showerhead

So yeah. Rose Cookies.

This isn’t your usual power fantasy or deep character study. It’s just… something that came out of my brain—and maybe yours too.

Keanu, the guy you’re reading about, isn’t really a person. He doesn’t have a personality, no tragic backstory, no moral compass. He’s just there. Walking, talking, smiling. And then suddenly—violence. Out of nowhere.

Why? Because sometimes, life just pushes people. You keep swallowing the little stuff—awkward silences, fake laughs, getting ignored, getting talked over, being the nice one. Over and over. And then one day, something in you snaps… or at least, wants to.

Not gonna lie, a lot of these scenes are born from real stories. Not the stabbings, obviously, but the feelings. Stuff I’ve gone through. Stuff people have told me. That quiet, helpless frustration when you just sit there thinking, “Why do I keep letting this happen?” And maybe, for a second, your brain throws out the worst possible solution just to see how it feels.

Keanu is that. He’s not a person. He’s an impulse. He’s what happens when all that built-up patience finally tips.

Some chapters will be hilarious. Some will be disturbing. Some will make zero sense. That’s intentional. Life doesn’t stick to genre rules, so neither does this.

Thanks for reading. Or hate-reading. Or doomscrolling (I sincerely doubt that) your way into this mess. I’m writing it like a fever dream and trying to surprise myself, so if it gets weird, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

– Sincerely,
Showerhead

Rose Cookies

"You're two minutes late," said the receptionist.

The office smelled like lemon wipes and existential dread. A fish tank gurgled in the corner with only one fish—dead, probably. A man in a suit with gelled hair and a Bluetooth earpiece peeked out from a glass door.

"Come in. Let's see what you've got."

Inside, the room was painfully modern. Concrete walls. No chairs. Just bean bags. The interviewer sat cross-legged on a yoga mat. His name tag said CORY.

Keanu sank into the bean bag. It made a fart noise. Neither of them acknowledged it.

"So," Cory began, flipping open a MacBook. "Tell me about yourself."

Keanu tilted his head. "Which version?"

"The corporate-friendly version, or the one where I stabbed a guy behind a sushi train because he called my socks feminine?"

"Let's start with your strengths," he said carefully.

Keanu smiled. "I make soup. I lift heavy things. I once made a baby laugh and cry at the same time. I'm excellent at conflict resolution."

"Okay, that last one sounds promising."

"I resolve conflict by removing one of the conflicting parties."

Cory laughed. Nervously. "You're a real character, Keanu."

"No, no. We love uniqueness. It's just—what exactly are you applying for again?"

Keanu shrugged. "Whatever's available."

Cory frowned. "You clicked 'marketing analyst' on the application."

"I thought it said 'murdering antelopes.' My bad."

Cory looked at his screen, back at Keanu, then said, "Let me just grab the hiring manager."

He stepped out. The moment the door shut, Keanu stood, walked to the fish tank, stared at the dead fish, and whispered, "Me too."

Cory returned with another man. Bald, intense. Reeked of vape juice and stress.

"Hey there," the man said. "I'm Travis. Let's cut to the chase. Why should we hire you?"

Just a clean slice, blood on the bean bag, and Travis collapsing like a bag of laundry.

Keanu turned. "Conflict resolved."

Cory backed into the door, knocking over a coat stand.

Keanu walked past him, adjusted his hoodie, and muttered, "Marketing analyst, by the way."

He strolled into the hallway. The receptionist looked up.

Keanu shrugged. "They said they'd call me."

Keanu never updated his LinkedIn. He let fate endorse his skills.

Keanu and the job interview