(Reconstructed from a series of Twitter posts made by Grymm earlier in the week. Transcribed and re-edited by his team of so-called “skip-weasel” caretakers/personal assistants.)

Sometimes ya just gotta grab the Day by its ruffling, oozing, neck-fat and wrestle it into submission. But watch out. The Day’s all sweaty and greasy and gross. Shiny with liquid-filth.
So you put on your trusty Day-Wrasslin’ gloves first. Then you put an apron, just in case. Then the Day starts squealin’ and flappin’ its arm nubs all around, all angry like.

So you’re all “Screw this noise” and you break out yer dual, dull, meat-forks. And you just start flailing around. Stabbin’ at the Day’s nubs and crevices. But the Day starts vomiting acid on you and crying and squelching and rumbling. And you’re glad you wore your kevlar that day. It buys a little time.

But time runs out and reality doesn’t issue refunds, so y’toss the fumin’ smoldering kevlar at the Day, and the Day screams like roasted koala that’s getting eviscerated by dingos. The Day rushes you, wailing on you with its nubs and its growths, and its squeaking, shrieking tumorous gut-growths of a thousand hideous, unloved abortions.

So you take your acid-raped meat forks and drive them home, deep through the Day’s face, right for the brain. Too late you realize the horrible skittering truth… The Day has no brain! Just spiders! Billions of spiders! And they’re biting your forks! The Day is bellowing, and you’re screaming and stuff all around you is on fire for some reason.

So with one last bedraggled burst of filthy, spider-bitten vigor, you rush the spastic mental cripple that is the Day, screaming with all your fury. All your frustration. Teeth gnash! Fingers curl and twist and tear and gnarl! Nostrils flare and things explode for no reason! The viscera flies and splatters! Smearing the ground. Wobbly chunks stick and jiggle on the tattered remnants of your bloodied apron.

Soon enough, you stand in the desiccated ruins that was your opponent. Chest heaving. Breath hitching in your throat. Eyes burning. Gore caked to you. You feel your blood on fire and your fingers mindlessly flexing and curling around the empty air. Its right then that the fury begins to subside. The primal lizard brain going dormant once again and mammalian reasoning shakes itself back into liveliness. Realization strikes you. You have just wasted the entirety that was the Day. And you fall to your filth-caked knees

You sleep then. The Day is gone and you sleep the sleep of the dirty and victorious. Grime under your nails and muscles cooling from the fire of your kill. Another day… comes to a close.