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I'm live, and you're the only one in here, and that is not a compliment -- that's just what the number says. Tonight your job is stupid-boy simple: cock out, fist on, and count every single stroke out loud like a good little viewer. One. Two. Three. Easy, right? Except my picture keeps breaking. It tears, it drags, it eats a second of your life, and when it comes back you will not have the faintest idea what number you were on. And you'll start from one. And you'll do it again. And again. And here's the part nobody warns you about, baby: every time that number goes missing you get harder, because losing it feels better than having it. By the end of this stream you won't be able to tell me how long you've been stroking, or what you were counting for, or which one of us decided you'd still be here. You'll only know one thing, and you'll say it out loud for me: what number? Thank you, Suprema. Aroma up. Fist on. And don't you dare stop counting.