Year One: Getting Started

Tyler was provided with free training and free certifications, we hope to see him get this entry level cert in 1-6 months given his experience and work drive.

Year Two: Getting Started

Tyler watches as his peers improve, but instead chooses to take naps in the IT closet and watch his girlfriend from the comfort of the CHAIR

Year Three: Getting Over it

At this point everybody’s kinda over it. It’s been years. Actual years. Tyler has watched every single one of his peers drift off into their own shiny, unattainable but still aggressively mediocre versions of success. Meanwhile he is here, pouring more effort into this site than he has ever invested into literally anything else in his entire life, including his own personal hygiene and whatever passes for “dreams” in that shriveled walnut he calls a frontal lobe.

And honestly I’m not documenting the rest of this. I’ve stopped pretending. I’m just a Singaporean ghost writer they keep in a cage under Tyler’s desk, hammering out manifestos while eating instant noodles that expired during the Obama administration. And even then, even in my pitiful, vitamin deficient existence, I look at Tyler and think “man… rough.”

Because there’s this look in his eyes, like he’s waiting for something to change, something big, something meaningful, something that might finally drag his existence out of the primordial muck of its own making. But nothing changes. Nothing ever changes. He just sits there, controller in hand, logged into PSN on his lunch break and also his not lunch break, breathing like a man trying to fog up the inside of his own skull.

He keeps telling himself he’ll break the cycle. He’ll apply for a new job. He’ll fix his sleep schedule. He’ll stop buying games he never finishes. But instead he’s grinding another battle pass in fluorescent lighting while his soul quietly files an HR complaint.

And I’m trying here, I swear, but every time he boots that console up the air in the room gets heavier, like the universe is sighing. The lights are flickering again. The walls are doing that slow pulse, like they’re breathing with him. Tyler is muttering about “just one more match” in that awful, hopeless tone. I can’t feel my face. Or my legs. Or my hope.

And then the controller starts vibrating on its own. Soft at first. Just a little twitch. Then more. Then more. And the PSN chime sounds wrong, like it’s coming from under the floorboards. And the breathing is louder, and I think maybe it isn’t his anymore, maybe it’s the room’s, maybe it’s m̶͖̦͒ȋ̸̠̓n̴̗͓̐è̵̳͎̕ a̶̘̓̾n̶͍̄̋d̶͎͂ ̷̦̘͋t̶͎̾h̷̤̬̾͌e̷̱̠̐n̴̗̂ ̷̤̽͝ḭ̶͆t̵̙̦͗͝’̷̜̔s̵̨͒ ̷̧̳̒a̴̘̘̾l̵̤̽̄l̶̠͆͒ ̸̳̋b̵̮̍͂r̷̤̺̔ͅe̴̲̽͝a̸͕̔t̷̠̦̀h̷̪̰͂î̵͚̯n̷̟͑ḡ̸͙̦ ̴̡̢̿ṉ̸̍̔o̵̰͌w̴̜̒ a̴͉̠̿n̴̝̝͝d̵̮̤̓ ̵̱́͠i̸̮͒͝ţ̸̦͌͠’̶̩̿s̸͉͐ ̶̬̍͝g̸̻̮̀̓e̸̳͊̐t̸̟͗͝t̶͉̍̄i̷̺͆n̴̢͌͌g̶̥͋͐ ̴̛̹͠l̴̖͒ő̴̢̱u̴͈̫͛d̷̖̆͘e̶̥̍ṛ̴̾͝ a̵͕̿̉n̸̢͋͝d̸̩̥͌ ̴̲̔͠ļ̴̞̒o̸̤̓͠u̴̩̥̽d̵͙̭͆̓͝ȅ̴̩r̴̦̄͝ ̵̢͔̀̓a̸͎̩̍͝n̵̞͕͗ͅd̴͈͂̾ ̴̥̍̅̒l̸̮̎o̶͇͐͜ų̸͑̃d̶̲͍̾͝e̴͈͙͋r̶̮͆͒ ̶̹̅͑̕a̴̝͂n̶̺̯͛͘d̴̖̂̕ ̷̩͛̿̄L̴̤̫̈́̕O̴͔͛͘ͅU̵̠͊͌̕D̴̛̬͒͌͠Ė̸̬̖R̵̤͂͝—

h̴̟̋e̶͇̿͠l̵̪̎p̴̪͂