Life 404: Success Not Found

Chapter 7: The Sunday Comment War

Sunday for an unemployed person like Freza wasn’t a day of rest, but rather a day where existential pressure reached its peak. While others were busy posting aesthetic brunch photos or jogging at the Car Free Day with sneakers that cost as much as a monthly motorcycle payment, Freza usually just lay sprawled on his bed, staring at water stains on the ceiling that looked more and more like a warning letter from the bank every day.

That morning, Freza’s stomach growled with a very demanding tone. After rummaging through the pockets of a pair of jeans that hadn't been washed in two weeks, he found a crumpled ten-thousand rupiah bill that was so shriveled it almost resembled a fossil. With that meager capital, he dragged his feet toward the chicken porridge vendor at the end of the alley.

There, he sat on a slightly tilted plastic stool. In front of him, a middle-aged man was stirring his porridge with immense enthusiasm, mixing the soybeans, celery, crackers, and yellow broth into a single yellowish-gray lump that, to Freza, looked like the vomit of a cat with a stomach ulcer.

Freza, who was in god-tier cynical mode due to hunger and lack of sleep, pulled out his phone. He took a photo of his own bowl, which was still neat—pure white with toppings arranged perfectly on top—and then sneakily snapped a photo of the man across from him.

He opened the X app (formerly known as T*****r, though he still called it T*****r because he refused to change). With thumbs trembling from instant coffee caffeine, he typed a tweet he thought sounded like a clever, edgy social observation.

"Watching people eat stirred porridge is like watching civilization slowly collapse. Stirred porridge is a heresy. People who eat stirred porridge should just move to another planet or stop breathing altogether. Aesthetics are everything, and you all just destroyed them. #TeamUnstirredPorridge #PorridgeWar"

In reality, Freza had wanted to type, "Stirred porridge is a matter of personal taste, but I prefer mine unstirred," but his fingers slipped, his ego took over, and he felt the need for digital validation to fill the void in his soul. He pressed the 'Post' button with a sense of hollow satisfaction.

The first ten minutes: Silence. Minute 15: One notification. A retweet. Minute 20: Freza’s phone began to vibrate like someone shivering in the dead of winter at the North Pole.

"Fre, what are you doing now?"

Satya suddenly appeared at the porridge stall, sitting next to Freza while carrying his own bowl. Satya was a hardline disciple of the "Stirred Porridge" school of thought.

"I’m just stating a universal truth, Sat," Freza replied haughtily, sipping his free plain tea.

"Universal truth my foot! Look at your phone!" Satya shoved his own screen forward.

Freza’s tweet had exploded. As it turned out, he had accidentally ignited a fire in the middle of a dry grassland known as "Indonesian Netizens Bored on a Sunday."

A massive account with millions of followers named @JusticeForPorridge had quote-tweeted him: "This is a form of texture discrimination! How can a human being be so hateful toward the way someone else enjoys their breakfast? Are these the seeds of culinary fascism? Monitor this until he apologizes! #StirredPorridgeUnited"

In an instant, the replies to Freza’s tweet turned into a battlefield.

@PorridgeLover01: "What do you mean 'stop breathing'? Are you God? I’ve eaten stirred porridge since I was a kid and I’m perfectly fine! You elitist piece of trash!"

@PorridgePhilosophy: "Epistemologically, porridge is a unity. Stirring it is a process of unifying flavors. People who don't stir their porridge usually have commitment issues in life. Pathetic."

@UnstirredSect: "Stay strong, @Freza_Real. Those stirred barbarians don't understand art. We support you! #StayStrongUnstirred"

Freza started breaking out in a cold sweat. "Sat, why is this getting so heated?"

"Of course it is! You brought up 'stop breathing,' Fre! That’s hate speech in the eyes of sensitive netizens!" Satya laughed mockingly while stirring his porridge with a movement that was intentionally provocative right in front of Freza's face.

Before Freza could respond, a new notification appeared. Someone had doxxed him.

@AnonHacker69: "Oh, is this the same Freza who went viral yesterday for falling in front of the convenience store? Turns out he’s just a clout chaser. His boarding house address is Rabbit Alley No. 4. Come on, anyone want to have a 'healthy discussion' while bringing their spoons?"

Freza choked on a cracker. "Sat! My address was leaked!"

"Whoops. You better head back, Fre. Before the 'spoon brigade' actually shows up," Satya advised, this time with a slightly worried tone.

Freza ran back to his boarding house. All along the way, he saw people holding their phones and looking at him suspiciously. He felt as if every person eating porridge on the side of the road was a secret agent ready to pounce.

Arriving at the front of his building, he saw a terrifying sight. There were about ten teenagers standing in front of the gate, each holding a bowl of chicken porridge and cardboard signs that read: "STIR OR DIE."

"That's him!" one of them shouted.

Freza bolted into his room, locked the door, and slid his wardrobe over to barricade it. He was trembling. The digital world had crossed over into reality all because of a matter of soggy rice and broth.

His phone continued to vibrate. The insults had now turned personal. "College graduate but has the brain of baby mush." "No wonder he's single, he makes a big deal out of eating porridge." "I heard he got scammed by an insurance bot yesterday, no wonder he's taking his stress out on porridge."

