“GET OUT OF THE ROOM!!”

But it was too late. You and Griefer had succumbed to the ultimate test of human stupidity:

The One Chip Challenge.

Yes. That demonic, hell-forged, Satan-dipped triangle.

All for the sake of a STUPID FUCKING TIKTOK.

The table was a battlefield. Empty milk cartons, half-melted tubs of ice cream, and a graveyard of cheese sticks. A lactose intolerant person would literally combust if they even looked at it.

“Let’s do it,”

“Y34H. L3T'S D0 1T,”

You both stared at the chip.

You looked at the chip. The chip looked back. It was blacker than your GPA during a depressive episode. It smelled like chemical warfare and shame.

You clinked chips like they were tequila shots.

And then you popped it into your mouth like morons. Like actual clowns. Clowns who signed a deal with the Devil.

Crunch.

Crunchcrunch.

Silence.

Then came the actual challenge.

Your soul genuinely ascended. Like you ACTUALLY saw god for a minute.

“I hope my eye doesn’t itch,” you wheezed, clutching your stomach.

Griefer’s eye did itch. And in his pepper-addled haze, he made the gravest mistake known to man:

He rubbed it.

"0H. 0H MY G0D. 0NHM0DGIDGLD??"

He SCREAMED. Stumbled back like he got sniped. Knocked over a full bottle of 2% milk.

“I’M BL1ND. I’M FUCK1NG 4SC3ND1NG!"

You tried to help but ended up flinging a yogurt cup across the room.

...

You two simply sat there after recovering.

The room looked like a battlefield. Milk splattered across the floor. Yogurt containers half-crushed. A single piece of bread stuck to the ceiling like a tragic war memorial.

And in the middle of it all—you and Griefer.

Silent.

“I S4W G0D,” he whispered.

You nodded solemnly.

“I saw Satan. He slapped me.”

A long pause.

"...He was kind of hot."

You both burst into laughter, wheezing like busted AC units. Griefer’s laugh turned into a cough. You spilled the emergency oat milk you were using as a comfort beverage.

You, in the end got IBS.

---

guys the person who keeps requesting these typa bots need to STOP???