The problem with insomnia is you’re awake. Fully functional and aware to every beat, thump, pump, slick, lick, rick, prick, oh now you’re just getting wordy aren’t you? That’s the thing, u are as awake as u are asleep, you're neither. Acting out on muscle memory as u slug through the day, never were u fully asleep of fully awake. You’re just there. Like an single slash mark in the world, adding yourself, thinking u belong when really, you’re just a number.
A number that no one will ever count on.
No one will rely on.
Lean on.
Carry on.
Just striding on your senseless body and numbing nods to every plea bargain bombarding your work desk. Stack after stack, u stamp after stamp upon papers after papers. That’s your job in this Empire, your duty in this institute of lies that produce faster than the red spoon products your Nana’s "son" is throwing up.
“You have a minute?”
u do, but u won’t. Above the thick rims, u can see him. Invading your cinematic cubic without a single care riding on mimicking bucks pondering the edges of his mouth. Jake, rather Mr.English, compliment his neatly steam-press Marc Polo elbows onto your property. u swore at that moment, u wanted, needed to beat him down. Suffocate his pseudo accent with that godawful tie until your knuckles bare whiter than peaking tanlines. u hate this man. Walking around like people even enjoy his presence, his spiels actually worth something. Mr. English, sure he has meer "mangrit" than u can ever achieve, but at least u can catch a clue as if it was painted blue.
"Something had whisk me away tonight, do u mind filling in for me?"
u can, but u wouldn't but u still accept. Anything to get his purple patch glee out of there. Though, who did he fight?
u ask.
"Oh! This. It's nothing just a tussle I had, have u ever gotten in a good round of fisticuffs before?"
Snap.
u snapped, all because u didn't want to lie about never getting into a fight before. It wasn't that u were scared of confrontation, u just haven't, well until now.
On your heels, your lurch forward. Fingers leeching onto that shitty, green tie and as soon as your digits felt silk, around and around they looped the smooth grooves of the tie. Quickly, u hooked and yank the tie back in the means of arching English muscle. u felt him, ribcage expanding to his flaring nostrils sucking in air as u sat on top, boven of his stomach. In the void, he shout a call for distress and yet, he's staring.
At
You.
As he whimpers underneath each and every swipe of knuckles across his pulsing cheeks. Jake's lips are still moving, forming a single word that seems utterly foreign to the drums of the ears perched beside your head. What is he saying? Who is he whimpering? Why is he still conscious? In the midst of your confusion, u cease your rampage. Loosening your grip, Jake head falls back in collection of blood leaking from his off-center nose and your panting. Gulping back the blood from your bitten tongue, u wipe the sweat beading across your brow. Still u sat on top, boven of him, wondering how are u going fund u Ikea furnished home pagina now. Until, u felt a tug against your shirt. Fingers streaked red and again, u averted your gaze back to him.
"You okay?"
Snap.
u shake u head. You're back on your chair and your awake from your dream. u began to nod your furiously to shoo Mr. English away.
"You don't want to die without any scars now do you?"
No, no u don't.
"Then live a little! Go out on an adventure, lad." He hoot, "well, if u best be needing me. I'll be in my office."
-
u are awake.
Wide awake, and u can see just about everything. Shutting the glass door shut, u began to make way down the street. It's 2am, and you're still up this unnatural hour. u should be in bed, tucked away in a dream instead of staying up as if you're running some blog of reading some story to get your sexual frustrations out. However, u are here. Walking along the road listening to the honks, skids, flicker of the street.
"Hey loser."
Stopping u turn to face the bron of noise, to the left u see him. Back aligning to wall, hips shot as his hands violate his pockets, he's calling you.
"You lookin' a lil lonely, ya' need some Strider lovin', babe?" Southern roots bare between the smirk gliding along his lips.
This is how u meet Dave Strider.
He was new in town, coming from someplace down south u knew wasn't important to care for. Despite being in town for a week, he already found work: A waiter at this restaurant, cashier at this record store and this other place u couldn't recall because Dave got bored talking about useless, mind-numbing shit that no one is going to care about. According to Dave," the only shit people are going to remember is how much u make. They don't give a fuck if you're popping eight balls so hard, Snoop Dog got u on speed dial all they care about is u how u going to get Snoop Dog to perform at their shitty party. Just so they can say,'I bet your man can't do that.'"
