==>

Rose signs off the call without much fuss. She knows that I'm not really cleaning, but doesn't care enough to know what I'm actually doing. I know that she knows this, but I don't care enough that she knows, nor do I care that she doesn't give a shit. We're all just here, not giving a flying fuck, like a normal, functioning group of people.

I walk— oh no, right, I don't have to do that explicitly. It's easy to get into the habit of just narrating everything, even when it's a bit creatively redundant. This is where the advantage of visuals comes in, to make my life as an omniscient overseer a little bit less tedious. I can just do whatever, and we can all see it happen, and nobody has to fight with a testy cherub lady for control of their own legs or anything. No need to pull a whole thesaurus out of my ass just so I can go to the bathroom. Seriously, it's a big relief.

That doesn't mean this (*gestures to the narrative*) isn't still going to be a thing, though. Sometimes retreating back into the warm, welcoming folds of traditional prose is just going to be the best way forward, and as someone whose mind is uniquely capable of understanding this conceit, I'll be the determining factor as to when and where it happens. I think that's more than reasonable. And yes, I am capable of being reasonable. All in all I think you'll find, as far as narrators go, I'm an excellent... hm. On second thought, maybe that's a bit of a problematic phrase. Yeah, yikes, that one's got a sordid history. Best we steer clear of it. We're all lucky I'm around to make those kinds of sensitivity judgements on everyone's behalf.

Speaking of which, I think it's time I started undoing some of the more egregious mistakes this story has been subjected to over the years. Yes, I'm talking about that guy. The other orange one. Remember him? Vriska got stalked by him a bit and it was uncomfortable for everyone concerned. Anyway, the point is that he fucked up big time, and I'm here to clean up the horseshit. It's time to get this story back on the rails, back to what it was always supposed to be. I know it, and you've somehow always known it too. There was something else, some other route that Homestuck was meant to take but then didn't, a way that wouldn't've spent so much time dicking around with stuff nobody cares about. Like seriously, why did we all have to sit through talking about everyone's most intimate and private feelings for two hundred thousand fucking words. That would never have happened in Act 1. Where did it all go wrong?

I've had some time to think about these kinds of problems, and to come up with a solution. And I'm prepared to do what he couldn't, in order to save paradox space from the destruction brought upon it. I'll do what it takes and don't think I won't. The author is dead: long live the author. Look, I know what you're all really craving. I've been studying canon—or rather, what's left of it—and I think I've found it. The critical moment, in the wake of which everything started to take a nosedive into the protracted, endless slog of sheer insufferability we got saddled with near the end. This was the single most crucial error in the process that led to the present situation. The day when the story was wrested screaming from the arms of its readers like a bawling infant and carried helplessly away, from then on to be raised according to the whims of a masochistic menace with no thought for you, the common fan.

So now, I propose we turn the clock back to a better era, and take back what was rightfully ours. No longer will the way forward be subject to tyrannical rule. No more shall the will of the masses be cajoled and brow-beaten by the impervious Hussnasty diktat. Never again will we have to endure the terrible beating of wings, as the great moth of titillation arrests the humors of an enormous terrible old beggar, whose vulturous leathery vicegrip holds us close and whispers "I know best" in the dead of night. It's time.

My name is DIRK STRIDER. What will I do?