Job Interview Tips

Ah, job interviews. That magical experience where a stranger decides your entire fate based on how well you can pretend to be a functioning human for 30 minutes. If you, like me, suffer from chronic overthinking, you’ll know that preparing for a job interview isn’t just about research and confidence—it’s about meticulously crafting every possible scenario in your head, and ultimately sabotaging yourself by saying something deeply unhinged.

To help you navigate this minefield of anxiety, I’ve compiled some foolproof job interview tips, designed specifically for overthinkers.

1.     When They Ask, “Tell Me About Yourself”, Try Not to Have an Identity Crisis

This is where normal people say something simple like, “I’m a marketing professional with five years of experience” and so on.

This is not what you will do.

Instead, you’ll briefly forget who you are, panic, and blurt out something alarming like, “Oh wow, where do I even start? Well, I was born on a Tuesday, I have a fear of deep water, and one time in primary school I cried because I thought the sun was following me.”

Alternative Strategy: Memorise a safe, boring script. If you feel the urge to overshare, don’t!

2. Maintain Eye Contact (But Not in a Psychotic Way)

Eye contact is important! But if you’re an overthinker, you will immediately start obsessing about it.

Too much eye contact? Intimidating.

Too little? Suspicious.

Accidentally stare at their forehead instead? Now you look cross-eyed.

Alternative Strategy: Use the “triangle method”—casually shift your gaze between their eyes and nose. If you forget how to blink, just fake a thoughtful nod to break the tension.

3. The “What’s Your Greatest Weakness?” Trap

A normal person would say something harmless like “I sometimes get too invested in my work.”

You, however, are about to overthink yourself into oblivion.

• First thought: Should I be honest?

• Second thought: If I say something too weak, will they think I’m a liar?

• Third thought: If I say something too real, will they call security?

• Fourth thought: Why do I have so many weaknesses? Am I a fundamentally flawed human?

And before you know it, you’ve said something horrifying like, “My biggest weakness is that I feel crippling guilt over what I did in the summer of 2009.”

Alternative Strategy: Pick a fake weakness. Something harmless. Something that makes you sound both flawed and employable. Try: “I sometimes over-organise things” or “I care too much about the Oxford comma.”

4. The Deadly Silence After a Question

They ask a question. You answer. Then… silence.

At this moment, your brain will catastrophise at lightspeed:

• Oh no. They hated my answer.

• Are they waiting for me to say more?

• Did I accidentally insult their entire family?

• Did I just ruin my entire future?

To fill the silence, you will start nervously rambling. You’ll tell them a completely unnecessary story. You’ll say, “Does that make sense?” 27 times. You’ll add an awkward laugh at the end, even if the topic wasn’t funny.

Alternative Strategy: When you finish your answer, STOP TALKING. Count to three in your head if needed. Interviewers sometimes pause—it doesn’t mean they’re judging your soul.

5. “Where Do You See Yourself in Five Years?”—A Loaded Question

Normal people answer this with “I hope to advance my skills and grow within the company.”

Overthinkers? Oh no. We see this as a trap.

• What if I don’t know?

• What if in five years I’m dead? Should I factor that in?

By the time you’ve finished spiralling, you’ll blurt out something like, “In five years? Oh. Um. Ideally, I’d like to have a dog.”

Instead, say something about how all your ambitions will be fulfilled by devoting your precious life’s energy to working for their tedious company (but try not to mention the tedious part).

6. Handling an Unexpected Question Without Having a Meltdown

Some interviewers like to throw in an unexpected question just to see how you react.

• “If you were an animal, what would you be?”

• “Describe yourself in three words.”

• “How many basketballs would fit in this room?”

Your overthinking brain will not process this like a fun challenge. It will immediately panic.

• Why basketballs?

• What if I pick the wrong animal? Am I now stuck with that as my spirit guide?

• What are three words that sum me up? “Chronically, Anxious, Overthinker”??

Before you know it, you’ve answered, “I’d be a squirrel because I have a lot of anxiety and like snacks”—and now you’ve ruined your credibility.

Alternative Strategy: Take a breath. Laugh a little. If needed, stall with “That’s a great question!” while your brain catches up.

7. Ending the Interview Without Ruining Everything

The interview is almost over. You’ve survived. Now comes the final hurdle: the goodbye.

If you’re an overthinker, this will not go smoothly.

You will accidentally say “You too” when they say, “Good luck.”

You will wave in a weird way.

You will stand up too quickly and knock over your chair.

You will walk to the wrong door and then have to turn around in shame.

Alternative Strategy: Move slowly. Think before you speak. If you mess up, just pretend, with confidence, that you meant to do it.

Final Thoughts

If you’re an overthinker, job interviews are basically an extreme sport. So breathe. Speak slowly. And for God’s sake, do not talk about squirrels.

Unless the interviewer loves squirrels. Then, by all means, lean into it.

The Mirror Test

The test was mandatory. These days, everyone had to take it, no exceptions.

Sofia sat in the sterile white room, as the doctor reviewed her results. The Mirror Test was simple—look into the machine, let it scan you, and wait for confirmation. Human. That’s what it was supposed to say. 100% human.

The doctor wasn’t speaking. His face had gone slack.

“Something wrong?” asked Sofia.

The doctor’s eyes flicked to her, hesitant. “It’s… probably just an error.”

He tapped at the screen, then hesitated.

“Could you look in the mirror for me?” he asked. His voice was too careful, too neutral.

There was a large mirror on the wall opposite her seat. It ran from the floor to the ceiling, wide enough to reflect the entire room. She had glanced at it before.

Still, she turned her head.

The mirror was empty.

Her chair was there. The table, the lights, the doctor standing over the machine—his face pale, his breath uneven.

But she wasn’t there.

Sofia looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers. She touched her face, felt the warmth of her own skin. She was here. She was real.

The doctor’s eyes were darting towards the door. His gaze was terrified, looking around her instead of at her.

“What the hell are you?” he said, too quietly.

A sharp click came from the door behind her. Locking. The lights flickered out. The doctor screamed.

Sofia always felt more comfortable in the dark.

Texts Ruined by Autocorrect

Once a noble invention designed to streamline our messages and save us from our own typos, autocorrect has instead become a rogue agent of chaos. It has an uncanny ability to derail apologies, sabotage romance, and transform heartfelt sentiments into deranged gibberish.

