He sat in a miasma of burger smell and wondered how much of it was his own. He was fondling his penis through gray boxers without any clear intent to masturbate, and his beard itched from not showering in several days. He should really start studying for that exam, he thought to himself, but he had been meaning to mod up a Baldur's Gate install for weeks.
He was a total piece of shit. But it had gone on so long that it kind of worked. He would masturbate, he decided.
Scott placed his bony rump upon the faithful old black office chair, morning sun lighting up his computer screen. Today he would browse his favourite website; 4chan. Hastening to the literature board, he began scrolling in the search for lols and top keks. He stopped, finger mid-scroll. It was that picture. The spook man, but this time combined with another meme! His jaw lowered and the sound of a car being strangled gargled from his throat. Excited, he began to rapidly slap his forehead with the tip of his right hand while twisting his right hand in his anus. After some time he was able to calm down enough to extract his feces-covered right hand to begin quickly tapping his lips, so as to amplify his gargling. He was filled with the spirit.
After the proper time had passed, Scott, now brown of lip and red of head, wheezed as he made motions to respond to the picture and save it for future sessions. He could not find it, the thread and its beloved picture had disappeared during his rapture. His stomach tightened and a tingling sensation of anexiety covered his body like spiders. He gazed at the beige-papered wall in contemplation while the moon passed him by.
After losing his virginity he created a folder named "conquests" with a single picture of the girl in question. Eight years later, her picture is still alone. Do I speak of lasting love? Or can he not get laid?
He sat on the couch with 4 tabs open, inprivate. Sister was opposite, fuckable. I pretend to be on facebook while watching gore and borderline porn, boner hiding. Laptop battery warms the top of my dome, comfy. Why won't my sister have sex with me? I mean if I am inbred enough to want her, why doesn't she want me we share the same jeans. I bet she's on her phone right now looking at wincest pics, just pretending to be chatting to friends. Fucking normal. I seen her tits this one time though and they're real hot. ily sis xo b mi valentine
You can't see the wall behind a mirror, so why can you see the world beyond clear glass? if you warp the glass it looks like the world beyond the glass is warped, but it's not right? So this proves glass is not see through it's just the opposite of a mirror, we are surronded by illusions. Perhaps my sister is an illusion mabe she's a trap should I ask to see her cock? That's gay.
His stomach is hungry, not for cock because he isn't gay but for food because he's going on a fast. How long can you live without food I wonder? It appears not even half a day i am so fucking hungry, hungry for my sisters cock.
It had been 36 months since he'd had a girlfriend. 17 months since he graduated college. 1 month since he'd drank. 1 week since he had been stoned. 1 day since he had been to work. 12 hours since he'd jerked off. 5 minutes since he'd been on theonion.com. He was 24 years old and barreling towards living with his parents forever. Get A Roommate, Move Out, he would say. But on that path he saw himself as a waiter age 30 still living in this shitty town with a shitty roommate. Go To Graduate School, he would say. But You Don't Know Enough For Graduate School. Stay Here, Save Up, he would say. And so he pulled the covers over his head again and thought about the fact that his life has zero meaning and that the likelihood of getting laid ever again was seriously a bona fide toss up.
Thurgood's eyes always seem focused, like he could be suspended in purgatory for an eternity and still find something to stare at. And not only his eyes behave in such an strange manner, his whole body does. No matter what Thurgood is doing, he gives off this odd sense of deliberation in his clunky and paradoxically graceful movements, wowing people with how uncoordinated he looks while still being effective. And his mouth is no exception to this rule. Both effusively eloquent and awkwardly honest, Thurgood slides through conversation like he smells with his tongue, eventually writhing through whoever's brain until they love him.
He felt like a fresh oil painting that somebody had smeared with their thumb. The only time he felt like a pristine painting was when he looked in the mirror and saw himself as others did. A wave of brown hair, a spattering of acne, a broad nose, and big lips. His mind was like an unfocused photograph, full of false memories, half-remembered experiences and faces without names.
The shading of his face never seemed to be in harmony with the outline of his face. One day he was mistaken for a much younger, spruced up looking version of Denzel Washington. The next day an elderly woman started shrieking and hyperventilating when she swore he was Basquiat. The series of times he's been mistaken for a celebrity instilled a heuristic sense of small talk in him, but beyond the deepest abysmal trench in his heart, he lusted for it, especially when Jenny told him he looked like Will Smith when she was on her knees.
He had nice eyebrows, his girlfriend liked his nice eyebrows, "Bonitas pesatañas!" she would say of his nice eyebrows, he regreted the fact that he had to wear glasses, he could never find a pair that didn't block the view of his nice eyebrows.
>>5045719 Anon took his seat across his 10/10 amazing 100% qt 3.14 gf. He shifted his trenchoat as he sat down on the portable stool he carried with him at all times - for to be better prepared in the case of the zombie apocalypse he expected would happen at any moment. Sitting was for the weak, to him. Only those strong of will could lean on a stool.
His steampunk goggles reflected his gf back at herself. He felt self-satisfied at how deeply she peered into his eyes, into his very soul. But she was admiring how good she looked. Smugly he raised them up to his forehead, where they would leave red circles much like those around his eyes.
"Garson," he said to the bartender, who was across the room and unable to hear his nasal tremolo of a voice, "I'll have a whisky, shaken, not stirred, and the lady here will have a bowl of soup. She's on a diet."
The bartender was chatting up a regular and didn't take his order.
"I'm not on a diet" his gf said.
"You are now," he winked handsomely, as he eye-molested a waitress who happened to be a size smaller than his 10/10.
"My rude dude," the girl said. He pretended not to hear, as he continued eying the waitress with a look upon his face that seemed to be plotting the particulars of her undressing.
"Your whiskey, sir" the bartender handed him his drink and tipped HIM a fiver.
Anon smiled devilishly handsomely and twirled around thrice on his stool.
He sat naked, in his childhood bedroom, hoping that his parents couldn't hear him as he blasted bullshit music and browsed the internet way-too-late. Drunk off stolen alcohol, he prayed that he'd have a legitimate means of income before he graduated college. Art wasn't going to pay.
He bore the face of a man plagued with questions. Months had passed -- years, even -- since he'd last been able to smile fully, but he preferred to count the hours than the minutes. He'd sit at his desk, with his coffee and computer close by, hoping for anything to distract him. He was lost.
