A Day in the Life of a Spider with a Positive Attitude

(text-style: "italic")["Positive anything is better than negative nothing." -- Ebert Hubbard.] --- You are a spider. You are hopeful and smiley, ever-optimistic. You are an arachnid that is ready for a thrill. You welcome the challenges of the world and expect to enjoy them richly. Some may call you "bouncy." Others, "cheery." You are no ordinary spider. You are (link: "a spider...")[a spider... ... with a <big><big><big><big>POSITIVE ATTITUDE!</big></big></big></big>] Yes! [[Onward!]]

Today is a new day. After completing your (link: "morning routine,")[morning routine (this particular morning you even shaved all eight of your legs, which is no joke),] your mind turns to thoughts of exploration. As content as you often are to wile your time away here, in your web behind the refrigerator, right now your octo-limbed self is feeling a bit restless. So: Let us go forth. Let us cast off the shackles of experiential sameness. Let us embrace a life of boldness and -- -- and maybe visit the kitchen table. Yeah. Let's do that! Let's go to the [[kitchen table]]!

That was an arduous climb, but here you are, standing atop the (link: "table in the kitchen.")[table in the kitchen. This table has four legs. You, a spider, have eight! Good job.] It is here that our tale truly begins. ---- Once upon a time, upon a kitchen table rather, there was a spider. There was you, in fact. You are the spider. But you are no ordinary spider. You are (link: "a spider...")[a spider... ... with a <big><big><big><big>**POSITIVE ATTITUDE!**</big></big></big></big>] And here you stand, ready for action. Eager, even! You have options, seen before you. Your eight (link: "eyes")[beautiful, fantastic, wonderful eyes] have spotted, somewhere in the vast housy-lookin' expanse before you, a human baby. A human baby, made of flesh and blood, looking mighty tasty. You could... [[go for the baby]]. Elsewhere, however, you see an alternate target of conquest: A puppy! A fuzzy little helpless puppy, napping on the living room carpet, basking in the glow of stray sunlight. You could... [[get that puppy]]. Or, perhaps, you could partake in... [[a snapping adventure]]. Additionally, lying on the table before you, is a newspaper. You could... [[look at the newspaper]]. If you are feeling really courageous, you could even turn around. Turn around, yes, and... [[behold the other side of the kitchen table]].

You rotate your many-legged body and, indeed, behold the other side of the kitchen table. There are things here, other things, things that you could not see when you were, um, looking the other way, on the first side of the kitchen table, the one you were looking at before. Life is grand. Gosh, you have some choices here. You see a Nintendo 3DS portable gaming device. You could [[try to play a video game]]. You see a typical, ordinary matchbox. Its name is Nelson. You could [[talk to Nelson The Matchbox]]. You see an old, discarded wrapper of a former fast-food burger. This wrapper is //not// ordinary. It is unusual. You could [[talk to Frosty The Discarded Fast-Food Burger Wrapper]]. Finally, you could make the return trip to your web behind the refrigerator and [[go back home->home]].

Bristling with gamey anticipation, you approach the 3DS, and... ... well, actually, it turns out that spiders are terrible at video games. Just awful. The worst. [[Why are spiders terrible gamers?]]

Spiders are terrible gamers (link: "because...")[because... ... their favorite games are the ones with <big><big><big><big>LOTS OF BUGS IN 'EM.</big></big></big></big>] ... heh. ... Let us return to our prior position, on [[the other side of the kitchen table->behold the other side of the kitchen table]].

Frosty acknowleges your approach with a meager wave from one of his ancient, willowy corners. His thin frame is made of an almost translucent grade of paper, stained in spots and utterly wrinkled throughout. Traces of crusty cheese can be found along his wispy form. Through means arcane yet undeniable, he garners your focused attention -- the world around you seems to blur in an unsteady haze. Lacking clarity, similarly, is Frosty's voice... he speaks in a raspy, hollowed-out timbre. He compensates for a weakness in tone by delivering every word in a measured cadence. You would never call the effect //mesmerizing,// but it is arresting nonetheless. "Greetings, spider," he begins. His fast-food wrapper body crinkles into strange shapes, then vibrates in an unnerving, supernatural fashion as he talks. "Long have I lived, and much have I heard. I believe it is good to see you. For the occasion, I have prepared a story." <big><big>[["Oh, um, okay! I kinda like stories, I guess! Let's hear it!"->Story1]]</big></big>