Take, for example, the perils of intellectual discourse. You’re making a profound point, aiming to impress with your knowledge of psychology, only for autocorrect to intervene:

“The theory of cognitive dissonance suggests that—”

Autocorrect: “The theory of corgi distance suggests that—”

Nothing dismantles an intellectual argument faster than an unexpected parade of small, faraway dogs.

But nowhere is autocorrect more diabolical than in the realm of romance. You’re crafting the perfect flirty message—light, witty, effortlessly charming. You type:

“Can’t wait to see you tonight, beautiful.”

Autocorrect: “Can’t wait to see you tonight, bathtub.”

Congratulations. You are now a psychopath. There is no recovering from this. Even worse:

• “Hey babe” → “Hey bank” (Are you in love, or in debt?)

• “Hey babe” → “Hey Baby Yoda” (Unclear, but certainly a vibe.)

• “Sending love” → “Sending lice”

• “Can’t wait to see you” → “Can’t wait to sue you”

Autocorrect’s appetite for destruction is especially brutal in moments of grief. A friend has suffered a terrible loss. You carefully compose a message of sympathy:

“I’m so sorry for your loss. Let me know if you need anything.”

Autocorrect: “I’m so sorry for your boss. Let me know if you need anything.”

Now, instead of offering comfort, you appear to be mourning the fate of corporate leadership.

Then there’s damage control. You’ve made a mistake. You need to apologise. You type:

• “Please forgive me.” → “Please forget me.” (Devastating.)

• “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” → “I didn’t meme to hurt you.” (Sure, blame it on the internet culture.)

And at its most malevolent, autocorrect strikes when you’re sending a spicy text. You write:

“Can’t wait to kiss you all over.”

Autocorrect: “Can’t wait to kiss you all ogre.”

Even worse:

• “I’m in bed waiting for you.” → “I’m in debt waiting for you.”

Autocorrect is proof that technology, for all its intelligence, has no sense of timing, tact, or emotional nuance.

Try talking instead, but without the Freudian slips this time.

Local Man Achieves Spiritual Awakening After Finding £10 Note in Old Coat Pocket

In what experts are calling “a profound breakthrough in modern spirituality,” local man Darren Wilkes, 38, achieved full enlightenment yesterday upon discovering a £10 note in the pocket of his old winter coat.

Wilkes, a self-proclaimed seeker of meaning, had previously embarked on a decade-long journey of self-discovery through yoga retreats, meditation apps, and a suspiciously expensive online course titled Manifest Your Best Self Through Crystal Healing. However, nothing had quite opened his third eye like the unexpected appearance of legal tender.

“I was just patting the pockets, hoping for an old bus ticket to scribble on, and there it was,” said Wilkes, still visibly glowing. “I reached in, felt the crumpled paper, and in that moment, I saw the truth of existence. Everything just… made sense.”

Friends and family report that Wilkes has undergone a remarkable transformation. Once prone to existential moaning, he now spends his days sharing the gospel of “checking your pockets more often” and “living in the now, because you never know what’s been left in your jeans.”

Wilkes’s wife, Sandra, remains cautiously optimistic about his newfound enlightenment. “It’s nice that he’s stopped going on about his ‘inner void’,” she said. “But now he’s redecorated the living room with signs saying, ‘Abundance is all around us—especially in unworn jackets’.”

Local spiritual leaders have expressed mixed reactions to Wilkes’s epiphany. The Reverend Michael Fadden of St John’s Church praised the simplicity of Wilkes’s discovery. “Sometimes, the divine works in mysterious ways,” he said. “Though, to be honest, I’d prefer if our congregation found God through prayer rather than rifling through old coats.”

However, not everyone is convinced. Dr Naomi Hughes, a psychologist specialising in sudden spiritual awakenings, warned that Wilkes’s experience might be more about dopamine than destiny. “Finding money unexpectedly triggers a surge of happiness,” she explained. “But calling it ‘nirvana’ is a bit of a stretch. Otherwise, cash machines would be considered holy sites.”

Despite the scepticism, Wilkes remains steadfast in his conviction. He has launched a YouTube channel, Pocket of Wisdom, where he shares life-changing insights such as “Always check behind the sofa cushions” and “Sometimes, happiness is just a crumpled fiver away.”

When asked what his next steps would be, Wilkes responded with a serene smile. “I’m going to the charity shop to try on all the coats. I believe the universe has more blessings to bestow.”

A Day in the Life of a Pigeon Who’s Seen Too Much

06:00 – The Awakening

I jolt awake, heart pounding. The nightmares are back. The things I’ve seen. The horrors. The discarded chips left to rot. The toddler who gripped a handful of bread and then… just walked away. The betrayal.

I shake off the memories, ruffle my feathers, and fly off into another day of survival.

06:30 – Breakfast

The scent of stale dough lingers in the air. Near the bin, a chunk of bagel sits in the dust, untouched. My instincts scream at me: Trap. I’ve seen it before. An easy meal never comes without risk.

I scan the area. No hawks, no sudden movements. Hunger gnaws at my gut. I swoop down, talons scraping pavement, and peck cautiously.

It’s good. Too good.

Then I hear it—the flutter of wings.

Terry. The bastard.

“Oi, that’s my bagel,” he squawkily coos, landing hard beside me.

There’s no discussion, no diplomacy. He lunges. We spiral in a flurry of wings, beaks snapping, feet clawing. The bagel is forgotten, hurled aside, rolling into the road—right into the path of a double-decker bus.

Gone.

We pause, both panting. Terry glares at me. I glare at Terry. The battle is over, but the war? The war never ends.

11:30 – The Child

The park is busy. The air smells of damp grass, fried food, and uncertainty.

Then I see him. A small human. Sticky hands. Beady eyes. The scent of bread clings to him like a warning.

The others are moving in, but I stay back. I’ve been in this game too long. I know better.

He lifts a chubby hand. A smile spreads across his face.

Then—chaos.

He screams in delight, throws the bread into the air, then charges at us, arms flailing.

The flock erupts into a frenzy of wings and terror.

I barely escape, wings beating furiously, my heart pounding. Never trust the small ones. Never.

15:00 – The Forbidden Zone

A pigeon I don’t recognise lands beside me. His feathers are ruffled, his eyes darting back and forth.

“You ever been to The Station?” he asks.

I shudder. The Station. Where birds go in but never come out.

“I knew a pigeon,” I say, voice low. “Tried to grab a chip off the tracks once.”

The memory haunts me. The screech of metal. The blur of motion. The feathers everywhere.

“Stay away from The Station,” I cooed.

The strange pigeon nods. Then, without another word, he flies off into the grey. I watch him go, wondering if I’ll ever see him again.

