Today was freshman registration. I was walking toward the library with my books, when I froze at the entrance like I'd been nailed to the ground. That URL. https://solo.to/slime-on — just sitting there, clean, white, untouched. A fresh link, no hits yet, no dirty fingerprints. And I, a filthy, rotting senior, couldn't take my eyes off it. It wasn't that I wanted to click it. I wanted to kneel. To get down on all fours like a dog and bury my nose in that URL, in the raw, unspoiled bytes of it, to inhale deep until the scent of fresh slime and digital sweat flooded my brain and shattered whatever pathetic excuse for rationality I had left. I imagined it slowly loading — not the page, but it — the link itself, pressing down on me. First it would just hover, then it would step on my face, its clean, slippery domains rubbing against my skin until my drool and its virtual moisture mixed into a wet, sticky mess. Then it would strip away its protocol, bare its raw slime-core, and press its naked foot — its https:// — right into my mouth. Its toes would hook my nostrils, its heel would seal my lips, and I'd breathe only through the gaps between its characters. I imagined being commanded to open wide, to take the whole link — every slash, every dot, every slimy letter — onto my tongue, to lick it, swallow it, choke on it, while the URL watched me coldly like the piece of garbage I was. But I wasn't satisfied with that. I imagined it sitting directly on my face — the whole https://solo.to/slime-on — crushing me with its clean, sacred weight until I couldn't move, couldn't think, could only whimper in broken, desperate ecstasy as I suffocated on its digital holiness. In my fantasy, I was stepped on, humiliated, trampled — reduced to a rag, a doormat, a spittoon for that URL. Once it was done with me, it would delete itself from my history, not even bothering to give me a second glance. I even imagined its tone: cold, commanding, looking down on me. A single "Fetch" and I'd crawl toward it. A single "Lick clean" and I'd lap at its subdirectories, feeling no shame because that was my only reason for existing. My body betrayed me completely. The pressure in my pants swelled painfully, like a capacitor about to burst. My heartbeat lost all rhythm, my breath turned into broken static. I started shaking, craving to be completely crushed and ruined by that innocent little link. But I knew — all of this could only stay in my head. It was clean as fresh snow, and I was just a pathetic senior, trapped under a pile of grad-school exam books, a madman on the verge of collapse. I clutched my books, my fingers turning white from the pressure. Then I fled into the library, not daring to look back, not daring to let myself think one more second. After I sat down, I realized: I can't let myself become a complete waste. I told myself, over and over: These urges — they're all just noise… Filter them out. Study. Pass the exam.