With every passing day he looked despairingly at the blank book he hoped to someday fill with words. There were days he'd try, but cross-out after cross-out reminded him that good things take time. Perhaps it was best to simply plan it better; to arrange his ideas in such a fashion that would allow the creativity he desired to flow in a more directional manner. Perhaps.
Was he lying to himself? Again, perhaps -- perhaps that book would never be filled. Perhaps those pages, as white as he was, stayed as white as they were because he had nothing worth saying. Perhaps the only place his name would ever hang was above his door, or on his mailbox. Perhaps his inflated ego had whispered nothings too sweet to ignore. Or perhaps he simply couldn't face that the words he yearned to immortalize on paper were doomed to die when he did; the writings of an average man.
Face bleached fluorescent, eyes unfocused, a drunk head colludes with stumpy fingers stupid from years of neglecting art and sax and sex. His hands, as his body, grew soft. It showed. A once-style had faded into a recollection of self post-addiction. And yet, still addled by alcohol, by pot, by masturbation and thought, the addiction persisted.
So a lonely man sat alone, typing to himself on a sunday night, wishing the hypnotics'd kick in and him out.
4 days' chin hair, many months' head hair, many years' softness.
I can't unify my writing right now. I spit sentences and never really unify them. I'm a free-associator, unless I'm on adderall, and then I'm a neurotic agonizer. I'm pretty sure I'm insane. But I've spent maybe more time out of my head on drugs than in it in my life. What does that make me?
The bastard son, slouching, bovine. Slumped on the stumpy chair. Guitars that miss their strings perch lurking, like friends to be ashamed of, proffering trite phrases they forget he taught them. Welsh air weaves its away around the room, sweeping out a musk of spunk. He sucks down tapwater. The skin is raw and pustulent. A shock of hair lies chopped in locks that drop and droop. If this is a roost it is ruled by an idiot. Classroom praise is locked in endless inert reverb, it tries to occupy space. "They told me I was intelligent."
In memory his face took on all the obfuscated qualities of a Magritte painting, with the only real standout feature being his wire-frame glasses (Aristar brand, brushed steel) that remained at the standard librarian point of halfway. Most bespectacled individuals would have noticed this inconvenience, it was just that he seemed to be permanently transfixed on what ever lay beneath him. When he did look at people, these people remembered his still eyes, one faded blue, the other a darker shade that lied still in its milk, floating about like some parasitic protozoa. In truth he could not bear human faces, their pockmarks, and individualities left him gazing at cheeks over eyes. To prevent this social error, he took to looking around the person rather than at their moony faces.
Brown hair curled haphazardly above his head producing a look of permanent sleeplessness.
His gut protruded subtly from his belly, like a submarine just beneath the surface of a pink ocean.
His legs, short and meaty, gave the impression of frequent use, being the only well muscled aspect of the ensemble.
Finally the voice spoke of disinterest, and its breathy quality, coupled with his general ocular aversions, gave off an aura of a wisp, floating through peoples days. One of those faces that only crops through the haze memory when asked “ did you see anything strange today?”
Still awake in the late, stale air, listening to the gentle hum of the air conditioner which was a bastion of redemption in the ungodly midwestern heat, the 20-year-old woman child had to reevaluate herself from a distance one more time. Time—it was always about time. How much of it had she wasted, pretending she wasn't disgracing the Earth with her paltry daily existence? The horizon of the future loomed somewhere beyond the four walls of this room, the "echo chamber", as she called it lovingly. Someone—of no consequence now—had said the writing on the walls was reminiscent of a prison. But such messages as "POSITIVE THOUGHTS ONLY!" and "I WILL NOT AFRAID" were meant to invoke hope, not to express despair. Perhaps the reproduction of Thrasymachus' famous blush had been a bit much.
But her denial was belied by the countless hours spent here wishing for more. It would have been a prison if not for the excursions to see the person who made any of this worthwhile.
Yes, their meeting last night had been marked by one of their usual late visits to a diner. Tom was preoccupied with glowering at the general manager of the diner. This vendetta, born of Tom's choice to go barefoot into the diner weeks earlier and be shown the door, had no end in sight. Now he felt slighted at every turn. New insults sprang from his mouth like mushrooms from the fresh earth. "Faggot", "retard", "fat-ass", and other choice words graced his speech every time the manager walked past.
She was amused at her brother. Tom knew he was being ridiculous, but was too proud to give up his position. He had no better enemies to pick. He was hardly different from his sister. They had been lopped off the same compost block. Two empty vessels suspended in the same tepid waters. Nothing but 21st-century rubbish.
[Anon] sat alone in the crew room of his work place. Being a grill cook had its advantages, it was easy work and it pays the rent. He thinks about the night before, it was his night off so he had spent it at the bar. Much like most of his nights off. Again the night shift meant he could sleep off the hangover before work.
Swinging pendulum-like through critical self analysis and total stagnation, trying to tear himself from and humbling himself toward being identical to his peers and the faceless mass of 'them.' Those that don't live in the other world like he doesn't, toying again with himself, now consumed in ire, torn between A and B.
>>5047254 Fuck me, I'm the only one that realizes this, but then I am different because I realize it, so then again if I'm different because I realize I'm not than I'm just like everyone else in that I don't realize me being similar, maybe if I ward the realization of my similarities that'll make me different, but then I'm just lying like everyone else, but concretely, deep down I'll know that I'm the same which'll prompt me to be different, oh god.
He wiped the film of moisture from the bathroom mirror above the sink with his hand, took a few steps back, and looked himself over. An expression of dissatisfaction crossed his bearded face. A body that once was aesthetically pleasing, was now covered by a thin, yet noticeable layer of fatty tissue. "It's merely a protective cover for the beauty beneath, no time to shed light upon it, let it hibernate", he rationalised, as he was fairly good at it. His skin was pale, as if drained of vitality, thin, with numerous moles of varying sizes and colors. All except his face, mole free, yet possessing an earthy complexion, giving it an equally ill look as his torso. "Because I smoke 2 packs a day, menthols, from stress", he silently explained to himself. The discontent had merely left his face when he opened the bathroom door. Before the fog could no longer obstruct the view of his surroundings, he felt gravel beneath his clean, bare feet. Crumbs, sand, products of several months of neglect. "I'm busy. When I'm done, I'll do it.", he reasoned. The area around him showed some signs of daily care, namely cups and plates collected and left to soak in the sink for days at a time, books, remotes and mail collected and placed neatly on the dusty and smudged coffee table in the middle of the living area. He entered his small bedroom, threw his dirty clothes onto a pile in the corner, dressed in a fresh outfit, and once again surveyed his surroundings. Bed undone, laptop humming among papers and pens on the small, wooden desk. "I'll be back in bed soon, no point in making it.", once again. But he hesitated when fixed his eyes on the papers on his desk. He took a long look at them, realising most of them were blank, if not, then merely touched by the various writing utensils, markers, pens, pencils and neon highlighters. "I'm too bu...", he stopped himself midthought, catching himself attempting to rationalise the inexplicable.