Frosty The Discarded Fast-Food Burger Wrapper takes a deep 'breath' and leans toward you. "Do you believe that every star has a name?" he asks, in a tone even more hushed than usual. Before you can reply, he continues. "There was once a village called New Hallows. This village had a custom that we may call peculiar: The villagers each wore a mask. They wore them all the time; at work and at play, morning and night, every hour of every day. This was their culture, their norm. They enjoyed playing make-believe, and acting out intricate fantasies of alternate lives. They exchanged rich meals and good-natured pranks. They valued privacy as a virtue, and largely kept their true feelings hidden. They prospered greatly, and their houses remained unlocked, as children could even roam the streets alone in complete safety." "But." Frosty shifts his mass from one side to the other. "But there was one night that the denizens of New Hallows feared above all others, one night that they truly dreaded, that set an unholy fire to their nerves and put a quake in their very bones: Halloween." He pauses, then goes on. "On Halloween, the New Hallows villagers take off their masks and show their true faces. For the first time all year, they reveal their real selves, and their genuine opinions. Neighbors feast with neighbors, and suffer the fretful revelations of honesty. Friendships are torn apart. Relationships of all kinds endure the stress of months' worth of deceit and doublespeak undone in a single eve of brutal sincerity. Halloween is a night of terror, a night on which even the bravest fall to fits of fright, sweat, and long stares into a merciless, unfeeling sky. Even now, at this moment, the New Hallows villagers gird their souls for the horrors that await them at the next Halloween." The Wrapper crinkles loudly with a sudden tremor, then calms. "Now, I want to show you something." <big><big>[["Uh, wow... s-sure. Let's see it. Okay!->Story2]]</big></big>

The discarded fast-food burger package exhales, the edge of his paperbody fluttering rapidly with a hissing noise. One corner unfurls from a coiled position; and now, revealed on the table in full view, is a small stone. It is a somewhat pretty specimen, perhaps a semiprecious gem. Light blue in color, angled yet not too harshly, it is not altogether shiny. It reflects the light, yes, but mostly sits content and unbothered by the pressures to perform. This would not appear to be a mineral of much ambition. "I have taken a new hobby," Frosty says. "This is a crystal. It is a very special crystal, in fact. It has just the right electrochemical properties I require for my task of storing souls. You see, we have always been aware of related energies. Our struggle was only to quantify and exploit them." He caresses the crystal softly, with the underside of his cheesepaper. "Research into quantum fields helped, yes, but there are still altogether separate sciences, yet to be described. You have to understand: I cannot express the mechanics in any way that you could comprehend." He pats the crystal tenderly. Pat, pat, pat. "I have captured nine souls within the confines of this crystal so far. Nine human souls, nine people whose essences I now, essentially, own. They are restless and uneasy, even in this very moment they are fighting and struggling in vain attempts to escape. This is an unnatural course, and they know this. They were supposed to pass elsewhere. I have meddled in the intended order of things. The divine appointment of the universe, the fabric of creation. I have pierced its veil." Frosty folds shallowly, in places, and looks into the distance at nothing in particular. "I fear my meddling will soon catch the attention of spiritual powers, beings who can cross dimensions and travel between realms at will. I do not believe I am yet equipped for proper combat in those arenas but, alas, may soon have to put up the effort regardless. If I persist in this hobby, it will attract attention inevitably. But even if I stop, I fear it is too late, you see. Yes. The doomsday clock has truly been wound. We are living in the final passage of time. This, right here, could be the space in which history's last battle is fought. I intend to be there, and play a hand in one last game on the deity's table. I am no longer content to give applause to the players, no. As I face the stage, as it hosts its drama, I demand to play a part. To have a voice." He rises as he speaks of the stage, his billowing shape ballooning and expanding in dramatic fashion, as much as he can muster. After a crescendo of inflation, he shrinks to his former stature, 'exhaling' with little waves of his paper-edges. "I have another story I want to tell you, my spider companion." <big><big>[["Uh, I gotta say Froz, gosh, I love your stories, but I should really get goi--"->Story3]]</big></big>

Nelson is just an ordinary matchbox. He cannot talk to you. [[Oh.->behold the other side of the kitchen table]]

