Floral wallpaper is, without a shadow of a doubt, one of humanity's most baffling inventions. Imagine, if you will, someone standing in a vibrant garden, taking in the colors, the textures, the delicate hum of life, and thinking, "Yes, but could we squash it flat, render it entirely lifeless, and then paste it across an entire wall in perpetuity?" And somehow, inexplicably, this travesty has wormed its way into waiting rooms. Waiting rooms, of all places! You’re already trapped in a limbo of uncertainty, and now you’re forced to stare at a depressing sea of faded roses and drooping vines. These aren’t real flowers; they’re ghosts of flowers. They’re fake, insipid, and relentlessly cheerful in a way that makes you feel anything but.

Here I sit, enduring this visual assault, awaiting my turn with a rather well-groomed chap, a psychiatrist no less  named Dr. Lipschitz. Yes, a psychiatrist—because this dreary companion of floral wallpaper is only deepening my acquaintance with that shadowy, relentless gremlin we call depression. Waiting rooms should provide comfort, a sense of hope even. But this wallpaper, with its mismatched pinks and oddly beige tones, screams, "You’re here forever." It's not calming; it’s suffocating. Frankly, it’s an affront to good taste—and my fragile sanity.

So there I sat, trapped in this floral purgatory, the relentless tick of the clock gnawing at my nerves like a metronome counting down to some inevitable mental collapse. Overhead, the fluorescents buzzed faintly, their sterile glow illuminating every cursed petal on the walls around me. And then there was the HUD—my ever-present, slightly sadistic companion, hovering just at the edge of my vision, its endless notifications lighting up my mental dashboard. Ping. Another missed message. Ping. A “friendly reminder” about a job offer I’d been avoiding. Ping. Oh look, another spam message, probably from some imaginary prince offering me untold riches if only I’d send my bank details. It was all noise—relentless, inescapable noise—and I was powerless to shut it off.

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My HUD was supposed to help me, but right now, it felt like an adversary. Every glowing icon, every blinking alert, was a neon sign pointing at the mounting chaos in my life. Ignored calls. Unread messages. Unfinished quests piling up like laundry in a bachelor pad. My gremlin—now more of a bloated imp—lounged smugly on my shoulder, feeding on the constant stream of failure. I was roasted, overdone, burnt out—mentally, emotionally, physically. And yet, the HUD was insistent: "Talk to Dr. Lipschitz.". One task to complete. But here I was, immobile, stuck between floral wallpaper and my own unraveling sanity.