You don't know what's inside the box or why it's even there in the first place. Where the fuck are you anyways? The exposition was not made clear in the beginning, I'm afraid. I think we have lost track of what's really important to the story. No, it's not insulting your sorry ass. Quite tragic ass, really. No it's not that. It's the box, remember? The box. That's what's really important. The goddamn motherfucking box. You fucking pussy bitch. Aha, okay. Enough of insulting you already, it's getting a bit redundant. Also, the amount of times I say the word fuck is exceedingly high, which makes for a rather undynamic and repetitive use of storytelling that leads to nowhere. I find that writing in a hostile attitude towards you is counter-productive and destructive to the motive of the story. Let's explore new territory shall we? No more nonsense, just you, me, and the box. We are free at last. Let the discoveries begin and out of the dark shall emerge light. A new dawn at the end of the long, lonely, night. I'm such a profound and sophisticated poet, amirite?
Just ask chubby boy up there, hurry up before he dies. He's gonna trip on that ball and bounce around a little bit before he finally lands and drowns in his own fat.