Anon was the sort of person who had every opportunity at success in life but who through laziness and stubbornness had failed to take advantage of more or less all of them. He had decided to live life by his own rules but had only the vaguest notion of what those were. He saw himself as an achiever, a competitor, a member of the elite, but life continuously challenged his self assertion. Consequently, he suffered terribly at the success of his peers. He was driven to be a success only as far as it was required to keep him among the top echelon and satisfy his ego, and as such he never drove beyond it. He was passionate about everything in his life that did not really matter. He developed obsessions with games and sports and neglected his job and his girlfriend. His life had been laid out in the most cliched school reports of his youth: 'must try harder', 'must apply himself', 'must avoid distractions'. A job half-done was all he offered the world.
"You're conventionally good-looking" his girlfriend had said once, a sentence which vexed and infuriated him in its challenge to the self-image he held. He had spent his life failing to match his looks to any notion of personal style until it was too late to matter. His youth was an embarrassment he hated to recall. Regret for the past was a constant companion. He saw the shadows of every failure, every indiscretion, every faux pas, on every wall.
He was a terrible and frightening drunk. A night with him was a roulette wheel in which the wildest pleasures, confusions and disasters crouched at every turn. His life had spun a thousand insane stories, half of which he had been told by witnesses and of which he had no memory.
An ex-girlfriend had sent him a quote once saying it reminded her of him: "He hates mankind, for he considers himself among the best of them and he knows how bad he is". He was a tyrant, a fighter, a bad winner and a worse loser. He played hard and quit early. These contradictions were his pleasure and his scourge. He endlessly congratulated himself on his minor accomplishments, and punished himself for failing to make any real mark on life. He pleased, excited, disappointed and infuriated all of those who knew him. He was an abortion, the failed template of a great man. He was unforgettable and of no consequence.
They smelled him before they saw him, an olive-skinned giant half as wide as he was tall with a stomach that threatened to bust open his shirt. He had a greasy shock of hair that he'd attempted to brush to one side and a great tangle of a beard that reached down to his chest. He favoured his right leg and grimaced every now and then as he used his left, showing his yellowed teeth and adding to the aroma that announced his approach.
Another crushed cigarette but, another newly empty glass smelling of stale liquor, another sleepless night. This was his life now. He longed to return to sea, but he knew that was impossible now. He searched his wallet with futile effort, no food today. Was that hooker worth it? Dammit, he thought, what are you doing to yourself. The sun was rising and light spilled in through his window, he closed his eyes, the light hurt that which was too used to the dark.
Ah! Her slightly curved nose, curved enough to be child-like and not piggy, short enough to have placed a little kiss on, not to laugh about. The cheeks hollow, distancing herself from being too young, and yet so full and sweet again, like a peach. The paradox of beauty glistened all over her face, her noble, perfectly sized forehead defined a whole new Golden Ratio. And the lips and ears, curved like special flowers and the beauty spot! The lips! So tender, small, full, a visual invitation for every man walking on earth and they shall still haunt them in the vast hereafter! Infinite! Infinite beauty and obsession and it, bigger than love, bigger than devotion and religion and life itself! She!
A stocky man, slightly over six feet tall, he bore a hollow gaze. He had several scars on his left hand. None on his right.
His peers could assume his wealth by his clothes and wristwatch. But nothing else. His face was expressionless as were his actions. His hair was brittle from chlorine. He smelled like charcoal and mustard. People did not speak to him, nor him to they. He ate alone.
Back bent over his laptop, a lanky mess of limbs, he typed away at his keyboard. Intermittently, he swept his hair from his eyes with sporadic movements of his slender fingers. A nervous twitch occasionally disrupted what was otherwise a peaceful, sometimes attractive, face. Reaching over to his phone, amidst a pile of books stacked to monolithic heights and an array of drinks cans, he felt a sudden pain in his arm. It had incessantly plagued his frail body for a few days now, and he was beginning to wonder whether or not he should have it looked at. However, with a narcissistic stubbornness he convinced himself he couldn't possibly be anything other than perfectly well, and continued writing his terrible post on 4chan's literature board, entirely forgetting the text message he had just received.
>>5045719 The misanthrope who sat alone, conscious of his loneliness, but stewing in his narcissism was struck by the utter ridiculousness of it all. The thin film of skin that covered every inch of him was so delicate that words, forced as needles are, into his flesh cause a cascade of self loathing and simultaneous tenderness to flood and break the nearest body. For this reason he occupies his space alone. For a woman's words are the sharpest of all and he cannot but help himself to rush to push them through himself. So alone he will stay, for he is better than them anyway.
>first attempt at writing in a while >holy shit Im rusty >Help me /lit/
The short, rotund prostitute opens her motel door. Her gaze dips. The advertisements said no black men but that wasn't her idea. She would have killed for a kindred spirit or two. Instead she found herself inundated day to day with diet Woody Allens. Mildly shady middle class types, the kind that were undeniably never beaten nor bullied as children post-Columbine. Weak of mind and of body in consequence. Shameless, neurotic gluttons with no sense of moral decency towards themselves or others. In satanic terms, psychic vampires.
"The picture online was a different girl," Said the casually stoned young man, flinching at the intensity of the motel room florescent. She could tell that he had actually expected to have sex with an attractive woman. "I know, they all do that, so, 160?"
The costumer blinks. Penetrative sex with a black female. The thought had occurred to him before but only in passing, now he was faced with the grim reality of it. His friends had asked for photographs, to which he had obliged a priori. It wouldn't work. The lighting simply wouldn't work, he thought to himself.
"Uh, I guess," The customer mumbles whilst fishing in his pocket for his black leather wallet. "I like your hair," The prostitute almost says upon noticing the shape and form of the young mans side part, redacted upon note of the pig fat glint exuded by whatever waxy substance held it in place. "Thanks," He would have intoned in return.
