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, آپ are as awake as آپ are asleep, you're neither. Acting out on muscle memory as آپ slug through the day, never were آپ fully asleep یا fully awake. You’re just there. Like an single slash mark in the world, adding yourself, thinking آپ 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, آپ 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?”
آپ do, but آپ won’t. Above the thick rims, آپ 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, سہارا his neatly steam-press Marc Polo elbows onto your property. آپ swore at that moment, آپ wanted, needed to beat him down. Suffocate his pseudo accent with that godawful tie until your knuckles bare whiter than peaking tanlines. آپ hate this man. Walking around like people even enjoy his presence, his spiels actually worth something. Mr. English, sure he has مزید "mangrit" than آپ can ever achieve, but at least آپ can catch a clue as if it was painted blue.
"Something had whisk me away tonight, do آپ mind filling in for me?"
آپ can, but آپ wouldn't but آپ still accept. Anything to get his purple patch glee out of there. Though, who did he fight?
آپ ask.
"Oh! This. It's nothing just a tussle I had, have آپ ever gotten in a good round of fisticuffs before?"
Snap.
آپ snapped, all because آپ didn't want to lie about never getting into a fight before. It wasn't that آپ were scared of confrontation, آپ 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, آپ hooked and yank the tie back in the means of arching English muscle. آپ felt him, ribcage expanding to his flaring nostrils sucking in air as آپ sat on سب, سب سے اوپر 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, آپ 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, آپ wipe the sweat beading across your brow. Still آپ sat on سب, سب سے اوپر of him, wondering how are آپ going fund آپ Ikea furnished ہوم now. Until, آپ felt a tug against your shirt. Fingers streaked red and again, آپ averted your gaze back to him.
"You okay?"
Snap.
آپ shake آپ head. You're back on your chair and your awake from your dream. آپ began to nod your furiously to shoo Mr. English away.
"You don't want to die without any scars now do you?"
No, no آپ don't.
"Then live a little! Go out on an adventure, lad." He hoot, "well, if آپ best be needing me. I'll be in my office."
-
آپ are awake.
Wide awake, and آپ can see just about everything. Shutting the glass door shut, آپ began to make way down the street. It's 2am, and you're still up this unnatural hour. آپ should be in bed, tucked away in a dream instead of staying up as if you're running some blog یا reading some story to get your sexual frustrations out. However, آپ are here. Walking along the road listening to the honks, skids, flicker of the street.
"Hey loser."
Stopping آپ turn to face the ذریعہ of noise, to the left آپ 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 آپ meet Dave Strider.
He was new in town, coming from someplace down south آپ 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 آپ 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 آپ make. They don't give a fuck if you're popping eight balls so hard, Snoop Dog got آپ on speed dial all they care about is آپ how آپ 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 آپ can feel better for yourself. آپ are no malicious person, آپ are a simply a human being in this materialistic society آپ were carved in. آپ are a copy, of a copy, of a copy but آپ 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 آپ on top.
آپ are Dave's bitch.
And you're not complaining.
Dave gets your pants off in public, and آپ allow him. He's calling آپ the "finest piece of ass" he's ever seen other than his own, and damn don't آپ feel special. Just the way Dave is leading آپ to the side of the building, آپ knew he had done this before. He sliding like no man should ever be legally to do so, criminally smooth he push آپ against the wall. The leather strap slip from your grasp to supply mutes. آپ are not his first, and neither is he yours but آپ will damn if آپ کہا آپ lying when آپ 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 گلابی tongue thumbing through those full, plump lips tented your slacks.
آپ سلیکس pooled around your ankles, already Dave کبوتر right in. Placing sloppy kisses over the cotton briefs, closing your eyes آپ let Dave work آپ into a puddle of nothing. آپ sighed, Dave.
آپ open your eyes once more, making sure Dave was there. Making sure Dave wasn't another one of your dreams.
آپ see a ویژن ٹیلی screen, not Dave Strider.
Disappointments, disappointments everywhere. That's the problem with insomnia, you're never really awake یا asleep. You're just there. Filling a void in the world up until your مدت date. What's the point of lying in bed, آپ have work to go to. Getting up, آپ make way towards your bedroom, pop a few pills and get your پچھواڑے, گدا in the shower. Cutting a corner, آپ start to wonder. Was there a person even name Dave Strider? What is he? Wait, آپ know the answer.
He's not you.
آپ wish آپ could've gotten at least a phone num- dear god what the fuck is that? Sitting on سب, سب سے اوپر of your computer, what kind of doll requires that long of a fucking nose? Holy shit, what the fuck. Though, آپ couldn't help but to indulge in curiousity. Rolling your step along the carpet, آپ ease your way to mysterious beast. That thing can explode, rob you, multiply, آپ don't even know. Huh? Your computer is on.
turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering ectoBiologist [EB]
TG: sup
TG: ever need company
TG: آپ 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]
آپ 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, آپ 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?”
