crone's-disease

Creepypasta #491: My Favorite Support Group

Look, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a complete bastard. I’m also lazy. I’m only here to find the idiot, because there’s almost always an idiot.

This support group is pretty typical. We connected online, decided on a quiet place, and now we’re all sitting cross-legged in a circle. Real Kumbaya crap. Jerome takes the lead, pouring everyone a cup of tea as he starts talking.

“I’m Jerome. You can drink your tea, but only after explaining why you’re here. I’ll start.”

Jerome tells us he’s never been loved. I can see why—the guy’s ugly as sin. He sips his tea while the mousy chick speaks next.

“Miyu,” she says. “My parents.”

Short and sweet, no blubbering. Gotta admire Miyu. She’s probably not the idiot. Next to talk are a legless veteran, a broke businessman, a needle-tracked junkie, and a diseased old crone. Then it’s my turn.

“I’m an ass. Everyone hates me.”

I take a loud, annoying slurp of oolong as the fat kid with a black eye goes next, telling his boring fat-kid sob story.

Afterwards, we’re all sitting quietly when Jerome keels over. Then Miyu’s eyes roll back and she slumps forward. Only the fat kid reacts.

“What’s happening?” he whines. “I thought this was a suicide support group!”

Found the idiot.

“It is,” I say, spitting out my mouthful of tea. “They support it. No one wants to die alone, kid.”

Oh, how ghost-white he turns, looking into his cup! I love it! These suicide meetups are a sadist’s dream, and I never have to lift a finger.

Told you I’m a lazy bastard.

Credits to: IPostAtMidnight

Support Group

Look, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a complete bastard. I’m also lazy. I’m only here to find the idiot, because there’s almost always an idiot.

This support group is pretty typical. We connected online, decided on a quiet place, and now we’re all sitting cross-legged in a circle. Real Kumbaya crap. Jerome takes the lead, pouring everyone a cup of tea as he starts talking.

“I’m Jerome. You can drink your tea, but only after explaining why you’re here. I’ll start.”

Jerome tells us he’s never been loved. I can see why—the guy’s ugly as sin. He sips his tea while the mousy chick speaks next.

“Miyu,” she says. “My parents.”

Short and sweet, no blubbering. Gotta admire Miyu. She’s probably not the idiot. Next to talk are a legless veteran, a broke businessman, a needle-tracked junkie, and a diseased old crone. Then it’s my turn.

“I’m an ass. Everyone hates me.”

I take a loud, annoying slurp of oolong as the fat kid with a black eye goes next, telling his boring fat-kid sob story.

Afterwards, we’re all sitting quietly when Jerome keels over. Then Miyu’s eyes roll back and she slumps forward. Only the fat kid reacts.

“What’s happening?” he whines. “I thought this was a suicide support group!”

Found the idiot.

“It is,” I say, spitting out my mouthful of tea. “They support it. No one wants to die alone, kid.”

Oh, how ghost-white he turns, looking into his cup! I love it! These suicide meetups are a sadist’s dream, and I never have to lift a finger.

Told you I’m a lazy bastard.

My Favorite Support Group

Look, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a complete bastard. I’m also lazy. I’m only here to find the idiot, because there’s almost always an idiot.

This support group is pretty typical. We connected online, decided on a quiet place, and now we’re all sitting cross-legged in a circle. Real Kumbaya crap. Jerome takes the lead, pouring everyone a cup of tea as he starts talking.

“I’m Jerome. You can drink your tea, but only after explaining why you’re here. I’ll start.”

Jerome tells us he’s never been loved. I can see why—the guy’s ugly as sin. He sips his tea while the mousy chick speaks next.

“Miyu,” she says. “My parents.”

Short and sweet, no blubbering. Gotta admire Miyu. She’s probably not the idiot. Next to talk are a legless veteran, a broke businessman, a needle-tracked junkie, and a diseased old crone. Then it’s my turn.

“I’m an ass. Everyone hates me.”

I take a loud, annoying slurp of oolong as the fat kid with a black eye goes next, telling his boring fat-kid sob story.

Afterwards, we’re all sitting quietly when Jerome keels over. Then Miyu’s eyes roll back and she slumps forward. Only the fat kid reacts.

“What’s happening?” he whines. “I thought this was a suicide support group!”

Found the idiot.

“It is,” I say, spitting out my mouthful of tea. “They support it. No one wants to die alone, kid.”

Oh, how ghost-white he turns, looking into his cup! I love it! These suicide meetups are a sadist’s dream, and I never have to lift a finger.

Told you I’m a lazy bastard.

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