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