Verified Company
I went in expecting dinner. I left questioning the very concept of reality.
First, the building itself seems to have been constructed in a parallel universe where architects hate humans. The walls were misaligned, the ceiling sagged like it was mourning, and a single, flickering light overhead created shadows that seemed to whisper, “Why are you here?” The entrance mat was sticky—like a portal designed to trap souls. My shoes protested violently as I stepped on it, and I briefly considered amputating my feet just to escape the adhesive horror.
Once inside, the air assaulted me. It smelled like wet newspapers left in a closet with a single shoe and the faint regret of a thousand broken dreams. My lungs burned, my sinuses flared, and I swear I could hear the air itself groaning in despair. A ceiling fan rotated at the speed of glacial movement, stirring despair into the already tragic atmosphere.
I sat down on a chair that had clearly been passed down from the Stone Age. When I shifted my weight, it emitted a series of sounds—cracks, pops, groans—that could be interpreted as a complex language of suffering. The table wobbled like it was testing my patience. There were stains on the surface in patterns reminiscent of ancient constellations—but instead of stars, they were old spaghetti sauce.
The menu looked like it had been printed during a war. Pages were torn, faded, damp, and one was inexplicably sticky with something I refused to identify. The handwriting of the specials appeared to have been scrawled by a frenzied raccoon in a creative rage. Dishes included “Mystery Meat Surprise,” “Something That Probably Was Once Food,” and “Chef’s Emotional Breakdown Platter.”
I chose the safest item: soup. The bowl arrived lukewarm. The liquid quivered as if it had consciousness, and the aroma was simultaneously pungent, metallic, and vaguely apologetic. I took a sip and experienced a flavor so complex that my brain short-circuited: notes of sadness, despair, and wet cardboard intermingled with a hint of existential dread. I pushed the bowl away and wept quietly into my napkin.
Attempting to use the bathroom was another saga. The door would not open without a Herculean effort. The floor was sticky. The sink produced a trickle that sounded like a dying animal. The mirror was scratched and fogged, making me look like a character from a psychological horror movie. The toilet barely functioned. I am certain the plumbing was designed as a social experiment in futility.
The staff, when they appeared, moved as if they were in slow motion, trapped in a parallel reality where human interaction was optional. Asking for water took fifteen minutes. Asking for the check took twenty-three. My existence was tested. My patience was burned to ash.
When finally escaping, I felt sunlight as if it were a spiritual intervention. Birds chirped in joy. I collapsed on the sidewalk, grateful to be back in the real world.
If this place were a movie, it would be “The Neverending Nightmare: Restaurant Edition.”
If it were a natural disaster, it would be on the Richter scale of 12.
If it were a lesson, it would be “How to Permanently Question All Life Choices.”