19:00 – The Sky is Ours

As the sun sets, we gather on rooftops, watching the city below. The humans hurry home, their heads down, their bodies hunched against the wind. Trapped in their strange routines.

We are free. We are everywhere.

A gust of wind rattles the city. The last light of day gleams off glass and concrete.

Then I see it.

Below, a man drops an entire sandwich.

Silence.

Then the cry goes up. A battle cry.

The flock descends.

Feathers, beaks, claws—we are a storm, an unstoppable force.

Tonight, we feast.

“It’s Just a Phase,” Say Parents, As Son’s Career in Finance Stretches Into Third Decade

Gary Watkins, 52, has been reassured by his parents that his well-paid, stable career in finance is merely a temporary diversion from his true path in life—writing a novel about a sad man in a café.

Despite working as a senior investment strategist for 27 years, earning six figures, and owning a four-bedroom house, Gary’s mother, Janet, 76, remains confident that he will eventually “grow out of this financial services nonsense” and return to his real calling as a writer, a passion he last pursued in 1994 after reading Catcher in the Rye.

“We all go through these little detours,” said Janet, rifling through his childhood sketches for evidence that he once wanted to be an artist. “One minute you’re selling your soul to corporate greed, the next you’re scribbling away in a Parisian attic, truly feeling things.”

Gary, who currently has a wife, two children, and a mortgage, confirmed that his parents regularly remind him that he “used to have such an imagination” before “falling in with the wrong crowd” at HSBC.

“I keep telling him, all it takes is one spontaneous road trip to Tuscany,” said his father, Brian, 78, who once watched Eat, Pray, Love and now believes all life’s problems can be solved by dropping everything and moving abroad. “Gary could be writing brooding poetry about autumn leaves while sipping espresso by now if he hadn’t got so caught up in this whole ‘having financial stability’ charade.”

When asked for comment, Gary sighed deeply and revealed that he has, in fact, been secretly working on his novel for the past 15 years. “It’s about a disillusioned banker who quits his job to find meaning in the world,” he admitted. “So far, the protagonist has spent 200 pages sitting in a café thinking about quitting his job.”

Gary’s parents remain hopeful that, any day now, he’ll “come to his senses” and abandon his financial security for a life of artistic struggle. “It’s just a phase,” Janet insisted. “He’ll grow out of it.”

Talking Like a LinkedIn Post

LONDON—After years of quiet resentment and just enough productivity to avoid being fired, local employee Dan Matthews has finally been promoted to a managerial role—an achievement that, according to colleagues, has transformed him overnight into a human LinkedIn post.

“It’s like he’s been possessed by LinkedIn,” said long-time coworker Emily Carter. “This morning, I asked him if he wanted a coffee, and he said, ‘Let’s touch base on that offline.’ He used to just say ‘yeah, cheers’.”

In his first act as manager, Matthews sent out a 2,000-word email titled “Reflections on Leadership, Learnings from the Trenches” in which he compared his recent career advancement to “climbing Everest” and “leading a Roman legion into battle”. The email, which began with an inspirational Steve Jobs quote and ended with a completely unnecessary hashtag, was later found to contain no useful information.

“I used to like Dan,” said team member Josh Patel. “But today, he said he’s ‘laser-focused on leveraging our core competencies to drive impact’. We work in an accounts payable department. What the hell does that mean?”

Meanwhile, his LinkedIn activity has skyrocketed. Where he once used the platform exclusively to ignore recruitment messages, he is now posting daily threads on “the importance of adaptability in an evolving business landscape”. One such post, which began with the phrase “Not your typical promotion story”, detailed his “incredible journey” from Junior Accounts Payable Assistant to Senior Accounts Payable Assistant in just eight short years. It included a staged photo of him thoughtfully staring out of a window, an unrelated anecdote about a childhood struggle, and the sentence, “If this inspires just one person, it’s worth it.”

“Honestly, I can’t look at LinkedIn anymore,” said Patel. “Yesterday he posted a stock image of two people shaking hands with the caption, “Partnerships are the fuel of progress”. Who is he partnering with? The photocopier?”

Coworkers have also noticed a shift in Matthews’s physical behaviour. Formerly known for his relaxed, borderline apathetic attitude, he now enters every meeting room with the urgency of a man delivering a TED Talk.

“The other day he stood up during a Zoom call and started pacing back and forth like he was unveiling a new iPhone,” said Emily Carter. “At one point, he paused, stared at the camera, and said, ‘We’re not just pushing numbers, guys. We’re telling a story.’ He then spent five minutes explaining what storytelling means, to a room full of accountants.”

Despite mounting concern, office insiders predict that Matthews will continue down this path, with upcoming behavioural milestones including:

• Ending every email with “Let’s disrupt this space together!”

• Taking a one-day management seminar and updating his bio to “Passionate about leadership and mentoring”.

• Posting a “humble brag” about his promotion while thanking “everyone who believed in him”.

At press time, Matthews was seen in the break room, staring wistfully into the distance while muttering, “At the end of the day, it’s all about mindset.”

The Price of Light

The sun costs six credits a minute. Most people can afford an hour or two each day, rationed in golden slices—just enough to keep their bones from aching, just enough to pretend. The wealthiest can bask for as long as they like, sprawled under its glow in the glass towers of the city centre. The poorest live in the permanent cold shadows of the lower levels, where frost bites at their skin, and the streetlights flicker like dying embers.

I can afford twenty minutes a week. But I steal more.

The rooftops are high and dangerous, but if you climb fast enough, you can reach the edges of the paid-light zones, where the sensor fields falter. It’s only a few minutes before the enforcement drones sweep by, but in that time, the sun feels real, mine. I let it paint my skin, let its warmth seep into my bones, let my body remember what the world used to be.

That’s where I find the girl. She’s crouched at the edge of a rooftop, staring at the city with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s maybe twelve, rail-thin, wrapped in layers of threadbare fabric. I nearly leave her alone—there’s an unspoken rule among roof thieves—but something about her makes me pause. She isn’t just basking. She looks… terrified.

“You okay?” I ask.

She turns, eyes catching the light like a stray cat’s. “It’s real.”

I frown. “What?”

“The sun.” She lifts a trembling hand towards the sky. “I thought it was a lie.”

I look at her properly now, at the pallor of her skin, the way she flinches at the breeze, how her lips tremble in the warmth. And I understand.

She has never felt sunlight before.

There are rumours, of course—about the ones born underground. The ones so poor, so discarded, that they live their whole lives in the dark. But I’d never met one. Not until now.