"The boy's name was Jonathan Crossley." Frosty, the discarded fast-food burger wrapper, lowers his body into a flatter, more forlorn state as he speaks. "His name is not important, but there we have it. Jonathan was an unusual child, beloved by his parents and ignored by his peers. He had no siblings. He was extraordinarily quiet, and seemed to have difficulty making eye contact. He was not sad, necessarily, but spent his time in a passive sort of stoicism that raised great concern among his family and other adults around him. However, young Crossley had one quirk with a special prominence above all others, one strange trait that would forge his legacy in singular fashion." Frosty leans toward you slowly, more closely. "Whenever he saw a toy car, sitting upright, he felt an extreme compulsion to flip it over." Frosty pauses. "His parents noticed his unusual habit when he would practice on his own collection. He would be silent, in his room, for uncomfortably long. When his mother would open his bedroom door, she would find five-year-old Jonathan, seated on the floor, staring at a perfectly straight, side-by-side row of Hot Wheels, all upside-down, wheels in the air, one after another. His mother, Lois, found this 'utterly unnerving,' and told his father, Charles, as much. They chalked up the occurrence to a bout of fatigue, or just one of childhood's odd swings of unsearchable whimsy. When he repeated the act, they consoled themselves with the assurance that it was a phase that would pass. When he would perform this ritual on friends' vehicles, in their own homes, and fly into a screaming kicking rage when his parents tried to intervene -- they began to worry." The wrapper breathes in deeply, then exhales, and inhales again. "The most striking example may have been at the barbershop. Young Jonathan, mid-haircut, happened to turn his head and notice a model car on display in the corner. He leaped from the chair, dashed toward the die-cast metal hot rod, and slapped it from its perch, sending it tumbling to the floor with a loud clatter. Pieces of it slid all over. The barber froze, mouth agape, speechless and aghast. Jonathan's father began apologizing, while his mother tried to grab the boy, rebuke him. Still wearing the apron, John only kept trying to place the car roof-down, his mother yelling at him, grabbing at his arms, his shoulders, pulling, as he shouted back, fought back, struggled with her. Another customer tried to scold the boy as well, only for his father to defend him. More shouting. His parents ended up half-pulling, half-dragging Jonathan out to their own car, as he continued crying out in angry sobs. They had to finish his haircut at home." Another pause from the wrapper. "This continued for months. It would subside at times, granting mom and dad a measure of peace. Then, one day, they were on a trip. The three of them were in their car, in December, on a two-lane country highway, driving on their way to a long weekend spent with family in Christmas celebration. The sky was clear, although dreary, and the air still bitter cold. From the backseat, where Jonathan was normally silent for entire rides, even hours-long rides like this one, he suddenly spoke. He was looking out his window and he said, quiet clearly: 'Today is the day our car flips over.' Well, his mother immediately turned back and began to scold him, asking how he could say such a thing like that, why on Earth would he think that was an appropriate thing to say, and so forth. To which Jonathan Crossley only looked his mother right in her eyes, and with an eerie calm explained to her that this was the day that he had been waiting for, that after today she would no longer have to deal with her unusual son." One more pause from the discarded wrapper. "Do you want to know the fate of the Crossley family? Would you like to know what happened next?" <big><big>[["Y'know, this has been so fun, hanging out with you and everything, but I think it's getting kinda late, so I'm just gonna g--"->Story4]]</big></big>

"Nothing." The part of the paper nearest to you, at the front, the part that has been vibrating most pronouncedly, begins to show a curl at the corners, a tugging-up in the outer shape. Frosty The Discarded Fast-Food Burger Wrapper is smiling at you. "The Crossley family arrived at their destination, safe and sound. Although Jonathan had scared his mother in transit, her fear turned to confusion, and in the merriment of the next few days even found her way back to happiness. Jonathan changed, too, and no longer exhibited his fixation on overturning motorcars. While the course of events had been confounding for Mr. and Mrs. Crossley, they ultimately chose to simply not speak of it again, rather than try to plumb the depths of meaning where none would likely ever be found." <big><big>[["Yeah, GREAT story my friend, thank you so much, I'm just gonna go ahead and go home now, okay see y--"->Story5]]</big></big>

"Do you want this to end?" <big><big>[["... yes. Please, yes. Make it stop."->Story6]]</big></big>

Frosty suddenly lunges at you with a vicious hiss and violent speed. His sheet-body envelopes you completely, your every limb trapped between folding, twisting layers of garbage paper, crinkling around you in a wild cacophony. You hardly have time to react, only able to feel a growing sense of pain and the onset of total darkness. As he tightens around you in a deadly embrace, it is difficult to protest, to struggle, to even think. ---- This is an end. [[> Play again.->Intro]]

