How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Whoop Building
By Nancy Feng
As a shit-eating New England reprobate, when I saw that my beloved Citgo Sign’s beauty was eclipsed by fucking tech headquarters of all things, I was livid. How dare they. That sign of everyone’s favorite petroleum conglomerate was a shining beacon in the night sky, a North Star for all wasted Bostonians to follow back home to safety. They couldn't possibly know the sheer hordes of disheveled freshman lurching their way back home to Myles, to Hojo, to fucking Kilachand. How dare this gratuitous corporate signage block the corporate signage I actually want to see.
One night while gazing thoughtfully out of my window, I thought to myself how nice it would be if I could still bask in the ethereal glow of my Heavenly Redeemer Almighty Citgo. Those days were long gone. Now, this foul WHOOP citadel desolated my view, radiating energies of pure wickedness. I couldn’t let the yuppie scum win. I needed to take a stand. For what was right, what was just in a world of monotony and depravity. Out of bed I lept, and into the streets I descended.
Soon enough I had arrived at its doors. There it stood. WHOOP. It was tall. Ugly. Malicious. Peering through the windows, I could see that the lobby had remained unfinished: just a flat, empty expanse of concrete. To my surprise, when I pulled on handles the heavy glass doors wrenched open. Tentatively, I stepped inside. The quiet was unnatural. A strange but markedly potent energy coalesced in the stale air.
I took the elevator to the top floor. Upon stepping out, I heard it then. The singing. The chanting. Methodical and steady, but passionate. The air around me thrummed with latent energy that I fought to resist. I followed the sounds. I had to see.
Figures hooded in gray terry cloth stood in a circle around a sigil humming and glowing on the carpeted floor. When they saw me they did not cease their incantations. I tried in vain to fend off these aberrant men, but soon they enveloped me. Onto the office floor I went, pinned maliciously down by the zealots. I screamed as they affixed strange leather devices to my hands and feet, which each glowed alive and announced, “Welcome to the Whoop App. Please create a new user profile to get started.”
In response, the hooded men cried out “Unlock Your Potential!” in unison as I was lifted into the air by some unforeseen, powerful force. I struggled and gasped as the foul machines contorted my body into every direction, ultimately pulling me taught. “Optimize your health, fitness and life!” They shouted reverently. The device radiated an ominous red light and hummed one last time before the affliction began.
The WHOOP bands sent waves of searing-hot agony through my entire body. My wrists and ankles felt as if they were going to snap off. The cultists did not cease their incessant chanting. If anything, they grew in fervor. I saw it then, for a fleeting moment, before my body was torn into shreds and left nothing but vitae and sinew. A mere moment where I was able to see, and understand. I saw the beauty and purpose of Whoop, its all-consuming love. I embraced it then, because I knew I did not have much longer. Whoop had saved me. Whoop was everything.