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, wewe are as awake as wewe are asleep, you're neither. uigizaji out on muscle memory as wewe slug through the day, never were wewe fully asleep au fully awake. You’re just there. Like an single slash mark in the world, adding yourself, thinking wewe 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, wewe 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?”

wewe do, but wewe won’t. Above the thick rims, wewe 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, heshima his neatly steam-press Marc Polo elbows onto your property. wewe swore at that moment, wewe wanted, needed to beat him down. Suffocate his pseudo accent with that godawful tie until your knuckles bare whiter than peaking tanlines. wewe hate this man. Walking around like people even enjoy his presence, his spiels actually worth something. Mr. English, sure he has zaidi "mangrit" than wewe can ever achieve, but at least wewe can catch a clue as if it was painted blue.

"Something had whisk me away tonight, do wewe mind filling in for me?"

wewe can, but wewe wouldn't but wewe still accept. Anything to get his purple patch Glee out of there. Though, who did he fight?

wewe ask.

"Oh! This. It's nothing just a tussle I had, have wewe ever gotten in a good round of fisticuffs before?"

Snap.

wewe snapped, all because wewe didn't want to lie about never getting into a fight before. It wasn't that wewe were scared of confrontation, wewe 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, wewe hooked and yank the tie back in the means of arching English muscle. wewe felt him, ribcage expanding to his flaring nostrils sucking in air as wewe sat on juu 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, wewe 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, wewe wipe the sweat beading across your brow. Still wewe sat on juu of him, wondering how are wewe going fund wewe Ikea furnished nyumbani now. Until, wewe felt a tug against your shirt. Fingers streaked red and again, wewe averted your gaze back to him.

"You okay?"

Snap.

wewe shake wewe head. You're back on your chair and your awake from your dream. wewe began to nod your furiously to shoo Mr. English away.

"You don't want to die without any scars now do you?"

No, no wewe don't.

"Then live a little! Go out on an adventure, lad." He hoot, "well, if wewe best be needing me. I'll be in my office."

-

wewe are awake.

Wide awake, and wewe can see just about everything. Shutting the glass door shut, wewe began to make way down the street. It's 2am, and you're still up this unnatural hour. wewe should be in bed, tucked away in a dream instead of staying up as if you're running some blog au kusoma some story to get your sexual frustrations out. However, wewe are here. Walking along the road listening to the honks, skids, flicker of the street.

"Hey loser."

Stopping wewe turn to face the chanzo of noise, to the left wewe 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 wewe meet Dave Strider.

He was new in town, coming from someplace down south wewe 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 wewe 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 wewe make. They don't give a fuck if you're popping eight balls so hard, Snoop Dog got wewe on speed dial all they care about is wewe how wewe 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 wewe can feel better for yourself. wewe are no malicious person, wewe are a simply a human being in this materialistic society wewe were carved in. wewe are a copy, of a copy, of a copy but wewe 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 wewe on top.

wewe are Dave's bitch.

And you're not complaining.

Dave gets your pants off in public, and wewe allow him. He's calling wewe the "finest piece of ass" he's ever seen other than his own, and damn don't wewe feel special. Just the way Dave is leading wewe to the side of the building, wewe knew he had done this before. He sliding like no man should ever be legally to do so, criminally smooth he push wewe against the wall. The leather strap slip from your grasp to supply mutes. wewe are not his first, and neither is he yours but wewe will damn if wewe alisema wewe lying when wewe 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.

wewe patashika, longi pooled around your ankles, already Dave njiwa right in. Placing sloppy kisses over the cotton briefs, closing your eyes wewe let Dave work wewe into a puddle of nothing. wewe sighed, Dave.

wewe open your eyes once more, making sure Dave was there. Making sure Dave wasn't another one of your dreams.

wewe see a televisheni screen, not Dave Strider.

Disappointments, disappointments everywhere. That's the problem with insomnia, you're never really awake au asleep. You're just there. Filling a void in the world up until your expiration date. What's the point of lying in bed, wewe have work to go to. Getting up, wewe make way towards your bedroom, pop a few pills and get your punda in the shower. Cutting a corner, wewe start to wonder. Was there a person even name Dave Strider? What is he? Wait, wewe know the answer.

He's not you.

wewe wish wewe could've gotten at least a phone num- dear god what the fuck is that? Sitting on juu of your computer, what kind of doll requires that long of a fucking nose? Holy shit, what the fuck. Though, wewe couldn't help but to indulge in curiousity. Rolling your step along the carpet, wewe ease your way to mysterious beast. That thing can explode, rob you, multiply, wewe don't even know. Huh? Your computer is on.

turntechGodhead [TG] started pestering ectoBiologist [EB]


TG: sup

TG: ever need company

TG: wewe 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]

wewe are Dave's booty call.