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here welcome to: forums > random > general > wow a post about stuff
here welcome to: forums > random > general > wow a post about stuff
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Want to talk with your buddies without clogging up the rest of the forums? This is the spot to do it!
wow a post about stuff
i should be doing my starter assignments right now but i dONT WANT TO
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wow a post about stuff
i know people being really jealous and clingy is actually really unhealthy and bad in real life but i actually love the jealous/clingy/protective personality type hahaaha *slams face into the table*
my boyfriend isnt really the type to get jealous or mad when i talk about people who i think are cute which is a good thing because that means that we have a healthy relationship and he trusts me but i kind of wish he would be just a little bit jealous and protective u///u
my boyfriend isnt really the type to get jealous or mad when i talk about people who i think are cute which is a good thing because that means that we have a healthy relationship and he trusts me but i kind of wish he would be just a little bit jealous and protective u///u
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wow a post about stuff
"Christ, Dirk, do you have to be like that?" Dave screeches as you hear the station wagon pulling out of the driveway.
You cringe inwardly, but keep your face neutral. "Be like what?"
"John hates coming over, you know? And it's not like we can go to his house!" Dave says. His voice seems strained, he sounds legitimately distressed.
"Why not?" you're honestly curious. You're not sure whether or not you'd like it better if they went to Egbert's place.
"His dad doesn't know! He's terrified of telling him! He cries at school, did you know that? I, I, I just don't get it, bro, what's your deal?" he shrieks.
You don't say anything. Suddenly there is another thousand pounds of bad feelings weighing down on your mind. Not only are you sick and broken, but now you're a terrible person. You sort of feel like you're about to deposit three slices of predigested pizza onto the linoleum. "I..." you start, but you don't know what you can say to make things better. At this point, anything you say at all will make everything a hundred million times worse.
"You what?" Dave asks. He's shaking a little bit--oh god, oh god, you're terrible.
You start to reach forward, you want to touch him, hold him, comfort him, tell him you're sorry, so, so sorry. But your hand drops to your side again. Your shoulders start to quiver, suddenly, and you're holding back tears. You can't--you never will--it wouldn't--he would never--it's all just too much, you've been holding it in for so long, since he was ten, god, you disgust yourself.
"Dirk," demands Dave, trying to get an answer out of you.
You can't open your mouth, you'd start sobbing on the spot, it's suddenly just too much.
"Dirk?" Dave says again, more softly, and just the way he says your name, it makes your breath catch in your chest and you let out a strangled gasp that becomes a heavy sob and shakes your body.
And suddenly--how did this--he's--you're--his hands are on either side of your face, he's kissing you hard, and your entire system is thrown into shock, and then he rips away from you and runs, and you're on the kitchen floor sobbing, and his door slams shut and you hear muffled screaming, as if into a cushion.
The front door swings open and Bro steps in. He silently takes everything in for a moment, and then speaks: "Next time, you're going to the science thing with your Aunt."
You cringe inwardly, but keep your face neutral. "Be like what?"
"John hates coming over, you know? And it's not like we can go to his house!" Dave says. His voice seems strained, he sounds legitimately distressed.
"Why not?" you're honestly curious. You're not sure whether or not you'd like it better if they went to Egbert's place.
"His dad doesn't know! He's terrified of telling him! He cries at school, did you know that? I, I, I just don't get it, bro, what's your deal?" he shrieks.
You don't say anything. Suddenly there is another thousand pounds of bad feelings weighing down on your mind. Not only are you sick and broken, but now you're a terrible person. You sort of feel like you're about to deposit three slices of predigested pizza onto the linoleum. "I..." you start, but you don't know what you can say to make things better. At this point, anything you say at all will make everything a hundred million times worse.
"You what?" Dave asks. He's shaking a little bit--oh god, oh god, you're terrible.
You start to reach forward, you want to touch him, hold him, comfort him, tell him you're sorry, so, so sorry. But your hand drops to your side again. Your shoulders start to quiver, suddenly, and you're holding back tears. You can't--you never will--it wouldn't--he would never--it's all just too much, you've been holding it in for so long, since he was ten, god, you disgust yourself.
"Dirk," demands Dave, trying to get an answer out of you.
You can't open your mouth, you'd start sobbing on the spot, it's suddenly just too much.
"Dirk?" Dave says again, more softly, and just the way he says your name, it makes your breath catch in your chest and you let out a strangled gasp that becomes a heavy sob and shakes your body.
And suddenly--how did this--he's--you're--his hands are on either side of your face, he's kissing you hard, and your entire system is thrown into shock, and then he rips away from you and runs, and you're on the kitchen floor sobbing, and his door slams shut and you hear muffled screaming, as if into a cushion.
The front door swings open and Bro steps in. He silently takes everything in for a moment, and then speaks: "Next time, you're going to the science thing with your Aunt."
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wow a post about stuff
You're lying on your bed, shaking, going through some kind of teenage existential crisis up in here. You have the lights turned off and the curtains drawn, because hell if you're going to have any kind of brightness anywhere near you right now. You kind of want to talk to someone, but you can't think of anyone you can talk to.
