Thank you AI

The world will end in forty days.

And I couldn't care less.

I woke up to the same cruel light that slashed across my room like a deranged assassin wielding a dagger made of sunlight. That beam of light was merciless, cutting into my skull with all the grace of a rhinoceros trying to pirouette. For the umpteenth time, I cursed myself for forgetting to close the curtains, a task that now seemed as impossible as convincing a squirrel to become a stockbroker. I blinked my eyes open, only to see the time glaring at me—12:04 PM. Again. Like the universe was caught in some sick game of musical chairs, and I was the idiot who kept missing the seat.

My phone was there, as usual, lying next to me on the bedside table like a bored oracle who had long since given up trying to predict anything new. I checked it, not because I expected anything different, but because some part of me—some sad, masochistic part—still clung to the idea that maybe today would be different. But of course, it wasn't. The time still read 12:04 PM, as it had done every day for seventy-nine excruciating repetitions of the same cursed day.

And so, I did what I always did. I opened Neyver, the news portal app, its green banner as cheerful and mocking as a clown at a funeral. I scrolled through the headlines, which were as stale as week-old bread left out in the rain. The same political scandals, the same fires in the same buildings, the same death toll. Even the same limited-time offer for prawn curry-flavored potato chips taunted me with its eternal "Sold Out" banner, like a cruel joke whispered in the ear of someone who was already on the verge of madness.

I clicked on it anyway. Why? Who knows? Maybe I still hoped, deep down, that I'd get those chips before the world imploded again. It was like hoping to find a unicorn lounging in your living room, sipping tea and discussing philosophy—utterly absurd, yet somehow, the thought still lingered.

But those chips were never coming. Nothing was coming. Because it was the seventy-ninth time I had woken up on October 1st, 2024. The seventy-ninth time I had endured this twisted, never-ending cycle.

Being the aimless NEET that I was, I had often fantasized about the end of the world long before all this started. I pictured asteroids smashing into Earth with the grace of a drunken elephant attempting a cannonball, obliterating everything—including those smug HR managers who had laughed at my job applications. I dreamed of a nuclear blast vaporizing my university, turning it into a smoldering crater of forgotten hopes and outdated textbooks. I prayed for a biblical flood to wash away the entire planet, a deluge so vast it would make Noah's ark look like a rubber ducky in a kiddie pool.

But even in my wildest, most ridiculous imaginings, I hadn't predicted this.

The world didn't end with a bang or a whimper. It ended with a beast—a monster so massive, so grotesque, that it made Godzilla look like a slightly irritable housecat. The first time I saw it, I was munching on some kimbap in a dingy shop in Hongdae, completely unaware that my life was about to be turned upside down like a pancake being flipped by an overenthusiastic chef. When I saw that thing, towering above the city, smashing buildings like a toddler throwing a tantrum with his Lego set, I thought I had lost my mind. Surely, I had to be hallucinating, right? Maybe I had finally snapped after spending too many nights binging anime.

But no, it was real. The screams were real. The rivers of blood were real. And the people, God, the people—turning into human ketchup stains beneath the beast's feet, one after the other, like a grotesque whack-a-mole game where nobody wins. I ran, of course. What else was there to do? I ran like my life depended on it, though in hindsight, I might as well have been a mouse trying to outrun a steamroller.

I survived, somehow. Or at least, I thought I did. Until I woke up again, in my bed, with that same cursed sunbeam stabbing at me like a vengeful knife-wielding fairy.

The world ended that day. And then it ended again. And again. Every forty days, the same cycle. I tried everything—going to the police, telling them about the beast. They laughed at me, and threw me in a cell for the night, probably thinking I was some kind of doomsday prophet on a bad trip. I posted warnings online and ranted on forums, but of course, I was banned faster than you could say "lunatic." I even tried fleeing. Took a train all the way to Busan, hoping that maybe, just maybe, the distance could save me. But no. The beast rose from the sea like a grotesque whale on steroids, smashing everything in its path, and I was once again caught in its apocalyptic wake.

I gave up after that. What else was there to do? I returned to my pathetic existence, binge-watching anime, reading manga, devouring anything that could distract me from the hopelessness of it all. I threw myself into fiction because my reality had become a nightmarish merry-go-round from hell, spinning endlessly with no way off. I even maxed out my credit card, buying virtual gifts for authors who would never finish their stories, because—why not? There was no future. No debt collectors. No consequences. At this point, I was living like a credit card with no limit, and boy, did I charge through life like a Black Friday shopper in a blender aisle.

And what could I say? The world was ending, but I was living on borrowed time—and credit.

I had given up hope, but I hadn't quite given up on indulgence. At least, there was food. If nothing else, I could savor the flavors of the world while it crumbled around me. My stomach growled, right on time, like an alarm clock that only knew hunger. I got up, dragging myself toward the kitchen, contemplating what to eat next. It didn't really matter. I had all the time in the world. Time had become as useless as a screen door on a submarine.

Because the world would end in forty days.

And I couldn't care less.