"Hmmmm sir," you state, with a few cautious backward steps from the human sized monster. "In my current conscientious conundrum I'm contemplating catalyzing a concrete concaved coalescing of calloused carnage."
"Ooooooh myyyyy..." says the grandfatherly Earth Angel, "We have a pretentious little shit on our hands do we...."
"Why now sir...... I'm merely meandering through the munificent maelstrom of multifarious misanthropic myopic and mundane multi-faceted miserable view-points of possible parity." You reply, smugly.
"Deeeeear goooood son!" the Earth Angel retorts in awe, "Don't forget that I am but a faction of your sub-conscious... I have access to your complete mind, and thus know that you had intended to approach the current situation with a desire for calm, and scientific rational resolve. Unfortunately that fancy schooling of yours fucked your mind up pretty bad and replaced substance with a bunch of flashy word-play. You realize that alliteration is one of the lowest forms of poetic intrigue right?"
"Ya Dawg.... I mean.... my pops..... He was all science, you're like.... man... you're bringing me down."
The Grandfatherly Earth Angel looks on with some degree of sadness. "Yes child... I understand. You are an idiot. You need to understand this. You understand that you thought you were making science happen with your mom's dildo right? And her pill and gin bottles? I mean... Jesus kid! Did you really think you could save the world with your mom's sad Friday Night In equipment?"
"Huh?" you respond, confused. You are pretty sure he doesn't understand science, but how do you argue with an imaginary human sized cockroach?
"Kid.... seriously... it's time to just man up and get a real job you know? If you applied yourself and got an ounce of responsible motivation..."
Suddenly a force within rises as the Earth Angel rambles on. A powerful and potent force you have never felt before. The entire universe around you begins to flash in a pool of inspiration. Something deep within you rebels against the insinuation of become a contributing member of society. Within your hands a futuristic looking flame-thrower materializes. The spark of mischievous joy alights within your imagined eyes. The nozzle ignites, and you torch the very mention of responsibility out of your mind. The grand-roach raises his multi-faceted eyes to the sky and cries a pathetically melo-dramatic, "NOOOOOOOOO!" as you gleefully roast his memory from existence. Unfortunately; your virulent pyromania ignites all that surrounds, and the cavernous universe of your mind fries right along with the over-stepping cockroach. You torch the very substance of your Earthly intelligence, and vegetate into rotten goo in your basement bed. Your mother is so relieved to have a few days of not dealing with your bullshit that she never bothers to check on you, and completely forgets that you ever existed. Your body decomposes along with all the cockroach feces and basement dust to create the most perfect soil imaginable. Within it, a rose of the most perfect colour and proportion blooms and lets off a heavenly scent so magnificent as to counter-act the smell of your decomposition. Unfortunately; no-one ever happens upon the most perfect flower in the history of existence, as your mother once again balls the mail-man while bemoaning that she cannot find her prescription of oxys that they could have been railing.