Thor Needs a Drink

Most of the time, Thor didn't care. About anything or anyone, anywhere. It's not that she didn't want to care--she just couldn't. She didn't know how. In fact, she didn't know how to know how.

Thor had very little awareness of her own existence, let alone that of anybody else. Most of the time, she simply assumed she did not exist.

Now, this was not such an outlandish outlook. Thor had her reasons, or rather, the lack of reasoning. And for this reason, she could only conclude the aforementioned conclusion: Thor did not exist.

Sometimes, Thor liked to experiment with her nonexistence. She would sit all alone in her pitch-dark padded room and scream at the top of her lungs. No one answered. Thor did not exist. She would beat with both fists on the padded door with the teeny tiny window. The door didn't budge. Thor did not exist. She would hold her breath until she was about to burst, but she didn't die, because she did not exist.

When Thor revived after passing out from asphyxia for the 33rd time, she realized something about herself. She did exist. Because Thor was ape-shit crazy, which she understood in these rare moments of clarity, her existence was a very pitiful one. Thor was depressed. Thor needed a drink.

She stood and strode calmly across the padded room to the padded door with the teeny tiny window to the outside world, turned the knob, and walked out, leaving her nonexistence alone in the dark.

"Good morning, Thor," her mother called brightly as Thor entered the kitchen.

"Do we have any chicken juice?" Thor asked.

"No, honey..." Thor's mom replied hesitantly, her smile frozen in place as she mourned life before Thor.

"I'm going out," Thor announced, and she whipped around and stomped back to her room.