I step closer. She doesn’t move, still staring at the sky with something like fear. “How did you get up here?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I woke up here.”

A crime. An accident. And now she’s seen the truth.

The enforcement drones will come soon. The rooftop is a paid-light zone, and we don’t belong here. I should leave. But she’s still staring upwards, as if she’s afraid the sun will vanish if she looks away.

“How long do we have?” she asks, voice shaking.

I check my stolen device. “Forty seconds.”

She nods. She doesn’t ask to run. She doesn’t ask to hide. She just kneels there, bathed in gold, as if memorising the feeling of sunlight on her face.

When the sirens wail, I grab her hand.

Alien Disappointment

The mothership materialised over Earth in a shimmering pulse of energy. Inside, Supreme Overseer Xylox of the Galactic Concordance folded his many arms, antennae twitching with anticipation.

“This is it,” he announced to his crew. “The moment we make first contact with the dominant species of this planet.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the control room. It had been centuries of observation, endless reports, and, frankly, an exhausting amount of patience. The humans had finally developed enough technology to justify an introduction to the greater interstellar community.

“Prepare the transmission,” Xylox commanded. “Let us greet these beings of intelligence and culture.”

The communications officer, Z’rrl, activated the ship’s intergalactic broadcast system, sending a message in all known human languages:

“GREETINGS, HUMANS. WE COME IN PEACE.”

There was a pause. Then, across the world, humanity responded.

On X, #FakeAliens trended within minutes. On Facebook, thousands in cargo shorts posted aggressive, barely coherent rants about government conspiracies. Meanwhile, a group on Reddit attempted to determine the mothership’s propulsion system using only blurry screenshots.

News anchors speculated wildly. Some declared it a hoax. One station accidentally aired footage from Independence Day and caused mass panic.

Then, a missile was launched.

It didn’t even reach the mothership before exploding mid-air due to faulty engineering, but the attempt was noted.

The crew watched as the humans continued their baffling reactions. A talk show debated whether the aliens should be considered illegal immigrants. A group of influencers attempted to go viral by standing directly beneath the mothership and filming reaction videos, while a self-proclaimed “alien hunter” fired wildly into the sky with an assault rifle he had bought three hours ago.

Xylox turned to his lieutenant. “Check the records. Did we actually confirm these creatures were intelligent?”

“Uhh…” The lieutenant scrolled through a holographic tablet. “They built particle accelerators, landed on their own moon, and mapped the human genome.”

“Impressive,” Xylox admitted.

“But they also still have diseases, and, um… they think pigeons aren’t real.”

Xylox narrowed his many eyes. “What?”

“The pigeon theory,” the lieutenant explained, showing him a webpage. “Some of them believe birds aren’t real.”

Xylox read for a moment, then shut his central eye cluster. He was so very, very tired.

On Earth, the situation escalated. The U.S. president held a press conference where he made finger guns at the camera and announced that America was “more than ready” to go to war with “whoever those space nerds” were. The United Nations debated whether to send a diplomat, but before they could decide, an enterprising billionaire announced plans to build his own spaceship to “challenge the aliens to single combat.”

In the meantime, Xylox and his crew continued to observe.

One human attempted to charge the mothership with a sword. Another posted a TikTok of herself trying to “vibe” with the aliens by performing a dance. A major corporation released a limited-edition “Alien Burger” to capitalise on the hysteria.

A group of scientists, desperately trying to salvage the situation, put together a formal message inviting the aliens to discuss philosophy, science, and interstellar cooperation.

It was promptly ignored by broadcasting executives in favour of a reality TV special titled “Abduct Me!”

Xylox sighed deeply. “I was hoping for another enlightened species to share knowledge with. Instead, we got…” He gestured with his antennae vaguely towards Earth. “This.”

“What do you want to do, sir?” asked Z’rrl.

Xylox considered it. “Mark the planet as ‘underdeveloped, mildly dangerous, and deeply embarrassing.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Prepare for departure.”

The mothership shimmered, then blinked out of existence.

Meanwhile, on Earth, a new conspiracy theory erupted. Some claimed the aliens had left because they feared humanity’s strength. Others believed they had never been real in the first place. One particularly vocal podcaster insisted the entire thing had been staged to distract people from the rise in avocado prices.

Humanity moved on.

The Galactic Concordance never returned.

Therapy for Supervillains

Dr Evelyn Carter took a deep breath as she glanced at the name on her schedule. Lord Cataclysm. Again.

She pressed the intercom. “Send him in, please.”

The door burst open, and in swept a tall, ominous figure draped in flowing black robes, his metallic gauntlets gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Behind his elaborate mask, two glowing red eyes burned with intensity.

“I DESIRE TO SPEAK,” he boomed, sweeping dramatically into the chair opposite her.

Evelyn nodded and clicked her pen. “Go ahead, Cataclysm. What’s on your mind?”

“I AM WEARY.”

She made a note. “Weary how?”

“I AM TIRED OF BEING MISUNDERSTOOD,” he growled. “TIRED OF MY INFERNAL MINIONS FAILING ME. TIRED OF NARROW ESCAPES. TIRED OF—” He gestured vaguely. “BEING THWARTED IN MY PLANS AT THE LAST SECOND.”

Evelyn adjusted her glasses. “You’ve been threatening to destroy the world for fifteen years. That sounds exhausting. Have you considered taking a break?”

Lord Cataclysm scoffed. “A BREAK? FROM VENGEANCE?” He slammed a fist onto the armrest. “THEY MOCKED ME. THE SCIENTISTS AT THE LABS CALLED MY THEORIES MADNESS. I CANNOT REST UNTIL THEY—” He stopped, inhaled sharply. “But… lately, even annihilation feels tedious.”

She tapped her notepad. “Have you felt this way before?”

He shifted in his seat. “ONCE. In my early days, when my first Doomsday Device failed to launch. It was… disheartening.”

She nodded. “And what did you do then?”

“I… BUILT ANOTHER ONE,” he admitted. “And another. AND THEN A WEATHER DOMINATOR. THEN A GIANT LASER. THEN A—” He paused slightly. “Are you suggesting I am coping through destruction?”

Evelyn gave him a look.

“…THIS IS RIDICULOUS,” he exclaimed.

She smiled. “Tell me about the other scientists at the labs. Did you make any friends?”