In truth, that's all everybody cares about. Who's Alpha and who's Beta. We only ask people how their doing so we can tell them we're doing better than them, to put them in their place just so u can feel better for yourself. u are no malicious person, u are a simply a human being in this materialistic society u were carved in. u are a copy, of a copy, of a copy but u want to be the better copy. To better, to be closer to the original just to beat the original and become the best. If the world were to end, it will end with u on top.
u are Dave's bitch.
And you're not complaining.
Dave gets your pants off in public, and u allow him. He's calling u the "finest piece of ass" he's ever seen other than his own, and damn don't u feel special. Just the way Dave is leading u to the side of the building, u knew he had done this before. He sliding like no man should ever be legally to do so, criminally smooth he push u against the wall. The leather strap slip from your grasp to supply mutes. u are not his first, and neither is he yours but u will damn if u zei u lying when u say he doesn't excite you. That he doesn't get your blood pumping faster than anybody you've been with. The thought of him, ringing those rosy lips along your shaft, his roze tongue thumbing through those full, plump lips tented your slacks.
u flanellen broek, broek pooled around your ankles, already Dave duif right in. Placing sloppy kisses over the cotton briefs, closing your eyes u let Dave work u into a puddle of nothing. u sighed, Dave.
u open your eyes once more, making sure Dave was there. Making sure Dave wasn't another one of your dreams.
u see a televisie screen, not Dave Strider.
Disappointments, disappointments everywhere. That's the problem with insomnia, you're never really awake of asleep. You're just there. Filling a void in the world up until your vervaltermijn date. What's the point of lying in bed, u have work to go to. Getting up, u make way towards your bedroom, pop a few pills and get your ezel in the shower. Cutting a corner, u start to wonder. Was there a person even name Dave Strider? What is he? Wait, u know the answer.
He's not you.
u wish u could've gotten at least a phone num- dear god what the fuck is that? Sitting on top, boven of your computer, what kind of doll requires that long of a fucking nose? Holy shit, what the fuck. Though, u couldn't help but to indulge in curiousity. Rolling your step along the carpet, u ease your way to mysterious beast. That thing can explode, rob you, multiply, u don't even know. Huh? Your computer is on.
turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering ectoBiologist [EB]
TG: sup
TG: ever need company
TG: u know who to call
TG: not that ghostbuster shit
TG: speaking of which nice boxers kid feels pretty damn nice
turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]
u are Dave's booty call.
A number that no one will ever count on.
No one will rely on.
Lean on.
Carry on.
Just striding on your senseless body and numbing nods to every plea bargain bombarding your work desk. Stack after stack, u stamp after stamp upon papers after papers. That’s your job in this Empire, your duty in this institute of lies that produce faster than the red spoon products your Nana’s "son" is throwing up.
“You have a minute?”
u do, but u won’t. Above the thick rims, u can see him. Invading your cinematic cubic without a single care riding on mimicking bucks pondering the edges of his mouth. Jake, rather Mr.English, compliment his neatly steam-press Marc Polo elbows onto your property. u swore at that moment, u wanted, needed to beat him down. Suffocate his pseudo accent with that godawful tie until your knuckles bare whiter than peaking tanlines. u hate this man. Walking around like people even enjoy his presence, his spiels actually worth something. Mr. English, sure he has meer "mangrit" than u can ever achieve, but at least u can catch a clue as if it was painted blue.
"Something had whisk me away tonight, do u mind filling in for me?"
u can, but u wouldn't but u still accept. Anything to get his purple patch glee out of there. Though, who did he fight?
u ask.
"Oh! This. It's nothing just a tussle I had, have u ever gotten in a good round of fisticuffs before?"
Snap.
u snapped, all because u didn't want to lie about never getting into a fight before. It wasn't that u were scared of confrontation, u just haven't, well until now.
On your heels, your lurch forward. Fingers leeching onto that shitty, green tie and as soon as your digits felt silk, around and around they looped the smooth grooves of the tie. Quickly, u hooked and yank the tie back in the means of arching English muscle. u felt him, ribcage expanding to his flaring nostrils sucking in air as u sat on top, boven of his stomach. In the void, he shout a call for distress and yet, he's staring.
At
You.