The mock hermit, the faux scholar, the errant pretender. Bound by his principles in a lawless, and ultimately absurdist, world, he attempts to hold himself to standards far beyond his capabilities. Possessing a desire to house, within his humble mind, a library so vast he, would be considered Alexandrian, he endeavours to absorb all information worthy of conquest. A human computer then; featureless, emotionless and capable of reason. A mandroid, the first of his kind.
And yet, here we find him, slouched before the font of 21st century wisdom pouring over the puerile words of imbeciles, steadily pressing a tar stained fingertip into a button labelled 'F5', in order to see a response to a thread containing a hyperlink to some dogsbodys conspicuously spurious list of '100 Greatest Novels' and, in particular, an opening 10 that contains the likes of a one David Foster Wallace, so that he might achieve a slight thrill in quoting a shriveled literary critic, in the shape of Harold Bloom, with the memetic phrase 'no discernible talent' to some mildly unassuming foe.
He was gaunt, depressing, laughed profusely, and said stupid shit with reckless abandon. We met sometimes, and I'd buy him coffee or beer, and he'd complain about 'wickedness and advertising,' whatever that fucking means. He'd run his fingers through his hair, and say something melodramatic or fatalistic, and then he'd sigh and start telling me about another brilliant idea he had for a story or an invention. I got tired of seeing him pretty quickly because he wasn't very witty.
Large to the size of being amorphous, Protag took up the majority of the aisle he was in. Far behind him stood the half-Indian register worker, looking up from his iPhone occasionally so that it would look like he was watching the store. "Security", he thought, having only had five hours of sleep. His eyes hurt. "Facebook."
Protag picked up a bag of Doritos, checked the sodium content, and then grabbed two more bags. Checking the nutritional info on food rarely affected his decision to buy, but knowing that it could, eventually, provided a sense of comfort. He did the same with a 2-liter of Mountain Dew, and, upon reading the promotional offer on the label, bought one more. Beneath his t-shirt, acne dotted the numerous folds of his torso. He could feel the sweat accumulating down his back, like water down an Amazonian mountain. There was, perhaps, a comparable amount of foliage, too -- he would have to schedule another appointment with the dermatologist soon.
The man at the register looked bored, like his mind wasn't processing correctly. Protag anticipated comments on his Chillwave Mac OSX retrograde t-shirt, bright pink and sporting a meta-unironic image of Aeschylus over an image of a glossy CD-R. He always anticipated such comments. The attendant was reading an article about the world cup as a capillary in his eye burst.
"That will be $17.85, sir." "Thanks much." "Yeah, okay."
Protag walked outside, onto the cold Baltimore asphalt.
Anon was the kind of woman that would let weeks slip past her unnoticed, quietly biding her time in somnolent repose, staring longingly at her info screen, green eyes blank, gently gnawing her labret. Searching for just the right motivation to jolt her back into life. It never came. She was content in her passivity, although she'd never admit it to herself. After all, the vine needs the wall.
the hemmoroids resulted from prostate play he felt the pang as he moulded his back into the computer chair curling the hemmoroid into liberation his sympathetic nervous system evokes purposeless fight mechanisms as he sips on his saccharine golden coffee he continues to turn his mouse wheel, as he thinks ha ha, time for 4chan
>>5045719 He sat in that sort of dull, mindless ennui that overcomes one after a long day at work. No, a long year at work. It had been a long year, and now he was faced with the question of whether it was all worth it. If he'd made as much of it as he could. Or if he'd allowed what might have been the most productive and fulfilling year of his life to slip senselessly by. This feeling stuck only for a moment, and he slipped back into that all-too familiar mindlessness.
The outrageously fat man sat in his chair, the shape of which his spine had come to imitate. His vision, blurred from hours of extraordinarily racist tirades against Mexicans typed into a sports forum, was slowly declining.
She wonders about the carousel she's on: work, make dinner, read story to kid, bed, breakfast, back to work. Is it good enough? Are the moments of fun and creativity enough? Why is she so bored if all needs are fulfilled? (is she just living for her husband and kid?)(if so, isn't that the highest calling anway?) Kid gone for the evening, she silently stretches while her husband plays guitar in the mirror. Maybe they'll go for a walk later.
He felt the familiar sensation the signaled his inevitable return from his dream state to the waking world. The colors of his minds eye faded to grey as the dull paint of reality coated him once again. He clung to his dream, as he always did, hoping to prolong his fantasy for a few moments longer. He teetered on the bridge between wakefulness and sleep, leaving him in a half aware daze. Slowly but expectantly, his dream became a vague notion as it pulled away back into the now distant locked room of his subconscious. It felt like a past life now, hidden beneath the world of his increasingly unavoidable cognizance.
He would lay in his bed for a few more hours, hidden beneath his blankets hoping to recapture the elusive pleasure of being enveloped by his inner mind. He would curl into a ball and cover himself in his thick comforter, holding his eyes shut tight. He would picture his room, tucked into the corner of his small ranch house and focused on the idea that he was alone here. The weight of reality lingering overhead would slip away as his world became this small dark corner in the universe. He was completely outside of the tangled web of life, isolated and hidden. He would live in this desperate surrogate as long as he could, as it was the last, brief moment of happiness he would feel before entering the coming day.
The once overwhelming gratification of his dream state dwindles to nothingness. He slides out of his bed unceremoniously, leaving the comforting encasement of his blankets behind. He refamiliarized himself with his limbs, awkward and pale. His eyes met the dull gaze of the man staring back at him from the mirror on his wall. Empty eyes stained black. The light that once danced in them had long since retreated from this world, leaving behind a void to be filled by it's shadow. With a practiced precision, he blinked his eyes until he recognized the counterfeit normalcy that he projected into the world. The faint glimmer of life that he could bring forth. He prepared with a ritualistic familiarity the mask he would wear before stepping out of the comfort of his shell.
Stepping out, he would have the same fruitless wish he always did. Let this day just pass him by, and let him stay in the sanctuary of his mind where he belongs. He would fill his day with one tedious escape to the next, never looking down lest he see the hole he was sinking in. Driven forth by the single obsessive thought, that his terminally absent light would be waiting for him when he returned, somewhere.
>>5050140 He was the kind of guy who would waste entire afternoons and evenings obsessing over meaningless discussions in obscure websites, here and there stumbling on descriptions of vacuuous and stunted young adults by vacuuous stunted young adults, and naievely thinking: "wait, that's just me" all the way through.