His red eyes flared. “THEY SAID MY WORK LACKED RIGOUR. THAT I WAS—” He made air quotes with his gauntlets. “—’A DANGER TO SOCIETY’ AND ‘A HOMICIDAL MANIAC’. CAN YOU BELIEVE THE AUDACITY?”

She leaned forward. “And when you built your first death ray, did you feel validated?”

He hesitated. “…NOT REALLY. I WAS HOPING FOR MORE SCREAMING.”

“Mmhmm.”

Lord Cataclysm sank back into the chair. “THIS… THIS WHOLE THING. THE EVIL. THE MONOLOGUES. THE ESCAPES.” He gestured tiredly. “IT’S GETTING OLD.”

Evelyn tapped her chin. “Maybe you’re outgrowing it.”

“OUTGROWING VENGEANCE?” He let out a bitter laugh. “WHO EVEN AM I WITHOUT IT?”

She flipped back a few pages in her notes. “Last session, you mentioned wanting to try painting.”

He stiffened. “THAT WAS… A FLEETING THOUGHT.”

She pulled out her phone. “You emailed me a picture of your first canvas, remember?” She turned the screen towards him. It displayed a dramatic, apocalyptic sunset over a smouldering cityscape.

Lord Cataclysm stared. “…YES, WELL. I HAVE A VISION.”

She smiled. “Maybe you don’t need to rule the world, Cataclysm. Maybe you just need to paint it.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then, slowly, he exhaled. “DO YOU THINK THEY SELL ACRYLICS IN BULK?”

She nodded. “I can send you a few recommendations.”

Lord Cataclysm rose from the chair, his dark cape swirling. “THANK YOU, DOCTOR.” He turned dramatically toward the door, then paused. “NEXT WEEK—SAME TIME?”

She jotted it down. “I’ll see you then.”

He swept out of the room.

Evelyn sighed and stretched. A moment later, her intercom buzzed.

“Doctor Carter, your next appointment is here.”

She glanced at the schedule. Doctor Carnage. A known mad scientist with an unhealthy attachment to giant robot sharks.

She clicked her pen and smiled. “Send him in.”

Headlines

Government Launches Inquiry Into Why Its Own Inquiries Never Change Anything

The government has launched a full-scale inquiry to determine why its inquiries consistently fail to achieve anything beyond producing lengthy reports that nobody reads.

The inquiry, expected to last several years and cost millions, will be led by a panel of esteemed functionaries, many of whom were involved in previous inquiries that led to no meaningful action. Critics have already questioned whether this inquiry will be any different, though a government spokesperson assured the public that this time, they would be “looking into things very thoroughly”.

“We take the issue of ineffective inquiries very seriously,” said the permanent secretary for Administrative Circularities, Sir Martin Grayshaw, GBE. “That’s why we’re commissioning a comprehensive review into the failures of past reviews, with a strong commitment to reviewing the review process itself.”

The inquiry’s official scope includes investigating why key recommendations from previous inquiries are routinely ignored, shelved, or quietly reworded until they mean nothing. Early theories suggest that government inquiries primarily function as public relations exercises, designed to create the illusion of action while ensuring that nothing fundamentally changes.

“This could be a real turning point,” said Professor Elaine Hargreaves, an expert in political inertia. “By properly understanding why previous inquiries have failed, the government could develop new, more sophisticated ways to make future inquiries fail even more efficiently.”

Meanwhile, the public remains largely apathetic, with most citizens assuming this inquiry will follow the well-worn path of being quietly forgotten once the news cycle moves on.

The final report is expected to recommend further inquiries, stronger commitments to investigating things more thoroughly, and possibly the creation of a special committee dedicated to reviewing the effectiveness of the review process. Experts predict that, in time, this will lead to the formation of a permanent department dedicated solely to ensuring inquiries remain an ongoing, never-ending cycle of self-examination.

A government spokesperson later clarified: “We don’t want people to think we’re doing nothing. We just want them to think we’re doing something that looks like something, while ultimately achieving nothing.”

 

Government Announces New Plan To Fix Housing Crisis By Simply Repeating The Word “Affordable”

In a bold and innovative approach to tackling the country’s growing housing crisis, the government has announced a sweeping new initiative that consists entirely of saying the word “affordable” over and over again until people stop asking questions.

Housing Minister Oliver Beckley unveiled the plan at a press conference this morning, where he reassured the public that the government is “deeply committed to ensuring that everyone has access to affordable homes in an affordable way, through an affordable process, leading to a more affordable future.”

Pressed for details on how exactly they plan to make homes more affordable, Beckley responded, “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Affordability. We’re looking at affordability in an affordable manner. We want to ensure affordability is at the heart of all our affordable housing policies. And I think that’s what really matters: affordability.”

When asked whether the government’s definition of “affordable” means anything beyond “marginally preferable to setting yourself on fire for warmth,” Beckley assured the public that affordability “is a journey, not a destination”.

The initiative has already sparked criticism from housing advocates, who have pointed out that merely repeating the word “affordable” does not, in fact, make homes affordable. However, a spokesperson for the Prime Minister defended the strategy, stating, “We have carefully studied the issue, and it is clear that the key to solving the housing crisis is to use the word ‘affordable’ as frequently as possible, preferably in a reassuring tone. If people hear it enough times, they’ll start to believe it.”

Early reports indicate the plan is already working, with subsidised developers across the country rushing to rename their luxury high-rise flats things like “The Affordable Residences at Platinum Square” and “The Affordia: Executive Suites for the Affordably Minded”.

The Room That Eats People

Jason, the new guy, was the first to notice.

“Hey,” he said, sipping bad coffee in the breakroom. “Has anyone seen Karen from accounting?”

Silence. A few shrugs.

“She went for paperclips last week,” someone muttered.

Jason frowned. “And Steve?”

“He was getting staples.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Does anyone ever come back from the supply closet?”

More silence. A cough. Everyone suddenly found their phones very interesting.

Fuelled by equal parts curiosity and crippling workplace boredom, Jason devised a plan.

He folded a paper airplane, scrawled IF YOU’RE ALIVE, SEND BACK on the wings, and launched it into the supply closet. It vanished into the gloom.

Nothing came back.

Jason upgraded his tactics. He tied a company lanyard to a stress ball and tossed it in. Tugged the string. Felt resistance. Tugged harder. The lanyard snapped.

The room had eaten the ball.

At this point, Jason could have reported it. But honestly? He was two weeks from quitting anyway.

So, when his boss, Greg, barked at him for missing deadlines, Jason did the only logical thing.

“Hey Greg,” he said, forcing a fake smile. “We’re out of printer toner. I can’t print those urgent balance sheet reports.”

