once struck up conversation with denied my friend request. Someone's getting the cold shoulder next time I see him. If we're not friends on here, we're not friends, period.  At least that cute gal accepted the request. I click info, see she's in a relationship, and go weep hysterically into my pillow for an hour before returning to play Farmville. 

I should Twitter about how much of a jerk that guy who denied my friend request was. The world needs to know.  After that, I check up on all my celebrity friends who never seem to respond back to my tweets at them. They're probably too busy being famous or something. Except for Beyonce.  Her agent is still working on putting that restraining order through the courts.  Beyonce said that I'm going to be put in a cell to the left, to the left. Oh, unrequited love.

I haven't bathed in a week, I think.  The curtains are always closed so telling time is a little disorienting. I'm starting to feel the lice crawling on me so I figure I'm going to take a shower before I meet my daily quota of microwavable pizza rolls and pictures of cats with hilariously misspelled captions on them. I have to sneak past my mom because she's expecting me to look for a job.  And an apartment.  I told her that I need this high-speed modem to live and that the sun hurts my eyes, but she won't listen. 

Mom hears me tiptoeing back to the basement and yells at me about how much of a disappointment I am and asks why I can't be like my successful brother instead of a subhuman acne-ridden troglodyte. 

"Because, Mom! I have social issues!  My emotions are frail!  I can't job search today because I have a raid in World of Warcraft!" 
I slam the basement door to the sounds of Mom asking what she's done to deserve this. I start venting my pent-up rage by shooting lightning bolts at dragons.  She can't understand.