He roughly lifted the laptop, and hoisted the bed sheets up to cover his naked torso. He opened a media player program and selected a song he had never heard before,chosen from the array of folders on his hard drive like one who quickly chooses a somewhat familiar dish from a many-paged menu not out of a sense of obligation but from an aversion to indecisiveness. He regrettably caught a glimpse of his face on the monitor. He had been called handsome, even beautiful, many times in his life, but he disliked his face-- the oversized eyes, the odd nose, the almost bovine stupidity in the resting expression, which he knew was repellent to many. It was nearing 2:00 pm. He reached down and pulled the covers tighter to his body.
I think I'd really "come online" that day when I was staring at the pulverizing press, plunging into the shallow aluminum of the glass-arm. Jesus, I can't believe I haven't cracked my finger off that spinning sucker. Six months of lapsed attention so close to certain disfiguration, and three months of smoking weed every break with my co-worker. Jesus. I was lucky, and I was tired. Remembering all of my breadth of paranoid delusions, yes she is cheating on you, it really was the jews, you will die before you finish all of your backlog, your house will catch fire will you're away, you will die in a vehicle in a circumstance you cannot control. I fix my expression and make a joke, or repeat a "meme" we have and excuse myself to reload a thread on 4chan I participated in an hour ago in the bathroom while I force the terror or my sobering awareness and stow it back into my burdened, bitchy mind.
He takes some time to strike a balance between self-depreciating, honest, and pleasing to his ego in his post. He's always late to these threads, late to a lot of things in life. An optimist, but a cynical one.
Then he jumps in to describe himself as "alright-looking", because the self image could do with a stoke.
Anon looks at everybody else's posts, probably at some level of subconscious plagiarizes them, and then stops and notes this. The self-awareness is so fucking irritating to him. But in the end, he says fuck it, and writes that he's a mostly happy guy who has a lot to learn in life and still a lot of potential. unless that's something he's telling himself to feel betterblog post over
he remembers when he was happy: he wasn't aware at the time. and now after various failures and degradations, attempted relationships with beautiful girls in order to acquire self-esteem he browse an anime website, uncapable to study for a final of organic chemistry that makes him think about good spots in his local mountains where jump yet suddendly realize that he'll never have the guts to do that.
>>5045719 It's just paper. He had spent a disproportionate portion of his life controlling characters in simulations where statistics were all that mattered, he started applying it to his own character. He'd torn his old chapters, burned what had thus far written, and began to work on a clean slate, grinding life.
He went from a vulnerable child, destitute of protection against the endless demands placed upon him by the world, to a man, harnessed in chainmail woven by statistics, by achievments, by his intelligence that he could finally justify on paper, by his willpower that had vaporized the fat, and laid bare his cheekbones once more, by his strength that was ever increasing. But nobody is reading into him. Nobody can hear his cries for attention. He is alone.
After his university classes he sits, alone. At the end of the 21km run there was nobody at the finish line. Nobody hears his melancholy tunes. His strength is never needed.
He finally has a good account, but nobody cares for the game. All he has are decent stats on his private server. He is alone.
>>5049888 Thanks. I really need to get back into it. Ive spent the better part of 5 months enabling my younger sisters shitty lifestyle and now that Ive nutted up I realized how much attention Ive starved from my writing. Im glad that its not all gone. You give me hope Anon.
Anon would breath gently, and her body barely moved. Her stance would be stiff, and her movement swift. Her eyes had a silent intensity she was very much aware of. She could walk in and out and nobody would notice, but if she perched herself atop a wooden stool and spoke, everyone would turn to hear.
Anon never claimed to be an open book, but at most, a poor quality notebook with a few doodles, a grocery list, and some crudely written scribbles documenting a few ideas about the way the world worked. The essays would be graded in the margins.
Anon thought a lot, spoke quite a bit, and did whatever had to be done. She thought she was an okay person. And she truly was. Just knowing that she knew herself enough to let herself be was good enough reason for her to keep buying more notebooks.
>i'd have mentioned how i dont like writing about myself but whatever
Bored would do well to define itself as he felt. Tired could take a lesson, and disinterested an eager pupil. Slouched double, he curled into his leather office chair; designed originally for stoic professionals of the arts of data base entry and staving off suicide while regretting poor life decisions, now re-purposed as makeshift recliner. It was cheap. Accidentally stylish red and black hybrid skate shoes planted crooked at the left corner edge of the large, generic wood table as the right leg rested atop the other, crossed only at the ankles. Washed out blue jeans sagging in a way befitting their wearer loosely hugged along and up his legs to the thighs, where they tightened. He liked that. And that he could run in them if need be. Not that he did or would, but the option was important to him, he didn't really know why, but he knew his judgement on such matters shouldn't be questioned. A profoundly unremarkable belt held the expensive but poorly treated jeans to average but athletic hips and waist cocked sideways, one side jutting into the now worn but still comfortable leather of the makeshift recliner of a re-purposed office chair. >tfw having fun doing this, should write more but kinda tired.
He sat daydreaming in psychology class, wondering if he'd made the wrong decision. Jack of all trades, master of none; he'd lost intrest when it got hard. Then his attention shifted outward. He began thinking of how much of a pretentious bitch the teacher was. His thoughts turned violent, as they often did... He thought of punching her in the face. The dissonance of thought was too great; the consequences. >take everything as a metaphor; I don't actually want to punch a woman in the face.
It was a hot summer day and I was in my workout room benching 1200 pounds. My abs were flexing and girls within a 10 mile radius were getting wet. Once I was done with my daily 32 hour workout I called one of the bitches I know, Jessica. She is really damn hot and looks like a supermodel. SO I got into my Lamborghini Gallardo and reved it up to 40,000 RPM (this is an Italian import with special engine system). I got onto the freeway near my house and threw it into 8th gear, I hit about 600 mph and I could hear the sonic boom as I broke the sound barrier. As I was flooring it on the freeway like a badass, Jessica called me and said she wanted me to fuck her. So be it.
I came to a full stop from 700 mph in front of her house. These Ferrari’s have top notch brakes, you know. So she gets out of the house and walks up to my Bugatti and starts eyeballing my dick. I could tell she was staring at it because when I looked at her I noticed she was looking at my dick. Booya.
Flash forward 10 minutes later. My 30 inch dick is going inside of her VAGINA, hitting them walls. I’m holding her entire body up with my left pinky as I’m fucking her and she has 30,000 orgasms. She looks me in the eyes and she says “harder.” V-TEC just kicked in, yo. I blow my load so hard she falls off my dick. There had to have been about two pints of cum everywhere. People say I cum like a pornstar, I wouldn’t disagree with them.