Suddenly, there was a loud knocking on his door. No, it wasn't knocking. It was the sound of a mob banging on the door using metal spoons in unison. Ting! Ting! Ting!

"Freza! Come out! Explain what you meant by calling stirred porridge a heresy!" a voice yelled from outside.

Freza hid under his blankets. He felt like an international fugitive. He tried to delete the tweet, but it was too late. Screenshots had already spread to neighborhood W******p groups, elementary school alumni groups, and perhaps even to the desks of the midday crime news editors.

"What should I do, Sat?" Freza whispered while calling Satya.

"You have to clarify, Fre. But make it unique. Netizens love drama with a plot twist."

"How?"

"Use the classic tactic: 'My Account Was Hacked.'"

"They won't believe it, Sat. I just replied to a comment earlier saying, 'I'm not afraid of you soggy-porridge people.'"

"Hmm... in that case, use a more absurd tactic. You have a cat in your room, right?"

"Yeah, Muezza, the stray that likes to crash here."

"There! Say your cat typed it!"

Freza went silent. It was the stupidest idea he had ever heard. But on the other hand, in a world currently screaming over chicken porridge, stupid ideas were the only currency that worked.

Freza grabbed Muezza, the orange cat currently licking its paws in the corner of the room. He positioned the cat in front of his phone. He took a photo of Muezza stepping on the screen, and then he began to type at lightning speed.

"CLARIFICATION: My deepest apologies to all the people of Indonesia, especially the community of stirred and unstirred porridge lovers. That tweet was not posted by me. I was taking a shower and left my phone unlocked. My cat, Muezza, seems to have accidentally stepped on the keyboard, and the 'speech-to-text' feature activated while I was screaming at a cockroach in the bathroom. Muezza has childhood trauma regarding porridge. Please understand. Cats have no malicious intent. #SaveMuezza #HackerCat"

He uploaded the photo of Muezza appearing to "type."

The miracle (or stupidity) of the internet happened. Within thirty minutes, the narrative shifted completely.

@PetLover: "Oh, so the cat typed it. No wonder the language was a bit rough; orange cats are just built different."

@WiseNetizen: "Poor Muezza, she must have been stressed. Freza was also wrong to leave his phone lying around. But oh well, that’s just a pet-related mishap."

@CatDetective: "Looking at the position of the cat’s paw in the photo, it’s very possible she hit the 'Post' button. Case closed."

The mob in front of Freza’s place began to disperse. Some of them even left their leftover porridge at the gate as an "offering" for Muezza.

Freza slumped onto the floor, exhausted. He looked at Muezza, who was now meowing for food.

"Unbelievable," Freza muttered. "I’m the human, I argued with logic (my version of it), and I got death threats. You just step on a screen and the whole country forgives you."

Freza realized how fragile truth was in the digital age. Truth was no longer determined by facts, but by whoever could present the most entertaining or absurd narrative. On this Sunday that should have been peaceful, Freza learned that in a comment war, logic is a blunt weapon, while a "cute cat" is an atomic bomb that can end any conflict.

However, the peace didn't last long.

Later that afternoon, another notification popped up. This time from the official account of an animal rights organization.

"We from @AnimalRightsIndo would like to inquire regarding Mr. Freza’s tweet. Accusing a cat of digital activities that trigger public hatred can be categorized as mental exploitation of animals. We will be sending a team to check on Muezza’s psychological condition. #JusticeForMuezza"

Freza threw his phone into a pile of dirty laundry.

"Sat!" Freza screamed toward the window.

"What now, Fre?" Satya shouted from outside, where he was apparently still hanging out eating meatballs.

"I’m moving to the jungle, Sat. There’s no internet there, no chicken porridge, and no cat activists."

"There are monkeys in the jungle, Fre. You’ll have a misunderstanding with a monkey, the monkey will go viral, and you'll be protested by the primate lovers' community. It's the same thing."

Freza laid back on the floor. He closed his eyes, imagining a world without a comment section. A world where people could eat porridge however they wanted—stirred, unstirred, sucked through a straw, or injected directly into their veins—without anyone else feeling offended.

But he knew it was impossible. As long as humans had thumbs and data plans, there would always be war. And today, he was its victim.

The status quo returned: Freza was still poor, still unemployed, still confused, and now he had new enemies: the animal rights community and every chicken porridge vendor in the district.

He stood up, picking up the bowl of porridge he hadn't finished earlier. The porridge was now cold, stiff, and looked entirely unappetizing.

Freza took a spoon, stared at the porridge for a long time, and then with a slow motion... he stirred it.

"Turns out when it's already cold, whether you stir it or not, it still tastes like failure," Freza whispered.

He shoved a spoonful of the cold porridge into his mouth, bracing himself to face Monday—the day he would have to go back to pretending to be a normal human being who had never almost been beaten by a mob over a breakfast preference.

In the corner of the room, Muezza meowed once more, as if laughing at how much lower her human master’s dignity was compared to an orange cat who didn't even know how to use the toilet properly.