As he whimpers underneath each and every swipe of knuckles across his pulsing cheeks. Jake's lips are still moving, forming a single word that seems utterly foreign to the drums of the ears perched beside your head. What is he saying? Who is he whimpering? Why is he still conscious? In the midst of your confusion, u cease your rampage. Loosening your grip, Jake head falls back in collection of blood leaking from his off-center nose and your panting. Gulping back the blood from your bitten tongue, u wipe the sweat beading across your brow. Still u sat on top, boven of him, wondering how are u going fund u Ikea furnished home pagina now. Until, u felt a tug against your shirt. Fingers streaked red and again, u averted your gaze back to him.
"You okay?"
Snap.
u shake u head. You're back on your chair and your awake from your dream. u began to nod your furiously to shoo Mr. English away.
"You don't want to die without any scars now do you?"
No, no u don't.
"Then live a little! Go out on an adventure, lad." He hoot, "well, if u best be needing me. I'll be in my office."
-
u are awake.
Wide awake, and u can see just about everything. Shutting the glass door shut, u began to make way down the street. It's 2am, and you're still up this unnatural hour. u should be in bed, tucked away in a dream instead of staying up as if you're running some blog of reading some story to get your sexual frustrations out. However, u are here. Walking along the road listening to the honks, skids, flicker of the street.
"Hey loser."
Stopping u turn to face the bron of noise, to the left u see him. Back aligning to wall, hips shot as his hands violate his pockets, he's calling you.
"You lookin' a lil lonely, ya' need some Strider lovin', babe?" Southern roots bare between the smirk gliding along his lips.
This is how u meet Dave Strider.
He was new in town, coming from someplace down south u knew wasn't important to care for. Despite being in town for a week, he already found work: A waiter at this restaurant, cashier at this record store and this other place u couldn't recall because Dave got bored talking about useless, mind-numbing shit that no one is going to care about. According to Dave," the only shit people are going to remember is how much u make. They don't give a fuck if you're popping eight balls so hard, Snoop Dog got u on speed dial all they care about is u how u going to get Snoop Dog to perform at their shitty party. Just so they can say,'I bet your man can't do that.'"
In truth, that's all everybody cares about. Who's Alpha and who's Beta. We only ask people how their doing so we can tell them we're doing better than them, to put them in their place just so u can feel better for yourself. u are no malicious person, u are a simply a human being in this materialistic society u were carved in. u are a copy, of a copy, of a copy but u want to be the better copy. To better, to be closer to the original just to beat the original and become the best. If the world were to end, it will end with u on top.
u are Dave's bitch.
And you're not complaining.
Dave gets your pants off in public, and u allow him. He's calling u the "finest piece of ass" he's ever seen other than his own, and damn don't u feel special. Just the way Dave is leading u to the side of the building, u knew he had done this before. He sliding like no man should ever be legally to do so, criminally smooth he push u against the wall. The leather strap slip from your grasp to supply mutes. u are not his first, and neither is he yours but u will damn if u zei u lying when u say he doesn't excite you. That he doesn't get your blood pumping faster than anybody you've been with. The thought of him, ringing those rosy lips along your shaft, his roze tongue thumbing through those full, plump lips tented your slacks.
u flanellen broek, broek pooled around your ankles, already Dave duif right in. Placing sloppy kisses over the cotton briefs, closing your eyes u let Dave work u into a puddle of nothing. u sighed, Dave.
u open your eyes once more, making sure Dave was there. Making sure Dave wasn't another one of your dreams.
u see a televisie screen, not Dave Strider.
Disappointments, disappointments everywhere. That's the problem with insomnia, you're never really awake of asleep. You're just there. Filling a void in the world up until your vervaltermijn date. What's the point of lying in bed, u have work to go to. Getting up, u make way towards your bedroom, pop a few pills and get your ezel in the shower. Cutting a corner, u start to wonder. Was there a person even name Dave Strider? What is he? Wait, u know the answer.
He's not you.
u wish u could've gotten at least a phone num- dear god what the fuck is that? Sitting on top, boven of your computer, what kind of doll requires that long of a fucking nose? Holy shit, what the fuck. Though, u couldn't help but to indulge in curiousity. Rolling your step along the carpet, u ease your way to mysterious beast. That thing can explode, rob you, multiply, u don't even know. Huh? Your computer is on.
turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering ectoBiologist [EB]
TG: sup
TG: ever need company
TG: u know who to call
TG: not that ghostbuster shit
TG: speaking of which nice boxers kid feels pretty damn nice
turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]
u are Dave's booty call.