I throw her a towel so she can clean herself up then I do a triple backflip into my Maserati and drive home.
>Go easy on me, it's been years since I wrote something for myself.
It has been over ten years since Anon's romantic relationship with Inertia had taken over his life. It was self-sufficiency and the reinforced realization of above-averageness which had prompted this relationship.
The first few years made for a seamless ride. Anon loved how Inertia would fuel his utmost personal desires without ever having to articulate them. At the same time, Inertia wasn't too clingy and was very permissive when it came to Anon's worldly pursuits. After all, above-averageness enabled Anon to be a good student and a respected individual. Lightness was considered cultural currency in Anon's teenage years so he was admired for the effortless manner in which he dragged along his above-averageness through society. Anon's peers loved Inertia, which in return deepened Anon's love for her. He would pamper her with his undivided attention and coddle her ego with poetic nicknames like Freedom and Idleness.
Years passed and adulthood crept in unnoticed. Above-averageness was now measured in functionality and Anon's potential could only come to life through hard work. This bothered Inertia, as it reminded her of the previous boyfriends who have cheated on her with Labour. Inertia knew she was more attractive than Labour, but was also conscious that Anon's folks and most adults would rather have Labour come over for dinner. Fights became regular and Anon would degrade Inertia with names like Laziness and Sloth. He decided it was time to end the relationship. He would still have his above-averageness, he thought. He then started having a few one night stands with Labour, but he couldn't commit to a steady romantic relationship, as Labour was very straight forward and he feared that she might reveal the fact that Inertia had in fact been a gold-digger, only in it for his above-averageness.
"What if Inertia spent all my above-averageness and with that took away my dignity when she left?" He was proud of having the courage of being so blunt in his self-analysis. Sure, he was an emotional wreck, but it was Inertia's fault and he still had an unbiased analytical mind. His thought was interrupted by the doorbell. It was Inertia. She was saying how sorry she was and how she can make up for everything. She said she knew that Anon always had a thing for her sister, but never dared mention it. The three of them just sat there, glancing upon each other on Anon's doorstep. Inertia, Anon and Narcissistic Self-Pity, in a self-sufficient never ending love triangle.
It was the third hour of the first official "Students against drunk driving" charity diner and Anon was well into his 10th glass of free red wine- drunk enough to not feel bored by the speaches and alienated by the do-gooders but still able to walk somewhat straight was Anon's raison d’être. At the other end of the room a random girl with whom anon had been making flirtful glances with got up to go outsde and beckoned him to follow, Anon turned to his friend (although he'd long stopped considering them friends and they'd more or less fallen out of contact for the last few months) and excused himself for a cigarette. On joining the girl he lit his prementioned cigarette and started engaging in the surreal conversation of two strangers who had nothing to talk about but still desired to talk to eachother. After some time had passed she announced that she had to go back and join her boyfriend, but not before giving Anon her number. He returned to his table where his friend luaghed at him and made some comment about how he was always trying to flirt with girls but as too weird and that no girl would want him or something along those lines- this had been the favorite subject of his friend since his getting a drunk handjob at a party last weekend. To hell with other people! Anon poured himself his 11th- or was it his 12th? he had lost count- gass of wine. Soon the diner was over and the world got up to clap and cheer at their success against the various vices that plagued their small college town. Anon notced that there was still another half bottle of wine on the table and decided to finish it off while everyone shaked hands and congratulated themselves, then he stumbled to his car and drove to his small unkept appartment. It was still somewhat early so he sat himself in front of his computer and then procided to watch a video of some swearing drunkered teaching Japanese. After a few minutes of that he decided he had sobered up enough to write and read and decided to check /lit/, someone had posted some thread titled "Write a character description of yourself." Anon quickly typed out a paragraph then wished he was a better writer. He considered deleting everything he had written and going to bed but in the hope that someone might read it and even reply he decided to go ahead and post it anyways.
>>5052540 by more focus are you implying that my character description is not making a point? can you expand on that? I think it does a bretty good job at describing a narcissistic coward and why he continues to be one despite his correct self-diagnosis. true, tis a sad picture, but is the writing sad as well? also, English, not my native/1st language, not tht it makes a difference since it's what I used...
never gave writing the attention it deserves, although it's probably my favourite vehicle for expressing shit. also, never really read poetry (aside from high-school compulsory readings and a dozen poems) but, sure, I'll give it a go, might be the best practice for that stiff imagination muscle.
>>5052595 I'm saying your Imagery could have been stronger. It's something I can't articulate but it would seriously benefit your writing if you at least read poetry to learn the value of words, that is, the way that they can make you seriously feel for the author. I recommend: >Blake >Coleridge >Tennyson (his 'short' poetry) >a poet that is from your native country - for me It's Banjo Patterson >Shakespeare >A recent poet like John Morrison or Seamus Heaney > if you feel brave - Eliot
>>5052651 ight, in agreement with the imagery bit. I definitely think I'm mechanically constructing things from a mathematical standpoint. Poetry should help 'fix' that, so thanks for the recs, appreciate it.
Doesn't have problems with having no friends; others think of him as a friend. Is glad about taking up art, this way filling his time formerly taken by indifferently playing video games or listening to music, plus, it provided him with much desired clarity in penmanship. Picked up writing; But after recognizing his ineptitude in constructing cohesive sentence in his native, consequently English, and his third language French, which after picking up to learn made him realize that he firstly needs to polish the other two, now is reading and understanding how much he could had been better off not neglecting it in the past. Although well build and defined, workouts daily by 1 hour of jumping jacks and squats, on which he puts emphasis on because he wants a bigger behind. Watches ufc fights, documentaries, or learns new words while doing it.
Happines comes from within they say, but how can you be happy if you are misunderstood...misunderstood being the wrong word though. Simply not understood makes more sense. But whose fault is it? Theirs or mine? It's easier to say mine, even if the truth looks different. At the end does it matter? I just wish I could have a qt 3.14 which understood me...
>>5052957 Don't like the 'Jack of all trades etc.' cliche. It's lazy. You would be better served putting the sentiment into your own words. Then it quickly becomes edgy. You paint the picture of an adolescent still trapped in the throes of nihilism.
Going on this small insight, I wouldn't be particularly eager to befriend you.
