This article is part of the Anime Roommate series.
I realize you cannot hear me out there in the living room with your football game going. Between the heavy volume and the yelling of your foolish fratboy friends, my own agonies must seem inaudible. Don't worry, Jerry, I am not dying. Your very accommodating roommate is simply being reborn.
Something is happening, Jerry, something beyond your wildest imagination, if you can even claim ownership of such a thing. I doubt you can, given your limited ability to appreciate art and culture and your need to embrace childish spectacles like "football" and "ultimate fighting" as an outlet for all that homoerotic energy you bottle up inside.
I am changing, Jerry. I am becoming something strong and courageous, a force you would be powerless to push around. You would not dare laugh at me, let alone steal my Mountain Dew Code Red or accuse me of smelling like a scrapbook of farts.
It hurts so bad right now, Jerry. I can feel my face rebuilding itself. My eyes are growing larger, finally able to see the world for what it is. And my chin, Jerry, which you once described as "a hairy scrotum full of ranch dressing and marbles," is now a sharp point. Like a blade, Jerry.
The hair on my head is excited. It's standing up proud and defiant, like a flame atop my skull. I can't wait to see the look on your stupid face when you open the door and see what I have become. You will be so jealous... and afraid.
I can feel dormant muscles coming to life, as if summoned by some unknown force. Maybe it is a far off princess in need of my help contacting me through some psychic channel. I can almost see her face, a gorgeous combination of Haruhi Suzumiya and Sakura Haruno. In other words, Jerry, the perfect woman.
Maybe these animes are more real than we ever thought possible. Did you ever think that, Jerry? No, of course you didn't. You were too busy laughing at the latest Adam Sandler film to consider the broader possibilities, to give thought to that one seemingly impossible truth that we all knew in our hearts but never allowed ourselves to believe. I don't have to believe anymore, Jerry, because I know.
I am turning into an anime right now, Jerry. Just like the very animes you laughed at and called "fag cartoons." But you were wrong, Jerry. They are real, and I am fast becoming living proof. This has been an ongoing evolution. From the first frame of Momotaro's Devine Sea Warriors to my transformation, it is all part of some great plan.
I don't think this world will be able to contain me, Jerry. What if I become too powerful, and you and all your stupid friends have to finally respect me? I can promise, Jerry, that I will be a benevolent ruler of this household.
I will not crush you or punch you into outer space, though a part of me longs to do as much. No, Jerry, I will enlighten you and your foolish friends. I will feed you a steady diet of Miyazaki, Otomo, Akiyama, and others. I will bring you to tears with Grave of the Fireflies, and lift your soul up with the transcendental humor of Ranma ½.
My friends on IRC cry out for me. They long for me to return and reassure them that I am okay. But I am not okay, Jerry. I have not been okay since you and your friend started bullying me and making fun of my medical conditions. I was not okay when you ruined my one true love out of petty jealousy. I was not okay when you and your friends told me you were taking me to Best Buy but instead took me to a sorority carwash and then put me through the indignity of being hosed off by a bunch of laughing girls.
I am so close, my brothers!As I said, Jerry, the flesh of my inner thighs is necrotizing. You cannot wash that up with a hose or by dumping a bucket of soapy water on me. You cannot cure diseases with soap and water, Jerry. If you had even the faintest understanding of science, you would know how big of an idiot you really are.
But I digress, Jerry. It seems the rage growing inside of me is trying to manifest itself physically. Already the tips of my fingers tingle, as if waiting to give spark to some great, world-destroying energy ball. I long to throw it through the TV right now, or slam dunk it into your head. How's that for a sports analogy, Jerry?
When I leave this room, Jerry, you will see a new me. You will see the Anime Me. You won't recognize me at all. I imagine that if Akira Toriyama saw me right now, he would faint, believing one of his own creations to have jumped off the page.
So help me, if I hear even one of your friends laugh, I will unleash my latent Saiyan potential on all of you. All I want to do, Jerry, is walk peacefully out of here to my car, so I can drive to the airport and go to Dragon*Con. That's all, Jerry. I'm not asking a lot.
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
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A blob of rotting flesh writes passive-aggressive letters to his roommate Jerry waxing poetic on the undeniable beauty and cultural importance of anime.