Dave Strider sits at his desk and makes another noble attempt at schoolwork, fulfilling a promise to a dead man who probably wouldn’t have cared either way now that Dave thinks about it. A pen twiddled between fingers unintentionally goes flying as his thoughts drift, not for the first time, to kung fu movies and underrated anti-folk bands, and how good life was before he was old enough to have sentience.
None of his work is getting done.
He sighs and stands up, too short flannel pajama pants borrowed from John leaving his ankles exposed to the cold. In the bathroom, he drinks several cupped handfuls of water from the faucet and then splashes his face for good measure. He practices his smile, is decidedly unhappy with the results, and stops practicing.
When he gets back to his desk, he’s disappointed to find that only ten minutes have been wasted by the excursion. His phone is ringing though.
He checks the caller ID and cautiously answers.
As she waits out the droning rings, Rose sits next to the outlet and shoves her wheeled desk chair around with her feet. The chair slides slowly over the carpet, and it crashes into the back of her bed with an impressively angry noise when Dave picks up. She doesn’t stutter one bit as she answers, seventeen years of poise and self-will enough to catapult a small country into an international industrial superpower clipping her words neatly together. She feels like she might vomit.
Ten minutes later, she is on her stomach and systematically destroying a civilized society of dust bunnies with her lungs. She can feel an unfinished knitting project squashed under her stomach and is about eighty percent sure Dave can hear her gasp in pain as she realizes her lip tar has dried into an unappealing black brick. “I have to go,” she deadpans, “my child has received divine retribution for my multitudes of sin,” and flicks the useless tube into the trash as she misses his reply. She assembles her remaining troops of lip product as she explains to him that yes, lip tar is made of the souls of her enemies from concentrate.
By the end of it all, Rose has booked a plane ticket and re-downloaded Pesterchum, and her heart feels sort of wobbly like it might sublimate. She rolls on the floor until her back hits the wall and can feel the cold metal vent pressed on her bare thigh. She is happy. She falls asleep like that, feeling light and bright and absurdly sad that she forgot to cap her lip tar.
i think in my ideal life id be a photographer for national geographic but also a huge sellout that writes jingles for cereal commercials while living in a ritzy little flat in paris with john
Yeh, ‘The Time Before The Last Time’ is centred around a wank in the shower. G
so tonight my philosophy professor had these nasty bruises all over her arms and she stopped mid-lecture to say “sorry you guys have to look at my bruised-up body, my friend brought a stripper pole over for thanksgiving and that shit is not easy. tip your strippers. tip your strippers well” and then immediately kept talking about philosophy
my eyebrow game is the only thing i have going for me so i cant
see you guys in three days