DIARY ENTRY: October 15th, 20--

I ran out of toilet paper today.

Sure, I have no reason to maintain a pristine anus, now that the earth is a blasted shell, a spent power-up floating uselessly in the void. All I have are a billion-plus web pages that mark the last second of mankind, like an Everest-sized pile of Hiroshima watches, never to be updated again.

Shit, that was good. That was my last can of Dew talking right there.

I've gazed at terminal Youtube videos for endless lonely hours, until my brain aches worse than it did when that site was regularly replenished with fresh uploads of fat people dancing, or political mash-ups, or automobile accidents, or college kids pranking each other, or Asian girls who .. just ... stare. All those millions of people doing all those hilariously retarded things: gone now, reverted to their original carbon pixels -- save for the lonely player that is myself, within my bomb shelter, with no other human to accuse me of wasting my time online, of being a dork, of smelling like good cheese in all the worst ways.

The Mountain Dew is wearing off.

Who is this gaming blog update for? For posterity, I guess, but as soon as the Internet craps out, won't my words, along with the videos and cartoons and social networks and coed porn and dating sites and Wikis and memes and attachment-viruses simply be trapped in their respective servers and hard drives, until those storage mediums, choked with apocalypse dust, crap out? That's why I'm printing a hard-copy of these entries as well, though I've only set aside five sheets of paper, as the rest will be used for wiping my ass a few last, bittersweet times.

Really, I'm amazed the Internet is still going at all. I thank our cruel deity and my service provider for at least that. Sure, to gain access I have to peddle the generator every hour until my Dorito-coated heart seems ready to explode, but it's worth it. The Internet was all I had before, and now it's all I have left.

I'm the last geek on earth. Still living in my Mom's basement, in a sense, though the house proper has, of course, been blown to fucking smithereens.

The can of Government Issue Pork that some asshole put down here as a joke -– it mocks me from the shelf. It knows that it, too, will be the last survivor. Because it's fucking gross.

DIARY ENTRY: November 3th, 20--

Through a rather unfortunate lack of foresight, the only computer games on my computer are MMORPGS. I have long ago reached the pinnacle of achievement on all of them -- every quest completed, every grand artifact uncovered. Which leaves only the social aspect of said games, and of course there's no one else playing. Which is not to say that I am truly the last person on Earth, the 'real' Earth; just that whomever else that is out there scrabbling to survive, fighting mutants and killer rats, isn't doing it online. Which I suppose is understandable. But as I am safely tucked away in this bomb shelter, and, you know, can have the same experience safely in a virtual world, well ...

I wander through the pixelated forests, familiar with every square inch of imaginary landscape. I blandly nudge aside all beasts that cross my path, no matter how super be-stat-ed.

I am an incredibly buffed figure, a maxed-out God with no newbies to awe. The loneliest power player.

I move dejectedly through towns that should be bustling with avatars, hearing only the Dolby 5.1 echo of my footfalls. Sometimes I think I see random movement in the distance, but when I search I find nothing but animated foliage blowing in fake wind.

I am so alone.

I often try to talk to NPCs, hoping that with enough time they will gain some sentience, will be able to respond to my pitiful offer of friendship. But their conversation trees, they never grow.

“I am the Avatar for a naked, lonely weirdo,” I tell them through Madonga the Orc. “He's trapped in a bomb shelter in an irradiated world, a bomb shelter that he had been previously using to hide his soiled underwear, which has turned out to be a horrible mistake, as verily, it is a smell that one does not adjust to. He can taste it in his mouth at all times.”

But the NPCs are silent, their faces emotionless as they turn and continue wandering down their circular path-nodes.

I can hear the pork inside that can. It's laughing at me. It really is. I HATE pork. But it's all that's left to eat...

DIARY ENTRY: November 4th, 20--

Recycled urine tastes funny.

The Internet is conking out. How lame. That suckorz, or whatever we used to say. Blowzargz?

The pork tasted like canned Donner Party. I feel woozy.

Hallucinating. I put on my favorite mmorpg, and the canned pig was there!!!

“Hey there fatso,” the pig said.

“I'm not fat,” I replied through my avatar. “As you can see, I am at the peak of Orcan health.”

“Ah! But inside every buff guy is a fatso trying to get out! And inside every fat guy there's a government issue pig!!! AH HAHAHAHA!!!!”

Then the game froze, save for the pig, who trotted away laughing.

DIARY ENTRY: November 5th, 20--

I know what I must do now. I have to go outside. I need to explore this new world. Treat it like a game. Yes. Maybe – maybe I'll even get all maxed-out for real.

To whoever reads this: Know that I was a fat loser at humanity's twilight – perhaps, now that all has fallen into chaos, I can become something more.

I am embarking on my first quest: To find something with which to wipe my dirty ass.

Farewell.