Home

You're supposed to think of a place to be, but you can't exactly focus. One part of your brain is too busy grunting happily with the idea of all promising opportunities while the other more rational and more pessimistic part is desperately trying to explain and understand these events in a logical way. Is everything here the result of hallucinogens...? Were you **** somehow? That must be it. None of this is actually happening, is it? There's just no other explanation...

...or is there? Is there a scientific reason supporting the validity of all of this?

...grah. There's no point. The only place you want to be now is back home, in the comfort of your small but well-equipped one room apartment. Your fridge stocked with your favorite snacks, your TV and game systems, and your custom-built computer...yes, home sounds beyond perfect right now. Far away from this weird place...

Hm...that's it. Home. If there's a single place you want to be when you go through this door, it's definitely your apartment.

Mind clear with the image of your comfortable apartment and soft bed, you look to Charles with a nod.

"Got a place in mind, have you?" Charles asks. "Alright then. I'll be opening the door now. The light's gonna be a bit blinding at first, but just will yourself and walk on through, understand?"

You give him an affirmative nod as he clasps the metal of the silver handle and pulls backwards, slowly swinging the massive door open. It creaks as a powerful light escapes from its depths, engulfing the area and cutting your vision off entirely.

"Remember, lad," you hear Charles speak up as you close your eyes in the shower of light. "Don't over think things. It's that simple, you hear?"

Unable to see anything around you or confirm your surroundings, you take a step forward and begin walking towards the light...

...

…

Sitting up with a jolt, you take a deep breath as you open your eyes. Looking around, you see the familiar dark green interior of your apartment accompanied by the brown carpeting. Placing your hands down, you feel the familiarity of the bed which you've spent so much time sleeping in on, waking up in the early afternoon every day since you graduated.

Without a doubt, this is home, and you're certainly glad to be here.

Was it all a dream? If it was, then why are you clothed? You certainly wouldn't sleep in a pair of jeans and shoes. Furthermore, why don't you remember how you fell asleep? In fact, there's a gaping hole in your memory—you can't remember what went on at all throughout the entirety of yesterday.

"A **** that made me forget everything, maybe...?" you mutter aloud to yourself in open thought as you hop off your bed. "Alright, alright...no clue what that was about, but whatever. Maybe I went out with some friends and got just a bit too trashed. Wouldn't have happened if I had a job," more words come as you continue to conversate with yourself while making your way to your kitchen, opening drawers and grabbing materials to prepare breakfast. "So, that's all I've gotta do. Find a job so I can avoid things like that and finally start my career in baboon arseolo—"

You pause mid-sentence, realizing what you're about to say. Even if it was a dream, you certainly seem to remember that part well enough. With a deep sigh, you roll your eyes and continue sorting out your breakfast.

Unsurprisingly for a college graduate who just finished four years of straight studies, you manage to completely forget about the whole "getting your life together" bit you arranged right after breakfast. Instead of looking for a job, you sit your ass right on your bed and turn on the TV, ready to channel surf the day away with your stomach satisfied. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, at first; sports, news, children’s shows, pregnant ladies… Wait, what? You quickly change back to the previous channel. It’s Story Time With Mother Goose, a show that you used to watch as a kid. Something’s different though. The hostess is very heavily pregnant. You go back a few more channels. On the news, the news anchor is on her second trimester. On the sports channel, the cheerleaders (all at various levels of pregnancy) are still doing their routine, flips and all.

It’s real. All of it is real. You stand up, but quickly fall back onto your bed, stunned at the implications. If the pregnant women part is true, then that means the impregnation part is real too. And if that part is real, then that means… You start to giggle. You’re so excited you feel like you could burst. Your member is equally happy, tenting your pants like crazy. You think of all the hot pregnant women that you’ve seen, but never had the chance to touch. Then you think of all of the hot non-pregnant women that you’ll have the chance to a) impregnate, or b) see pregnant and then fuck.

There’s so many choice. Too many choices. You fret a bit about what you should do before remembering what Charles said; “Don’t over think things.” Just pick something.