Can spiders snap? Do they even have the 'fingers' for it? Well, you know you can do it! We're gonna do some snappin'! Snap, snap, snap -- we're gonna do it! Are you ready?! [[... no, not really...?->no1]] [[Heck yeah! Let's do this!->snap1]]

You see a newspaper. It has been discarded with little care. It is folded in such a way that its front page is currently obscured. If you were to unfold the newspaper, you would at least be able to see the front page. [[Let's unfold the newspaper and look at the front page!->FrontPage]] [[Let's resist the allure of the modern news cycle and return to what we were doing before!->kitchen table]]

This takes some effort, but you are able to fully display the front page of the newspaper on the kitchen table. And as you gaze upon the page, you see it: A story about unrest in the Middle East, particularly in areas that have seen American intervention within the past few decades. You begin to sweat nervously. You feel very uncomfortable. You want to scream, yet cannot even open your mouth. You are paralyzed with fear, (link: "because...")[because... ... you're an <big><big><big><big>IRAQNOPHOBE!</big></big></big></big>] [[Oh my.->JokeDeath]]

That joke was too awful to survive. You die. You fall to your back, curl your stiffening legs above yourself, and depart the realm of the living. You are dead. ---- Game Over. [[> Play again.->Intro]]

You lower yourself on a silken strand. You walk across the kitchen floor. You climb the wall behind the refrigerator, until you reach your web. This is pleasant. You are familiar with this place. It is home. Although you are not sure what lies in the future, you take solace in a moment of thoughtful rest. ---- <big>A Day in the Life of a Spider with a Positive Attitude</big> Written by Eric Bailey. You may leave a tip at ko-fi.com/NintendoLegend `Twitter.com/Nintendo_Legend` Special thanks to Xalavier Nelson Jr., consultant. Thank you for playing!

Aw, c'mon! It'll be fun! A snappin' adventure! [[Okay, fine.->snap1]] [[Nah, I'll pass.->No2]]

Okay, great! This will be fun! A snapping good time! Are you ready?! [[Yeah!->snap2]] [[On second thought, I don't really want to do this.->no1]]

Lame. But, fine. [[Back to the kitchen table.->kitchen table]]

I can't hear you! I said, <big><big>ARE YOU READY?!</big></big> [[<big><big>YEAH!!</big></big>->snap3]]

I'm still not convinced! Are... you... <big><big><big><big>READY?!</big></big></big></big> [[<big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>YES! YES! YES! I'M GONNA SNAP THE HECK OUT OF YOU!!!!</big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big>->snap4]]

... okay, sheesh. Calm down. And let's get started! [[Let's snap!->snap5]]

<big><big>(link: "SNAP!")[SNAP! (link:"SNAP!")[SNAP! (link:"SNAP!")[SNAP! [[SNEEZE!->sneeze]]]]]</big></big>

God bless you! [[Thanks!->kitchen table]] [[Excuse me?->kitchen table]] [[He does!->kitchen table]] [[Huh?->kitchen table]] [[Back to the kitchen table!->kitchen table]] [[... wh-what just happened?!->kitchen table]]

You make a solid trek across the floor and near the play mat. After ascending a nearby bookshelf, you now have quite the view. And there it is... a human baby. You stare at the baby for a minute. (link: "This baby...")[This baby... ... is <big>SO. <big><big>CUTE!</big></big></big> Just the gosh-dang cutest thing! So heckin' cute! Seeing this cute baby fills you with fuzzy, warm feelings. This has been a pleasant experience. You do not regret this choice of action. Once you have had your fill of baby cuteness, you [[return to the kitchen table->kitchen table]].]

You make the laborious crawl across the floor, then a tough climb up the back of the sofa. From your new vantage point, you can see on the living room carpet, lying there asleep, is... a puppy. Carefully, you crawl down the front of the couch, getting closer and closer. Soon, you are (link: "close enough...")[close enough... ... to get a great view... ... of the cutest puppy you have ever seen! Aww! What a fuzzy little pupper! Precious and innocent! Although, in admiring this delightful pup, you do notice that she only has four legs. And only two eyes! Huh. What a strange creature. Okay, [[back to the kitchen table!->kitchen table]]]