Some old dude. Sitting inside a dark grimy train station bar on a hot summer day, drinking his fifth Gin Tonic. Long hair, starts to turn gray, glasses, long-sleeved white shirt, black jeans, cheap aftershave. Only getting outside for a smoke but never sits there, even in summer. Doing this for a whole year now, every second Sunday evening, arriving at 4:50 PM with some train from god knows where, sitting there for two hours, drinking five tonics, having five smokes, doing a piss and then vanishing for another two weeks. The bargirls bring him his Tonics because he's a decent tipper, decent enough at least to remember his preference. But they know he won't talk. He doesn't know anybody here and that's just fine. Though sometimes it looks like he's watching something. Not the girls, but something about the room, as if it is a stage for something unseen, a strange thing happening in empty, dusty space. A lost ray of light enters the void, and for a breathless instant of frozen time, the divine is on the stage. Then it is over. And just like that, the world is allowed to continue. He finishes the drink, raises, and leaves. His presence is gone in an instant, as he enters a rural landscape in dying sunlight, someday never to return again.
>>5045719 Knowing well his unlimited physical power he started furiously pounding the thugs fists with his face. Realizing that this was no weak enemy, he quickly jumped back, dizzy from the energy expenditure. He then, quick as lightning, stormed back into the fight, using his ear to stop the thug from biting his teeth, which he knew would confuse him. He then proceeded to knock at the foul mouthed bullys knees with his stomach, while simultaneously, like a ninja, continuing to attack his knuckles using only his jaw. Finally, changing position once again and in this way controlling the flow of battle, he used the enemys stability to trip himself in order to reach the ground before him, so that he could ready his face to receive the enemys ass in a devastating final attack.
>>5045719 A melancholy man, not only depressed but depressing. In his youth, he was known for his looks, and ability in handling an unusually large organ. Now, while somewhat youthful looking, his face was darkly aged with a bitterness that a kind person would attribute to his complete failure at everything he ever attempted. The less kind would point out his drinking problem. If he had friends anymore, he couldnt stand to see them and feel envy. He hadnt been laid in five years, his memory failed at how long it had been since he even spoke to a women. He still hoped that Lisa would contact him, though it had been five years, her last words being "Just very busy". He certainly wasnt busy, he hadnt even had to set an alarm clock in years, which he felt was freeing but others thought pathetic.
Meh.....I dont feel like going on, getting a little depressing. There you go though, good enough first draft material.
>>5053592 Decent story, not too special, but good nuff to keep me going. Wouldn't classify it as a character description though. Sure, there's stuff seeping through the story that could build a blurry portrait, but that doesn't constitute character description. As for the ending, being vulnerable is fine, but never excuse yourself. Own that beta narrator, don't be apologetic.
A face defined and sculpted which well those passions which yet survive, only the dust remains beside that colossal wreck, bare and rounded with decay, the lone and level crisp crumbs stretch throughout the floor half sunk.
She sat quietly in front of the screen, as always. Her parents were asleep in the next room, and it was getting ever so slightly late. Not too late, mind you, she didn't want to be one of those people that slept all day and stayed up all night accomplishing nothing, but still what most people would call late. She kept quiet most of the time, paranoid of making any unusual sounds that would insinuate anything other than what she was actually doing. Often she found herself holding back her breath, being scared that her parents would think she was aroused, or masturbating. Why exactly she was always worried about this, she did not know. She looked at the book to her left. It was an interesting book, she thought. Well written, in her opinion at least, and somewhat thought-provoking. She thought of picking it up and continuing reading it, but thought it would be best to keep writing on her own book. Novel. Shortstory. Whatever it was. She wasn't quite sure herself. She looked at where she had gotten to. "After all, what else could it really be?" the last words said. For a moment, she pondered how to continue, but being unable to think of anything quickly, she decided to shift her focus elsewhere. There wasn't anything else to focus on. She refreshed her tumblr dashboard, not caring that nothing at all could come of it. She looked at her Skype. Her girlfriend hadn't talked in quite a while, presumably having gone to sleep. "Girlfriend". She felt it was strange to call her that. Was she really her girlfriend? She had thought about this before, and talked about it as well, but nothing had come of it. The word "girlfriend" just didn't seem fitting. She thought of messaging her. Maybe she wasn't asleep? She did have a habit of staying up later than most would. Looking at the time, she chose not to. She had to get up in the morning, for school. No time for stupid late-night lovebird-y conversations. School was important, she assured herself. It wasn't that she disliked learning, she just disliked the people. Not all of them, of course, she wasn't a misanthrope or anything like that. Some of them were nice people, but most were intolerable, she thought. Most breaks, she would sit by herself, alone. She didn't really care at all, but it was the looks she got from the people who did. The people who thought she cared as well, and their snickering and muffled laughing. They made her care. She always went straight home when school was done. Went upstairs, turned on her computer, and let the cycle continue once more. She thought she lived a dull life, and that she was wasting her time. She wasn't even twenty yet, though, and said to herself that there'd be more time to have fun once she was a little older. She sighed, turned off the computer, and went to bed.
>>5053844 Thanks, I wanted to "show not tell" and anyways I find that describing how you actually act is more honest than describing how you think you act (for example I bet if most of the people here kept a journal of each time they laughed, went out with friends, had a decent conversation with a cute girl, ect. they'd feel stupid for feeling so sorry about themselves-I know that's how it is with me at least).
>>5052497 I like it, sort of like a cross between a fairy story and Kierkegaard essay.
>>5045719 His eyes had about as much life as a comatose patient: the occasional blip of a heartbeat, but not much else. His posture made his look about half as lanky as he was. Bones protruded everywhere from malnutrition. The only place he was allowed any sense of control or power was his own room, which was as empty as his thoughts. They only pleasure he allowed in his life was tea. When his pendulum bottomed between contemplation of suicide and abuse of every upper and downer he could get his hands on, he allowed himself bitter cups of earl grey. Upon reflecting all this, the air thick with humidity and heavily processed foods, he went back to the blue-hued image posting site, which briefly distracted his worthless life.
When he isn't shuffling about, he is scurrying. He runs from the shadows of shadows, worthless and frivolous affairs that any well-integrated person would dismiss in lieu of actual obligation.
He is most happy when he is able to indulge in a chemical pleasure of some sort. He is deeply religious (in spirit, not in action) and longs for the strength to reach what he calls, "the Absolute." He waits for his life to begin as another day ends.
stain in the point wings of ceiling fan united was asymmetric and it reminded it's asymmetry in every movement it made. would this ceiling fan be proud of it's stain and deem itself superior amongst other fans ? it maybe thought it belonged to skies but ceiling was only point in world it could find a place for itself. a place above most of the fans and with stain, unique among all fans.