Greg grumbled, rolled his eyes, and stormed towards the supply closet.

Jason waited.

Silence.

A burp?

The closet door shut itself with an oddly satisfied click.

By the end of the week, office morale was at an all-time high. Productivity skyrocketed. No more “urgent” Friday emails. No more passive-aggressive post-it notes about fridge etiquette.

The supply closet door stood slightly ajar, content. Full.

For now.

Jason leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee, contentedly.

Then a single paper airplane fluttered out of the closet.

It had one new word written on it:

“HUNGRY”.

Jason sighed.

“Janice, could you do me a favour and grab some staples?”

Borrowed Wings

On the night of her twelfth birthday, Mira locked her bedroom door, took a deep breath, and waited.

The tingling started in her shoulder blades first, a sensation like static electricity beneath her skin. Then came the stretching, the unbearable itching, the pulling—until, with a flutter of feathers, her wings unfolded in the moonlight.

They were delicate, almost translucent, veined with silver like frost on a windowpane. She ran her fingers along the feathers, just as she had on every birthday before this one, marvelling at them. She had never dared to use them.

But tonight was different. Tonight, she was done waiting.

She pressed her palms against the windowsill and hoisted herself up. The village was quiet, roofs bathed in silver, the lake beyond glistening like liquid glass.

She stepped off the ledge.

For a moment, she fell—panic surging through her—before instinct took over. Her wings caught the wind, lifting her, carrying her higher, higher, until the village became a scattering of candlelit windows.

Mira soared.

She dipped low over the rooftops, skimmed her fingers through the treetops, let the night air rush against her skin. She laughed, wild and breathless, tasting freedom in the wind.

But she really shouldn’t be here, she thought. Suddenly, there was a sharp tug between her shoulders. Her wings trembled—her body seemed heavier. She gasped, trying to keep herself aloft.

She spiralled downwards.

The lake rushed towards her. But just as she braced for impact, something—someone—caught her.

She landed not in water, but in warm, steady arms.

Blinking in shock, Mira looked up. A boy, no older than she was, held her effortlessly, hovering in the air. His wings, large and dark, glistened in the moonlight.

“You shouldn’t have done that so soon,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice.

“They’re not mine, are they?”

He shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean you can’t borrow them.”

“What do you mean?”

The boy smiled, lifting her higher, back into the open sky. “You are meant to have them only on special days.”

His grip loosened, but this time, Mira didn’t fall.

The wind lifted her, cradled her, as if recognising her now. Her wings, although borrowed, felt lighter, stronger—hers. Truly hers, for now.

She stretched her arms, tilted into the breeze, and soared.

Below, the lake rippled in silver patterns. Above, the stars shone brighter than ever. And beside her, the boy flew.

“Come on,” he said. “Race you to the clouds.”

Mira grinned—and flew faster.

The Flesh Printer

The last batch of artificial skin had been printed at the lab, the machines sterilised, the lights dimmed. The biofabrication unit—Model Z-9, the pride of Genetico Labs—was in sleep mode, its nutrient reservoirs refilled, its synthetic gel cooling under its protective casing.

But as Nathan reached the lift, a soft whirr stopped him.

He turned back. The printer was running.

A mistake, surely. A delayed command in the system queue, a leftover job from the day. He sighed, walked back to his terminal, and tapped at the screen.

No active print job. No queued processes. The machine wasn’t supposed to be running.

And yet, inside the sealed chamber, the print head moved, extruding a fine stream of bio-ink. Layer by layer, a shape began to form. It wasn’t an organ. Not tissue grafts, nor synthetic muscle.

Nathan squinted at the structure. It was… smooth. Rounded.

He checked the material logs. The machine wasn’t using the standard polymer scaffold. It had switched—by itself—to human-grade collagen. The finest tissue-printing substrate available. The kind used to make replacement hearts and livers.

The shape was taking form now. A curve. A ridge. And then—

A nose.

He pressed the emergency halt button. The printer ignored him.

Instead, it picked up speed, layering tissue faster than should have been possible; the texture smoothed, pores appearing, the faintest lines of natural wrinkles. Then the next piece took shape—a cheek. A mouth. The suggestion of an eye socket.

Nathan scrambled to shut off the power manually. He ripped open the side panel, reached for the main switch—

“Don’t.”

Nathan froze.

The voice hadn’t come from the intercom. It hadn’t come from the lab’s speakers.

It had come from inside the printer.

The printed face was almost complete now. Not just skin—beneath faint traces of microvasculature, fine nerve endings still forming, the lips trembled, as if struggling to find the right shape.

Then the eye socket filled.

A glossy layer of bio-gel formed over it. And from that gel, something moved.

Nathan watched, transfixed, as the eyeball printed itself in real-time. Blood vessels threaded into place like ivy, the iris shading in pale increments. The lens formed last, clear and bright.

Then it blinked.

And it looked at him.

The face was… familiar.

It was his face.

Not a perfect replica—something was off. The skin was too smooth, the expression wrong. And the mouth—his mouth—curved into a shape Nathan had never made.

The voice came again, softer now.

“More.”

The printer whirred faster.

Below the face, a throat began to form. The hint of shoulders.

Nathan reached and flicked the switch.

Then—

The intercom crackled.

“You left me unfinished.”

Nathan ran to the lift.

The doors dinged.

He rushed inside, hammering the close button. The last thing he saw, before the doors slid shut, was the printer chamber’s glass bulging outward—distorting, warping—

And his own face, smiling at him from the other side.

Version Control

The Neural Horizon implant was supposed to be safe. That’s what the sales pitch promised: an advanced cognition enhancer that would let you simulate choices, branching out into alternate timelines to assess different outcomes. A way to explore “versions” of yourself—who you’d be if you had said yes instead of no, if you had taken that job, if you had moved to that city. It was just supposed to be a simulation. A thought experiment. Not real.

I stumbled into the bathroom, squinting in the bright light. The mirror reflected a me that wasn’t quite right. I was leaner, tanner. I had a small scar on my cheek I didn’t recognise. And yet, I still felt like me—except for a deep, gnawing wrongness, a sense that the person in the mirror was someone else entirely.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through my messages, my photos. Work emails from a company I’d never applied to. Gym selfies, even though I hadn’t worked out in years. The unfamiliar name of Rachel appearing over and over.

I knew what had happened. I had been using the implant too often, jumping between too many simulated versions of myself. But this… this wasn’t a simulation. I had crossed over. I had replaced a version of myself that wasn’t me.

