It seemed as though a great period of time had passed once more. The bar had burnt to the ground and the remains were long cold. The beach was covered in snow and the shivering bodies of the recently deceased-and-necromanced. My gold 2013 swag pendant had melted and been replaced with a crude 2014 replica in mspaint, which I was not happy about and subsequently made an appropriate face to express my feelings.
That's it. That was my face. I was angry. I hope that emotion comes across well.
The beat of the mission had changed, everyone had slowed to a crawl as if suffering a great hangover from all the grass clippings we'd ingested the night (or year) before. My inner monologue seemed to be turning into an incredibly meta self-reference which was technically not a sin as stated by the Staff Survivor's Bible. My mom and dad had, after all, practically recapped the entire second half of the game in an adorable back-and-forth segment just moments ago.
Having stood around on the beach all winter suffering an interminably sustained hangover, I hoped to be either dead or crowned the victor within the next month. I gestured to the rest of the gathered survivors as though about to make an incredible speech, took of my mask, and promptly punched Makaru in the face. You know, to get back into the spirit of things.