>>5045719 I am the angel of death. He saw Mars but he felt Neptune, he had hoped to feel a certain strong emotion but this is all they had to say: "I was the son of a man, and so we came together and we shook hands." "We shook hands." He often wondered what a million people would look like scattered randomly across a moonless sky, and how unlikely it would be that they would all just say the obvious thing: "You may call me brother now." "Yes, brother, I know."
He is Twenty-Eight, Six-feet-two-inches tall, normally wears his curly hair long. He has a ruddy complexion, broad shoulders and is barrel-chested, is unusually strong. He frequently wears a full beard and sometimes glasses. He is a college graduate, a talented artist, and sculptor. Now, he is a soft-spoken loner, who resents society and all organizations. He fancies himself a ladies' man. He is an avid chess player, smokes cigarettes, and a pipe. He is a beer drinker and loves to eat. He is a man of widespread interests, who might very well be living abroad.
He felt lost be he felt pretty intensely good, and he woke up screaming having dreamed of a color he had never seen before: "I went to bed and to sleep, it was so unexpected, it really was frightening, and I saw pretty much the same thing embedded in my pillow." He had no trouble recognizing patterns in the most delicate arrays of tangled lines, but he had a strange fixation on partaking in nefarious things: "Stealing, lying, cheating, gambling, fornicate..."
He saw red, but he thought five, He was pleased to find his road trip was enhanced by number-color synesthesia: "My trusty Rosinante bounds along the road very well, leaving the friendly aroma of donuts and chicken tenders hanging in the desert air."
He willed away the miles while quixotically attempting to reclaim his inner child, he was embrangled and enmeshed in something far too loud to comprehend: "I want all of the American people to understand that it is understandable that the American people cannot possibly understand."
I could be a millionaire, if I killed my parents. Instead I let my gambling addicted mother suck my salary away every month. My body is whole, yet I spend time in the early hours of the morning in bed, wondering if I have a cancer of the colon. I eat my meals alone, spend my weekends in a solitary self confinement. Yet I consider myself content in a state of self actualized ennui
Kevin, despite having gotten an internship in order to learn something, left for lunch early - his sleeves crumpled up above his elbows and his nose aching with a pre-pimple soreness. He remembered how good his gap was last night but grew anxious when he realized that his mother, in an effort to be courteous but also, Kevin suspected, as an excuse to spy, would go into his room and empty his garbage can. He walked into Chipotle and got on line. He pulled out his phone and looked at it. "She's gonna see all that seimen. She's gonna see it and then get mad at me." He began a text: Please dont-...he backspaced. Kevin put his phone back in his pocket and took lazy steps forward keeping up with the line.
>>5049942 >work >read story to kid >bed Can't you see how that doesn't have the brevity that you want. If you can't make it into one word leave it out of that, because the fact that you don't say "her daughter" or even "her" at all is distractingly weird since no one actually talks like that.
Another day spent inside. Another day spent online. While his friends are out having fun and moving on with their lives, he sits at home - his mother's home - alone, typing away at his keyboard in an all too familiar fashion - shitposting. A tab for every board of which disruption was within his ability. In a fury his fingers traced the pattern of his oldest friend.
F I G H T C L U B
Two words, nine letters, with the capacity to destroy threads on all manner of boards. A single phrase, with the ability to awaken autistic rage in even the most socially adjusted of browsers.
"Yes," he thought, eyes unfocused on the fleshy storm of keyboard mastery that lay before him. "Who needs real life when you can be a god online?"
>>5057168 Hm. I'm thinking about why I disagree with you. No, I don't think the brevity is lost, and I like the rhythm. Funny thing:the kid's a boy, so yeah. And the lack of "her" perhaps indicates a disconnect and isolation, as with the husband who was actually playing guitar in the mirror, by the way. Okay, I'm done analysing myself.
>>5046751 >His steampunk goggles reflected his gf back at herself. He felt self-satisfied at how deeply she peered into his eyes, into his very soul. But she was admiring how good she looked. Smugly he raised them up to his forehead, where they would leave red circles much like those around his eyes.
"Garson," he said to the bartender, who was across the room and unable to hear his nasal tremolo of a voice, "I'll have a whisky, shaken, not stirred, and the lady here will have a bowl of soup. She's on a diet."
this is the most perfect post i have read on this site in 7 years
He sat in his room. He drank a beer. He looked at the internet. He masturbated. He felt severly depressed and crippling lonely. He went to bed and pulled the blanket over his head. He cried a little. He woke the next day and went to work with a neutral facial expression.
Girls on the mind but they always died in person. In his eyes, first. The moment after when she was everywhere and she was nowhere. Then the dull wash of pretending and saying the words until she understood and left him for dead to live it all over again. He loved to touch and be touched except when it wasn't happening. He loved the feeling of being somebody in spite of being nobody.
The body disconnected. He spent more time outside of it than in it. When he came back to it he gave it a go living as her, as she would, but it didn't take and in the end he didn't mind it either way. Water rushing over between the two before finally he understood them as one. What could be brought back from the outside.
All the ideas shuttled back and forth drawing the tapestries. Once in awhile the prose came altogether and there was something tangible, physical, worn. More often they continued their amnesiac cycles, stirring and warming to a boil.
>>5050065 I live my days exactly like you. These lines were the best, the comfort of oblivion: > He would picture his room, tucked into the corner of his small ranch house and focused on the idea that he was alone here. The weight of reality lingering overhead would slip away as his world became this small dark corner in the universe. He was completely outside of the tangled web of life, isolated and hidden.
His cheap blinds did nothing to shade the mid-afternoon sun as he awoke. A traveller-sized bottle of Burnett's gin left a hole in the night before, and a certain melencholy followed it's admittence.
He thought of this after the groggy arrival of consciousness. He felt an ache, whether from the night before or the night ahead, but did it matter? It all ended the same.
He was reminded of an episode of True Dectectives he had watched earlier, a qoute, "time is a flat circle, we are all destined to repeat ourselves without the bounds of time", or something to that effect.
The thought was depressed him, as he pulled his uniform over his head. Was this it? Was this the reality he would relive for eternity?
In that moment, the absence of the previous night seemed pleasent.
He was bored, so he started playing depressed, because it gave him something to do. He tricked two psychiatrists and even grew his hair long. Sometimes, he would read aloud to his psychiatrist passages from The Myth of Sisyphus or Infinite Jest, with a straight face. But none of this made him a better writer. Not even the bandana.
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