I hate synopses. I don't even know what I'm writing; how am I supposed to let you know?
Rated mature only for language.
I think the worst thing about this life is the inevitability of death.
The inevitability of every death but mine.
My job: don't fuck things up. Fuck, I shouldn't be swearing. Fuck.
DO YOU REALIZE HOW F-F-FREAKIN' STRESSFUL NOT F-MESSING UP IS?!?!?
Hi, I'm Stan. I'm sort of a god. Well, I say sort of...
I probably should've started with hi. And maybe not shouting. And swearing. My bad.
So. It's Tuesday. It's just like every other Tuesday. Teens are singing songs. Weirdos are actually running. Like, by choice. For fun. Even with near-omniscience I can't find any explanation for that.
Look, there goes Jill Mendez. She's nearing No. 53; she's passing the old red maple; now she's checking for traffic; there she goes across the road; staring at No. 58 as she goes by; she's reached No. 62 now; checking again; across again; passing No. 61; out of sight.
I live at number 57, Archway Drive. When I say everyone's scared of me, I'm including myself.