sinkoman
Party Escort Bot
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2004
- Messages
- 7,457
- Reaction score
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(there is no point to this. I was bored, so I decided to, once again, try my hand at writing. Don't try to make sense out of it, you won't)
Premise:I got home the other night at about 12:30 in the morning, and was feeling rather depressed, so I put on my shorts, tossed on my jacket, and went for a walk.
I knew this spot near a local elementary school that had a killer view, and the clouds looked beautiful against the full moon that night, so I started walking.
But i'd spent the entire day prior riding, so about halfway up the hill to the spot, my legs started giving out. So I took a detour to a nearby park, planted my ass on a table under a tree, and fell asleep.
Woke up around 1:40 ish and went back home. The story is supposed to be about what was going through my mind before I fell asleep.
/premise
So there I lay, in the first hour of the morning, in nothing more than a set of light brown cargo shorts, a well worn belt, and an over sized brown jacket zipped snugly against my bare chest. I bore with me my own keys, a stick of ?Burt's Bees? lip balm, my own phone, and my own iPod.
The jacket zipper felt cold against my bare skin. I first thought to myself, ?I should have put on a ****ing shirt before I left...?, and then, upon further introspection, ?this is ****ing ridiculous, I shouldn't even be out here at this hour?.
But something forced me to stay. Perhaps I wanted to create an intriguing story I could force upon my peers, perhaps it was my primal rage to do something different. I'd like to think though, that it was because I wanted the space and privacy one often requires to cry.
Yet as I stared into the soft patches of moonlight, stenciled out by the thick park foliage overhead, I felt no surplus of tears to expend. Perhaps I had met the urge with action far too late. After all, the urge itself met I a week prior. The romantic in me refused to accept such a bland assumption, and instead insisted that ?it had been so long since I last cried that I'd forgotten how to?.
But I knew that was just a line. Carefully thought out and worded to as to incite a precise emotion from those the line was strewn before. I like to think that I'm pretty good at making ?lines?. I pre-think certain sections of a multitude of possible conversations, and save them to be inserted at precise moments of real life social interaction.
I bullshit people a lot like that. I t kind of scares me though, to think that I had just bullshitted myself.
My legs started getting cold. I closed my eyes, and suddenly noticed an odd ?moving? sensation in my thighs. It was as if all the muscle mass in them was moving downwards and collecting right above my knee caps.
The sensation brought some joy to my mind. I was hoping that it'd culminate in intense pain, as if that were to happen, I could call Nicolai, and order him to come pick me up. I'd have his utmost attention, and in my emotionally distressed and lonely state, the thought invigorated me.
Premise:I got home the other night at about 12:30 in the morning, and was feeling rather depressed, so I put on my shorts, tossed on my jacket, and went for a walk.
I knew this spot near a local elementary school that had a killer view, and the clouds looked beautiful against the full moon that night, so I started walking.
But i'd spent the entire day prior riding, so about halfway up the hill to the spot, my legs started giving out. So I took a detour to a nearby park, planted my ass on a table under a tree, and fell asleep.
Woke up around 1:40 ish and went back home. The story is supposed to be about what was going through my mind before I fell asleep.
/premise
So there I lay, in the first hour of the morning, in nothing more than a set of light brown cargo shorts, a well worn belt, and an over sized brown jacket zipped snugly against my bare chest. I bore with me my own keys, a stick of ?Burt's Bees? lip balm, my own phone, and my own iPod.
The jacket zipper felt cold against my bare skin. I first thought to myself, ?I should have put on a ****ing shirt before I left...?, and then, upon further introspection, ?this is ****ing ridiculous, I shouldn't even be out here at this hour?.
But something forced me to stay. Perhaps I wanted to create an intriguing story I could force upon my peers, perhaps it was my primal rage to do something different. I'd like to think though, that it was because I wanted the space and privacy one often requires to cry.
Yet as I stared into the soft patches of moonlight, stenciled out by the thick park foliage overhead, I felt no surplus of tears to expend. Perhaps I had met the urge with action far too late. After all, the urge itself met I a week prior. The romantic in me refused to accept such a bland assumption, and instead insisted that ?it had been so long since I last cried that I'd forgotten how to?.
But I knew that was just a line. Carefully thought out and worded to as to incite a precise emotion from those the line was strewn before. I like to think that I'm pretty good at making ?lines?. I pre-think certain sections of a multitude of possible conversations, and save them to be inserted at precise moments of real life social interaction.
I bullshit people a lot like that. I t kind of scares me though, to think that I had just bullshitted myself.
My legs started getting cold. I closed my eyes, and suddenly noticed an odd ?moving? sensation in my thighs. It was as if all the muscle mass in them was moving downwards and collecting right above my knee caps.
The sensation brought some joy to my mind. I was hoping that it'd culminate in intense pain, as if that were to happen, I could call Nicolai, and order him to come pick me up. I'd have his utmost attention, and in my emotionally distressed and lonely state, the thought invigorated me.