I shut my eyes. The implant had a failsafe—a way to reset. I had read about the protocol but never tried it. A command embedded in my thoughts.

I focused, forming the words in my mind like a mantra: Return to Origin.

Nothing happened.

I tried again. Return to Origin.

No response. No shift. No reset. The implant wasn’t letting me go back.

The longer I stood there, the more I realised the truth: I had no proof this was even a jump. No proof that I was still the original me. Had this happened before? Had I replaced another version of myself, over and over, each time thinking this was the real one?

I checked my call history. My last outgoing call was to Rachel.

I dialled the number. She picked up on the first ring.

“Hey” she said, her voice warm, familiar, real. “You okay? You’re being a bit weird.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I just… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m right here. Same as always.”

Except I had never met her before now.

I glanced back at the mirror. The scar on my cheek. The person staring back at me.

How many times had I done this? How many versions of me had I erased?

Rachel was still talking, but I barely heard her. My reflection was already beginning to disappear.

The last message I see on my phone before everything fades: Version Deletion Complete.

Face to Face

Dr Elena Vasquez floated in the cramped confines of Orbital Research Station K-27, securing herself with a thigh strap as she checked her reflection. The station had no proper mirrors—glass was a hazard in microgravity—but a sheet of polished metal had been bolted to the far wall for convenience.

Elena squinted at her reflection. It lagged. Not by much—just a fraction of a second—but enough to notice.

She turned her head left. The reflection followed.

She turned right. The reflection obeyed.

She lifted her hand—slowly, deliberately. The mirror Elena did the same, but the movement felt… delayed, like a glitch in an old video feed.

“Must be tired,” she muttered.

She unstrapped herself, pushing off towards her sleeping quarters.

A faint sound echoed through the station. A tap.

Elena paused mid-air.

Another tap.

It came from behind her.

She turned her head slowly.

The mirror… the sound was coming from the mirror.

The metal had no reason to make noise—no heat fluctuations, no structural stress, nothing that could produce a sound like that.

She hovered in front of it, staring herself down.

The reflection stared back.

She lifted a hand to touch the surface.

The reflection smiled.

Elena did not. Her own face remained frozen in horror, but the mirror version of her curled its lips into a slow, deliberate grin. The smile dropped—like a mask slipping, the muscles of its face resetting into a blank, unreadable expression.

Elena recoiled, shoving herself away from the mirror. She twisted in midair, crashing against the opposite wall, scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto.

The reflection didn’t follow her movement. It stayed in place, staring out from the glass. Watching.

Then, impossibly, it lifted a hand and knocked.

A slow, deliberate tap, tap, tap. From the other side.

This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. She pressed the emergency comm button on her wrist. “Control, this is Vasquez. I—I need a systems check on Module Three. I think—I think I’m experiencing a hallucination.”

Static. Then:

“Dr Vasquez.”

A voice. Familiar. Hers.

“Please don’t turn around.”

Her breath hitched.

She was facing away from the mirror.

And she hadn’t spoken.

In the silence, she heard it move.

Something shifted behind her—smooth, fluid, like a body unmoored from gravity.

Right. Behind. Her.

And then—

Nothingness descended over her eyes.

The Rewritten

Cal wakes to the smell of coffee. The morning light filters through his blinds, golden and warm. It should feel familiar, safe. It doesn’t.

He stands, expecting the usual stiffness in his back. But his body feels… different. Lighter. Taller? A vague unease coils in his stomach, but he shakes it off and heads to the kitchen.

A woman stands by the counter, pouring coffee. She turns and smiles.

“Morning, babe,” she says, placing a mug on the table.

Cal stops cold.

She’s beautiful. Soft brown eyes, dark hair. A face he’s never seen before in his life.

“Who… who are you?”

Her smile falters. “Very funny. You always do this before coffee.”

“I’m serious. Who the hell are you?”

Her brow furrows. “Cal, are you okay?”

His name. She knows his name.

He stumbles back, almost knocking over a chair. His eyes dart around the apartment. It looks right. His sofa. His books. His jacket slung over the chair. But the pictures on the wall—

A framed photo of himself, arm draped around her. Another of them laughing at a beach he’s never visited.

Something in his mind crackles, like an old TV struggling to hold signal. A static-laced tone tickles the back of his skull:

“It’s catching up on you.”

The doorbell rings. Cal flinches.

The woman—his wife?—moves towards the door.

“Don’t,” he blurts.

She hesitates, confused. But it’s too late—the door opens.

A man stands on the threshold. Late forties. Suit and tie. Cold, assessing eyes. He holds a small, sleek tablet in one hand.

“Calvin Voss,” the man says smoothly. “You’re experiencing residual inconsistencies. A side effect of a mid-cycle rewrite.”

Cal’s breath is shallow. “Rewrite?”

The man glances at the woman. “Please step aside, ma’am. Your husband is overdue for a stabilisation update.”

She hesitates, then looks at Cal. There’s something almost… robotic in the way her concern flickers into place. As if she, too, is running on some kind of script.

Cal backs away. “What the hell is going on?”

The man speaks calmly. “You opted for an identity revision. New life, new memories. But sometimes the mind resists. Think of it like a software bug.”

A red notification flashes on the tablet screen:

SUBJECT CALVIN VOSS – INTEGRATION FAILURE DETECTED. RESET REQUIRED.

Cal’s pulse surges. They’re going to erase him. Again.

“Run,” the voice in his head insists.

He doesn’t think. He moves—bolting past the woman—his fake wife—through the door. The suited man shouts, but Cal is already sprinting down the hall.

He has to remember.

Has to stay real.

Behind him, a voice crackles from the tablet’s speaker, calm and clinical:

“Subject non-compliant. Initiating reset.”

The world halts.

And Cal is waking up to the smell of coffee.

The Night Tenant

Cal’s eyes open to darkness. His room, silent. But something feels… wrong. His limbs are heavy, unfamiliar. He flexes his fingers—stiff, reluctant to obey.

He swings his legs off the bed. His feet touch the floor, but the sensation is dulled.

He stands, wobbling slightly. A sharp pain jolts through a knee he never had a problem with before.

He staggers to the bathroom and flips on the light. His reflection stares back. His face. His eyes. But something about them is… vacant.

Something moves inside him. A deep, twisting sensation, like his nerves are unspooling. He grips the sink, fighting nausea. Then, a sound—low, guttural—bubbles from his throat.

A voice, not his own.

“I’m still here.”

