Anyway, if I disappear, tell the authorities to check Bikini Bottom. Or my basement. I haven’t dared go down there since I heard “I’m ready!” echoing from the vents.

I haven’t watched SpongeBob in 15 years. I don’t know what I did.
But he knows. And he’s waiting.

I tried confronting him. I said, “Hey man, this is getting weird.” He just tilted his head. Like some kind of aquatic demon. Someone in the crowd whispered, “He’s always been here.” I don’t know what that means.

I changed my commute route. Guess who was already on the train when I got on? That’s right. The sponge. Sitting perfectly upright. Silent. Not even pretending to be normal.

Last Thursday I found a plastic spatula in my mailbox. No note. Just the word “FRYCOOK” scratched into the handle. I don’t even cook.

Then things escalated.

He was in line behind me at Starbucks. He didn’t order anything. Didn’t even move when I looked at him. I asked the barista if she saw him — she just blinked and said, “Who?”

I laughed it off, thought maybe someone lost a bet. The next day? He was outside my gym. Different street. Same stance. Same dead stare. No explanation.

It started two weeks ago. I was walking home from work and I saw him standing across the street. Full costume. No kids. No event. Just… standing. Not waving. Not dancing. Just watching.

And I don't mean "I keep seeing SpongeBob memes" or "I watched an episode and now the algorithm won't leave me alone." No. I mean the character — like, full costume, 6 feet tall, soulless cartoon eyes — is following me in real life. In person. On land.