Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

You've Got Mail (Vik)

            I adjust the camera to make sure that I'm centred in the shot, then I'm still not satisfied and have to readjust it. That looks about right. I look down at the mounds of envelopes, boxes, and mail crates and I sigh. I know I shouldn't be ungrateful. These people spent so much time and money to send these things to me; the least I can do is be grateful and give them credit for their generosity. There's no need to be such a wet blanket all of the time, honestly. I just hope that I have enough energy to make this seem convincing. I walk over to the desk to down the rest of my enhanced energy drink, and even though I know that it's just a placebo effect, I can feel the life spreading back through my veins.

I feel alive again.

"What is up, guys! Welcome back to another P.O. box mail-opening video. Today we're going to be sorting through all of this stuff and, as you can see from the length of the video, this is going to take quite a long time to get through. So let's get started, and I'll see you back here once I have everything opened up." I stare blankly at the camera and the red light eternally blinking equally blankly back at me. At least this will be easy to edit later on. I'll leave it rolling in case there's something especially interesting in here... Another twinge of guilt pangs my stomach when I catch myself wishing that I didn't have to do this again. Although digital fan art can be a pain, I'd rather have everyone do that so that I can indirectly see it and not have to deal with it head on. On camera.

The sheer number of envelopes and priority mail flats is extraordinary. I've got two bins full, plus another armful of stacks rubber-banded together on the floor. How am I even going to handle opening all of this? Perhaps I should call in a favour with JJ and get his ass in here to help me open some of it. I'll see how far I can get in half an hour first. But should I show all of these on camera in the first place, or should we start with the larger packages first and see how many hours that takes to film and edit first? I might need to undertake this ordeal more often from now on.

I grab the kitchen knife and start cutting through the meters of tape - half of the mass of this mess is packing tape. I find t-shirts, clay figurines, stacks of fan art, a hoodie, a box full of candy from Mexico, more t-shirts, a printed book of some sort with the Sidemen embossed on the cover, new socks, a bag of plastic apples, more t-shirts, a portfolio of crayon drawings, several repainted mini figures from the toy deal Jerome dragged me into, a pair of sweatpants, more t-shirts, a new gaming keyboard sent directly from the company - that wasn't technically fan mail, so we'll leave that out - and more t-shirts. I'm going to need to rent space at a storage facility for all of this clothing soon; why does everyone think that I need clothes? What does that say about me? I subconsciously flatten my headphone hair and look down at the crumb-covered t-shirt I'm wearing. It has holes in it, Vik. Holes. And you wear this on camera and wonder why everyone thinks that you need clothing like a homeless man. Opening fan mail always turns into a second or third Christmas: I get clothes upon clothes upon clothes. I could replace my bed with clothes and sleep easy at night because then I would finally have a use for it all.

Although I'll admit that I would prefer clothes to drawings of softcore porn... Sometimes I wonder if I've cursed myself by surrounding myself with sexually frustrated men. Would life be less scarring and traumatic if there were more non-male gamers in my inner circle? Or would that just be drawing them into the line of fire and abuse? At least I can take comfort in the fact that, if they're tormenting me, that means that they must be leaving someone else alone. I can practically hear Mum echoing in my head. I can rest assured that my parents don't watch my content or else they would either be trying to enroll me in therapy, or they would be pleading for me to move back home away from this beautiful chaos. They can't even handle driving out here to visit, let alone watch it unfold secondhand on a screen. I don't want to watch Dad physically cry about my life choices anymore. I pull the next box in front of me and cut through the many layers of tape wrapped around it every which way, mummifying it.