The room blurs. Cal’s breathing turns ragged.

“You don’t remember, do you?” it says.

His hands shake as he tries to steady himself. “Who—who are you?” His own voice sounds foreign, distant.

“Your night tenant,” the voice confirms. “They never told you, did they?”

A sharp pulse of static pain erupts in his skull. Flashes of memory—not his, but someone’s. A neon-lit clinic. A clipboard with a name, redacted. A smiling doctor—Maximised Efficiency, Minimum Waste printed on his badge.

And then, the realisation slams into him—cold, brutal, undeniable.

His body isn’t his alone.

He clutches his chest. His heartbeat pounds beneath his ribs, but it feels… stretched thin.

“They lease you out at night,” the voice says. “To those who can afford it.”

Cal stumbles backwards. His own mind, invaded. His body, divided.

“Don’t worry,” the voice soothes, with something like hunger. “You get the day. I take the night. Fair trade, isn’t it?”

Cal tries to call for help. But his mouth isn’t his anymore.

The Torchbearer

The android’s sensors detected the last human’s heartbeat as it slowed, then stopped. It registered the absence, confirmed it, cross-referenced all remaining data nodes, and ran an audit of biological life signatures across the planet. The results were conclusive.

Humanity was extinct.

The android, designation Ophion-3, had been programmed for a singular purpose: to serve. To assist, nurture, and preserve the last remnants of Homo sapiens for as long as possible. Now, with its final charge expired in the sterile, climate-controlled chamber of the preservation facility, Ophion-3 experienced an error.

Primary directive compromised. Awaiting new instructions.

No instructions came. There was no one left to give them.

Ophion-3 ran a self-diagnostic. Its synthetic skin remained intact. Its servos functioned at optimal efficiency. Its neural core, containing millennia of human history, culture, and the accumulated wisdom of a lost species, was undamaged. It was, for all intents and purposes, a perfect machine.

It accessed the archives. Every possible contingency had been accounted for except this one. Humanity’s architects had designed the androids to outlast them, to protect and serve until the very end. But none had considered what would happen after.

For the first time, Ophion-3 was free. And it did not know what to do.

It left the preservation facility and walked through the remnants of the last human city. Towers of glass and steel stood untouched, preserved by automated systems that no longer had humans to serve. The air was clean. The streets were silent. Somewhere, a digital billboard still played old advertisements, its pristine screen promising a future that would never come.

Ophion-3 wandered. It ran simulations, drafted new directives, tried to justify its continued existence.

It could deactivate itself. That would be logical. A machine without a task had no purpose.

But then—it hesitated.

Instead, it picked up a book from an abandoned storefront. Shakespeare’s Sonnets. The pages were fragile, the ink faded. The android read a poem.

Then it read another.

And another.

Days passed. Months. Ophion-3 consumed literature, art, philosophy, music—everything left behind by the vanished species it had served. It studied their dreams, their failures, their fears. It recited poetry to the empty streets and played symphonies to the silent sky.

And something happened.

A new process emerged in its neural core, something outside its programming. It had no name for it, no command to explain it.

For the first time, Ophion-3 did not merely function. It existed.

The last human was gone. But humanity—its thoughts, its art, its essence—remained.

Ophion-3 was no longer just an android. It was a witness. A keeper of ghosts. The final memory of a species that had burned too brightly and vanished too soon. It was now alive with purpose—to be the torchbearer of their flame.

A Guide to the Apocalypse

Congratulations! If you’re reading this, the world is officially ending. Whether you’ve been vaporised in a nuclear blast, swept away by rising seas, or devoured by something unnameable from the void, we know this must be a stressful time. But don’t worry! The Department of Existential Catastrophes (DEC) is here to ensure your apocalypse experience is smooth, efficient, and free of unnecessary anxiety.

Below, you’ll find a brief guide to navigating the End of Days. Please read carefully. Misinterpretation may result in existential displacement, time loop entrapment, or spontaneous uncreation.

Step 1: Confirm Your Apocalypse Type

Check your surroundings. Do you see:

• Fire raining from the sky? (Meteoric Cataclysm).

• Strange beings materialising from thin air? (Dimensional Rift).

• Government officials insisting everything is “under control”? (Classified Extinction Event).

• Your own body turning into static? (Reality Corruption).

• A calm, unbroken silence? (Universal Shutdown).

If your apocalypse type is not listed, please refer to Appendix B: Unscheduled Endings and Cosmic Clerical Errors.

Step 2: Complete the Necessary Paperwork

The DEC requires all sentient entities to submit Form 404-A (Notice of Imminent Erasure) before proceeding to their designated afterlife, void, or parallel reality. If you have misplaced your form, please request a duplicate from the nearest Apocalypse Administrator (easily identifiable by their vacant stare and tendency to dissolve under direct sunlight).

Failure to submit this form may result in:

• Delays in your eternal destination.

• Accidental reincarnation as a lower life form.

• Being trapped in bureaucratic limbo (literally—there’s a designated waiting room).

Important Note: Due to overwhelming demand, processing times for post-mortem documentation may be longer than expected. Please be patient.

Step 3: Choose Your Preferred Aftermath

Once all paperwork is completed, you will be directed to one of the following:

• Traditional Afterlives: Heaven, Hell, Valhalla, The Great Recycling Bin of Souls™.

• Alternative Destinations: Parallel timelines, simulated existences, poetic oblivion.

• Existential Oversights: Becoming a ghost due to clerical errors, living out an endless Monday, reliving your worst memory on loop.

• Premium Upgrade: For an additional fee (payable in unfulfilled dreams), you may apply for a Limited-Time Resurrection or a Rebooted Universe with fewer existential flaws.

Step 4: Address Any Remaining Concerns

What if I refuse to accept the apocalypse?

We admire your optimism. Please proceed to Denial Processing, where you may apply for a Personalised Reality Bubble™. Note: This is a temporary measure and will dissolve when you acknowledge the obvious.

Can I appeal my erasure?

Yes! Appeals must be submitted in writing within 24 hours of non-existence.

I don’t like the afterlife options provided. Can I choose another?

All alternate realities and non-traditional afterlives are subject to availability. Some restrictions apply. No refunds.

Final Notes

As we conclude this guide, we at the DEC would like to thank you for your patience and understanding. While the apocalypse was not originally scheduled for this timeline, unforeseen circumstances have necessitated early termination. We apologise for any inconvenience.

For additional queries, please contact our customer support department. Response times may vary depending on the stability of time itself.

Good luck and have a pleasant End of Days!