“POV: You tell your fursona to help you get in shape.
I thought maybe he’d make me a workout plan, give me a little pep talk, y’know—positive vibes, some encouragement, maybe a smoothie recipe.
But no.
Apparently, Icer took ‘help me get fit’ as ‘become my personal drill sergeant with the emotional range of a brick.’
Now he’s sitting on my back like a smug, fluffy kettlebell from hell, yelling things like:
‘Lower! That’s not a push-up, that’s a slow collapse!’
and
‘You can rest when your soul leaves your body!’
I tried to tap out. He growled. I now fear him more than I fear death.
At this point, I’m 60% sweat, 40% regret, and he’s still there. Judging. Looming.
Tail wagging like he’s proud of himself. He’s not even helping—he just wanted a front row seat to my suffering.
Anyway, I think this counts as cardio and emotional damage.”