آپ do, but آپ won’t. Above the thick rims, آپ 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, سہارا his neatly steam-press Marc Polo elbows onto your property. آپ swore at that moment, آپ wanted, needed to beat him down. Suffocate his pseudo accent with that godawful tie until your knuckles bare whiter than peaking tanlines. آپ hate this man. Walking around like people even enjoy his presence, his spiels actually worth something. Mr. English, sure he has مزید "mangrit" than آپ can ever achieve, but at least آپ can catch a clue as if it was painted blue.
"Something had whisk me away tonight, do آپ mind filling in for me?"
آپ can, but آپ wouldn't but آپ still accept. Anything to get his purple patch glee out of there. Though, who did he fight?
آپ ask.
"Oh! This. It's nothing just a tussle I had, have آپ ever gotten in a good round of fisticuffs before?"
Snap.
آپ snapped, all because آپ didn't want to lie about never getting into a fight before. It wasn't that آپ were scared of confrontation, آپ 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, آپ hooked and yank the tie back in the means of arching English muscle. آپ felt him, ribcage expanding to his flaring nostrils sucking in air as آپ sat on سب, سب سے اوپر 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, آپ 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, آپ wipe the sweat beading across your brow. Still آپ sat on سب, سب سے اوپر of him, wondering how are آپ going fund آپ Ikea furnished ہوم now. Until, آپ felt a tug against your shirt. Fingers streaked red and again, آپ averted your gaze back to him.
"You okay?"
Snap.
آپ shake آپ head. You're back on your chair and your awake from your dream. آپ began to nod your furiously to shoo Mr. English away.
"You don't want to die without any scars now do you?"
No, no آپ don't.
"Then live a little! Go out on an adventure, lad." He hoot, "well, if آپ best be needing me. I'll be in my office."
-
آپ are awake.
Wide awake, and آپ can see just about everything. Shutting the glass door shut, آپ began to make way down the street. It's 2am, and you're still up this unnatural hour. آپ should be in bed, tucked away in a dream instead of staying up as if you're running some blog یا reading some story to get your sexual frustrations out. However, آپ are here. Walking along the road listening to the honks, skids, flicker of the street.
"Hey loser."
Stopping آپ turn to face the ذریعہ of noise, to the left آپ 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 آپ meet Dave Strider.
He was new in town, coming from someplace down south آپ 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 آپ 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 آپ make. They don't give a fuck if you're popping eight balls so hard, Snoop Dog got آپ on speed dial all they care about is آپ how آپ 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 آپ can feel better for yourself. آپ are no malicious person, آپ are a simply a human being in this materialistic society آپ were carved in. آپ are a copy, of a copy, of a copy but آپ 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 آپ on top.
آپ are Dave's bitch.
And you're not complaining.
Dave gets your pants off in public, and آپ allow him. He's calling آپ the "finest piece of ass" he's ever seen other than his own, and damn don't آپ feel special. Just the way Dave is leading آپ to the side of the building, آپ knew he had done this before. He sliding like no man should ever be legally to do so, criminally smooth he push آپ against the wall. The leather strap slip from your grasp to supply mutes. آپ are not his first, and neither is he yours but آپ will damn if آپ کہا آپ lying when آپ 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 گلابی tongue thumbing through those full, plump lips tented your slacks.
آپ سلیکس pooled around your ankles, already Dave کبوتر right in. Placing sloppy kisses over the cotton briefs, closing your eyes آپ let Dave work آپ into a puddle of nothing. آپ sighed, Dave.
آپ open your eyes once more, making sure Dave was there. Making sure Dave wasn't another one of your dreams.
آپ see a ویژن ٹیلی screen, not Dave Strider.
Disappointments, disappointments everywhere. That's the problem with insomnia, you're never really awake یا asleep. You're just there. Filling a void in the world up until your مدت date. What's the point of lying in bed, آپ have work to go to. Getting up, آپ make way towards your bedroom, pop a few pills and get your پچھواڑے, گدا in the shower. Cutting a corner, آپ start to wonder. Was there a person even name Dave Strider? What is he? Wait, آپ know the answer.
He's not you.
آپ wish آپ could've gotten at least a phone num- dear god what the fuck is that? Sitting on سب, سب سے اوپر of your computer, what kind of doll requires that long of a fucking nose? Holy shit, what the fuck. Though, آپ couldn't help but to indulge in curiousity. Rolling your step along the carpet, آپ ease your way to mysterious beast. That thing can explode, rob you, multiply, آپ don't even know. Huh? Your computer is on.
turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering ectoBiologist [EB]
TG: sup
TG: ever need company
TG: آپ 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]
آپ are Dave's booty call.
You're welcome, my dears!
