**February 19, 2026**
Dude. What the actual fuck is this world? I swear, if I hear one more person say "manifesting my truth" or "self-care Sunday" I'm gonna lose it. Like, back home – you know, actual home, 2000 – we didn't need apps for that shit. We'd just blast Limp Bizkit in the basement, chug Mountain Dew, and crowd-surf at a show till our arms went numb. "Break Stuff"? That was therapy. Fred Durst screaming about rage? Pure gold. Now? Everyone's sipping oat milk lattes and journaling their "trauma." Oat milk? Bro, cows exist. Milk comes from cows. End of story.
Woke up in this crap motel again today. Same stained sheets, same buzzing mini-fridge that sounds like a dial-up modem dying. God, I miss AIM. That door-opening sound when someone logged on? Best feeling ever. "You've Got Mail!" – boom, heart races. Now it's all these "DMs" and "swipes." I tried TikTok last night. Danced my ass off to some algorithm bullshit for five seconds, and now my feed's all skinny dudes in crop tops doing the renegade. Whatever. I just want to rent "American Pie" at Blockbuster, split a pizza, and not think about how I'm a goddamn time refugee.
School's the worst. Pretending to be one of them. "Van, did you do the group project on climate anxiety?" Bitch, I was alive when Y2K was gonna end the world and it didn't. We partied through that apocalypse scare with flip phones and pagers beeping "143." Now it's all electric cars and "sustainable everything." I nodded along today, doodling Fred Durst's cornrows in my notebook. Teacher thought it was "modern art." Ha. If only.
But Chloe. Man, Chloe's the one glitch in this matrix that doesn't suck. Saw her at lunch again. She's got this vibe – baggy jeans, old-school Nirvana tee under her hoodie. Doesn't post her every breath like the influencers. We talked for real today. Actual words, face-to-face, no screens. She laughed when I said malls were peak civilization. "Dude, the food court? Hot Topic? Spencer’s Gifts with the blacklights and lava lamps? Friday night ritual." She didn't call me weird. Said she'd kill for a real arcade, not some VR headset crap. Eyes lit up. We swapped numbers – her phone's this sleek brick, no buttons, but whatever. Texted her later: "Blockbuster run? Hypothetically." She sent back a popcorn emoji and "bet." Heart did that AIM logon flip. Is this connection? Or am I just desperate? Lonely as hell here, 26 years off course. No fam, no crew, no clue how I Bizkit-surfed into the future.
What if I tell her? "Hey Chloe, I'm from 2000. Limp Bizkit was gods, not relics." She'd think I'm schizo. Lock me up in some "wellness center" with essential oils and group hugs. Nah. Gotta play normal. Hustle a job maybe, fake an ID, survive. But nights like this, staring at the ceiling, I wonder: was it the mosh pit? Some wormhole in the bass drop? Miss my bed, my dial-up fights with dial tone, calling buddies on landlines till 2 a.m. "Yo, wanna rage?" Simple.
Chloe might be my pager in this mess. One beep saying I'm not alone. But confused AF. Lonely creeping up. What if I never get back? What if this is it – oat milk eternity? Fuck that. I'll break stuff. Somehow.
– Van
*(Word count: 528)*