Likely Normal

Virtual reality promises to transport you to fantastical worlds—but what it actually does is remind you that your apartment is way too small for this nonsense. No matter how carefully you set up your play area, VR has a way of turning your physical surroundings into a minefield of shame and broken decor. That “immersive experience” quickly becomes a tragicomedy of stubbed toes, shattered dignity, and the slow realization that you definitely should have moved the coffee table.

The first casualty is always furniture. That epic sword swing in Beat Saber? It ends with your controller embedded in a lampshade. That daring dodge in Superhot? Congratulations, you just side-tackled your bookshelf. And let’s not forget the walls, which exist solely to be punched when your brain forgets that the virtual zombie in front of you isn’t actually there. (Your drywall disagrees.)

Then there’s the pet factor. Your cat doesn’t understand why you’re flailing at invisible enemies, but she does understand that your ankles are now moving targets. Your dog, meanwhile, interprets your VR crouching as an invitation to play, resulting in a Blade & Sorcery session derailed by 60 pounds of Labrador helping. Even houseplants aren’t safe—your quest to grab a virtual health potion just beheaded your ficus.

The true horror, though, is other humans. Roommates, partners, and innocent bystanders don’t appreciate being accidentally backhanded during your Gorilla Tag session. And nothing kills the vibe faster than your mom walking in mid-game to ask “Why are you squatting and grunting?” while your VR avatar scales a mountain.

In the end, VR doesn’t just break immersion—it breaks everything. Your TV, your knuckles, your ego. But hey, at least you got a workout.