You teeter around the desk, leaning heavily on your cane till you're looming over your crying secretary. After the day you've had, you feel... defeated. Not two days after pulling off a miracle that'll probably go down in history books as the Battle of the Bonin Islands, no less.
Well, nobody ever said that life was fair.

Naka chirps cutely as you drop your heavy paw atop her brunette head and rub it affectionately, but she doesn't break your wrist for the affront, which you attribute to the alcohol. “Naka, I am drunk,” you state seriously, “and that is your fault, and fuck you for that. Let me try to make you understand a thing. I like you. I like you a lot. You are funny and wicked clever and mean and you make Harder spill so much spaghetti he slides clean out of the goddamn room on a wave of Italian pasta and Wainwright sent me one of your damn CDs and even though its all in chingchongnipong wapanese pingsong it still sounds really nice and I think you're a good singer and fuck vocaloids I looked them up and they SUCK.” You pause a second to think. “Especially the fanart. You're cuter.”