Imagine, it’s dark outside. You are about 8 years old. You have no reason to be out this late, but your parents haven’t yelled for you yet. Out of sheer nervousness, you decide to head home.

As you arrive at your house a sinking feeling rushes across your entire body. “O-o…OJ Simpson?” You say shrilly in your small, child like voice

OJ had been in your room, playing with your toys, touching your Dreamcast, drinking your stale Pepsi. Pure confusion fills you.


Soon enough, with a mis-fitting glove, he pulls out a Glock and shoots you straight in the liver. The last thing you hear out of his sultry lips are “☹️”