I honestly don't know where to begin with this. I heard somewhere that writing was supposed to help with problems. More specifically writing down events from today or yesterday. I guess that it'd be best if I introduced myself. My name is Darren Brown. I'm at least 26 years old. I live in a small apartment. That's honestly all I can say about me. I'm just the average Joe like you or me.

Now, what most people who know me would definitely say that I'd have an extraordinary job. Yeah, that's what most people would say. What exactly is my occupation as a worker you may ask? Interviewing waifus. No joke. Have you ever gone on Youtube and see a tier-list for something random? Like architecture or animals? Well, my job centers on interviewing various seasonal waifus and placing them somewhere on the official waifu tier list. The company that I specifically work for is O.W.T.L (Official Waifu Tier-Listing).

Now, some people see this as a dream come true. Some people, explicitly those who call themselves 'cultured', would think, 'Wow! You get to interview some of the sweetest, hottest waifus out there'.

Well, yeah that part is true. You know, at first, I thought that this was a dream come true. I mean talking with some cute girls and getting to admire them was nice and all. But after a while, things just got dull. Every single waifu that walked in to be interviewed could be boiled down to either one of these: sweet, caring, big chest, flirty, helpful, bat-shit insane, wide hips, thick thighs, or was popular on rule 34 (which usually boiled down to just that). What I mean to say is, eventually they just started to blur together. That was until I interviewed a certain waifu that altered my perspective on waifus as a whole.

It all started around 11:30 A.M. and I was on lunch break. I was almost finished with my interviewing for the day. I had estimated that I'd be able to leave work and head home around 1:00. I sat in the back with a table that's near a window. I enjoyed sitting by the window and eating my lunch there. I'd peer out the window and admire the view of being at least three stories up while looking at people from below scurrying about on the sidewalk. I closed my eyes, trying to absorb this melancholy feeling. Sooner or later, I suppose, that'd all come crashing down onto me.

"Hey, Darren," Rob called out. Rob was the closet person I had the privilege of being a friend. He was a fair young man with dirty blond hair, around the same as me. He was a fairly nice guy, and would be by my side when I needed him. The only problem was Rob was a complete pervert. Especially at a job like this, that's not a particularly good thing. More often than not, Rob would try flirting with the waifus he interviews instead of trying to interview them. This means that Rob would end up with a bright red handprint on him by the end of every interview. As I once heard, love the sinner but hate the sin.

"You excited about today's new interviews?" He asked while lightly elbowing me.

"I dunno," I said skeptically. I bit down on my sandwich and swallowed before asking my question, "Hey Rob, can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah man, shoot away." He said nonchalantly.

"Do you ever feel like this job is dull?" I began, "I mean, every season we interview these women. Don't you think that this is, I dunno, repetitive? Like, all of these women just feel the same. I'm starting to think that most of them are made in factories or something. I mean, almost all of them answer the exact same with this question, 'If you were in the hands of someone besides the MC, how would you treat them?' And almost all of them give the same answer or some slight deviation of the answer. For example, one of them said, 'I would show the same love and care as senpai,' or 'I believe showing them care and compassion is what is most important.' And others, well, said that they'd kill them because they might get in the way of her and senpai. You see what I mean?"

Rob blankly stared at me for a few moments before saying, "What are you, gay?"

"Oh screw you," I replied to Rob. Both of us sat and ate our lunch while having a meaningful conversation with each other. Before we both knew it, each one of us noticed it was about time to make it to the interview. So, we both said their goodbyes to each other and went our separate ways.

By the time I made it to the interviewing room, I could feel nothing but dread the moment I walked in. The room just had a certain foul aura that could put anyone in a miserable mood. I sat woefully down in the chair and waited for my final questioning. The wait, I'd say, took at least two hours. When in reality, it was roughly close to half-an-hour. I heard the door finally open and sighed while grabbing my pen and paper. Least to say, I was quite shocked to find a man walking into the room.

The man was dressed elegantly, even for an interview. He wore a black suit that matched with his pants and underneath he bore a purple vest on top of a button-up shirt with a red tie. His blond hair was long and fair while being put into a mullet. I noticed that he had a scar on his left cheek. It ran from his nose down to the jaw. However, the most noticeable feature about him was his checkered black-and-white top hat. He sat relaxed in the chair with his fist placed firmly beneath his chin.

"Dearest greetings to you, my fine sir," he spoke in an elegant British accent, "My name is Robert E.O. Speedwagon."

'Speedwagon?' I asked internally. I was incredibly confused. I hadn't realized that I was staring at Speedwagon like lobsters were coming out of his ears. I snapped out of my daze and politely said to him, "Mr. Speedwagon, was it? Um, I believe that you're in the wrong department. The husbando department is right next to this one. People seem to make that mistake often."

Speedwagon just looked at me with disbelieve. "Are you absolutely sure I'm in the wrong department? I do believe that I, Speedwagon, have received a letter of invitation to one of these interviews. I have the paper right here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lamented paper. He handed the paper to me. I grabbed hold of the paper and unfolded it to make sure Speedwagon was telling the truth.

As it turns out, he was. I sorta forgot to mention this before, but the company sends out letters of invitation to different waifus. Often times each said waifu has to show proof of confirmation. That's why H.R. places an official seal of confirmation on each letter. In my mind, I thought that there might have been some sorta mix up. I asked Speedwagon to stay in his chair while I go check on H.R.

"Are you absolutely sure that there was no mix-up?" I asked over the phone. The H.R. secretary had indeed confirmed that there was no mix-up. The secretary had told me that I should just interview him and turn in my report. I hung up the phone with an assortment of different feelings. Confusion, uneasiness, anxiety, and dread. I finally decided to buckle down and just get this interview over with. I strutted over and sat down in my chair with a pencil and paper in hand.

"So," I began, "Tell me what makes you useful in a fight."

"Well," Speedwagon began to say, "I helped Mr. Joestar with destroying his brother, Dio. I also explain what has happened during any dangerous situation so that the audience doesn't get confused and lost. I mean, so many fans have been saying that our creator, Araki, has been forgettin' some abilities or crucial plot points. This is what happens without me. People just get confused and lost."

As the interview went on, I slowly but surely became more infatuated with his story. It became obvious to see how so many weebs came to enjoy him. I was clearly looking at an S-tier waifu, no doubt. The interview had come to an end, and I gave my farewells to Speedwagon. I handed in my reports and walked home to my apartment. The entire time I was walking, all I could think about was Speedwagon. It fascinated me how much of a great waifu he was. I hit my soft mattress and closed my heavy eyes ready for the next day.