who the hell are you?

In this happy earth, I’m the one who often wonders—why do I even exist here? Yesterday, my mom asked me, “Oh dear honey, why are you feeling sad?” Damn! She asked me why I was sad? She knows I’m just a teenage, fantasy-filled, confused guy with no idea about life or his dreams. Maybe I’m the kind of person who wants to buy someone’s presence just to feel like I’ve chosen a dream. Suddenly, the door knocked. “Come in.” “Hey little guy, I made some sweets.” “Who the hell are you?!” I shouted. A black-covered figure stood there, his eyes silently dipping into mine. I was terrified. He said, “I’m a cutiee-putiee little pen.” I stared at him in shock and asked, “Why are you disturbing me? How did you even get into my thoughts?” He just sat next to me—so tightly, so securely—gripping my neck gently. Then he whispered, “Life becomes charming when there’s love in it.” Boom. It was just a dream. My brain was frozen. I freshened up and went to college. As I walked slowly down the pathway, my friend started calling, “Raym! Raym! Raymm!! Brother, you know last night I saw your internet profile, and bro, this girl commented on your profile picture—ehm ehm—who is she?” I don’t know why, but in that moment, I just snapped. I kicked him off and said, “That’s my mother!” My mood dropped instantly. My mind screamed, “Who the hell are you to say that to me?”