Suddenly, from the other side of the wall--Dirk's bedroom--you hear hushed whispering.
"Rox--this is all hells of lethal."
He's on the phone with Roxy, talking about exactly what you're thinking about. Your stomach flips and you almost lose your cool (and your lunch).
"I'm dying, I swear--what am I supposed to--Roxy, help me, please! Don't you have any advice?"
The ensuing silence tells you that either she has nothing or she has some serious detailed advice that is too complicated for Dirk to get a word in edgewise. You probably have to go with the former.
"How do I--What do you mean, I mean--I'm panicking, Roxy! What would you do if Rose--Don't answer that, stop right there because I know what you're going to say and I'm not interested in hearing it."
You feel a thousand times worse upon hearing this. And then your phone buzzes, and it's John, and you legitimately have to hold the trashcan to your face until your knuckles go white for the fear that you're about to hurl. Dirk continues his conversation in the other room, but it's drowned out for the moment by the sound of your heart pounding.
The wave of nausea subsides and you ignore the new text for the time being.
"People do all kinds of things in a moment like that--he has a boyfr--Roxy, be serious, it's not like we can ever--that's different--I..." He trails off, and he starts crying those horrible, rough sobs just like before, and you think it's even worse because before this, he hadn't cried since you moved from Houston.
And then, by some weird instinct, some kind of force drawing you to it, your knuckles rap lightly against the wall, a series of precise, rhythmic taps. You'd learned Morse code from Auntie Lalonde when the two of you were very small--she was always teaching you useless things like that, when she was sober enough to speak--and you'd used it to communicate through your bedroom walls the very night you'd learned, and had continued the habit throughout childhood. I-M S-O-R-R-Y.
Silence in the other room. "H-hold on, Rox," he says finally, very quietly. Finally, you hear the tapping against the wall. M-E T-O-O.
T-A-L-K
It's a request, and you're positive that he understands.
Y-E-S
You crawl up from your bed, feeling nervous, your palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, there's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti, he's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready, to drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down, he opens his mouth but the words won't come out, the whole crowd goes so loud, he's choking how, everybody's joking now, the clock's run out, time's up, over, BLAOW! snap back to reality, oh there goes gravity, oh, there goes rabbit, he choked, he's so mad but he won't give up that easy no, he won't have it, he knows, his whole back's to these ropes, it don't matter, he's dope, he's so stagnant, he knows when he goes back to his mobile home that's when its back to the lab again, yo, this whole rhapsody he better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him, you better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you only got one shot, don't miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime, YO!
oops that happened didnt it
Suddenly, from the other side of the wall--Dirk's bedroom--you hear hushed whispering.
"Rox--this is all hells of lethal."
He's on the phone with Roxy, talking about exactly what you're thinking about. Your stomach flips and you almost lose your cool (and your lunch).
"I'm dying, I swear--what am I supposed to--Roxy, help me, please! Don't you have any advice?"
The ensuing silence tells you that either she has nothing or she has some serious detailed advice that is too complicated for Dirk to get a word in edgewise. You probably have to go with the former.
"How do I--What do you mean, I mean--I'm panicking, Roxy! What would you do if Rose--Don't answer that, stop right there because I know what you're going to say and I'm not interested in hearing it."
You feel a thousand times worse upon hearing this. And then your phone buzzes, and it's John, and you legitimately have to hold the trashcan to your face until your knuckles go white for the fear that you're about to hurl. Dirk continues his conversation in the other room, but it's drowned out for the moment by the sound of your heart pounding.
The wave of nausea subsides and you ignore the new text for the time being.
"People do all kinds of things in a moment like that--he has a boyfr--Roxy, be serious, it's not like we can ever--that's different--I..." He trails off, and he starts crying those horrible, rough sobs just like before, and you think it's even worse because before this, he hadn't cried since you moved from Houston.
And then, by some weird instinct, some kind of force drawing you to it, your knuckles rap lightly against the wall, a series of precise, rhythmic taps. You'd learned Morse code from Auntie Lalonde when the two of you were very small--she was always teaching you useless things like that, when she was sober enough to speak--and you'd used it to communicate through your bedroom walls the very night you'd learned, and had continued the habit throughout childhood. I-M S-O-R-R-Y.
Silence in the other room. "H-hold on, Rox," he says finally, very quietly. Finally, you hear the tapping against the wall. M-E T-O-O.
T-A-L-K
It's a request, and you're positive that he understands.
Y-E-S
You crawl up from your bed, feeling nervous, your palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, there's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti, he's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready, to drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down, he opens his mouth but the words won't come out, the whole crowd goes so loud, he's choking how, everybody's joking now, the clock's run out, time's up, over, BLAOW! snap back to reality, oh there goes gravity, oh, there goes rabbit, he choked, he's so mad but he won't give up that easy no, he won't have it, he knows, his whole back's to these ropes, it don't matter, he's dope, he's so stagnant, he knows when he goes back to his mobile home that's when its back to the lab again, yo, this whole rhapsody he better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him, you better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you only got one shot, don't miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime, YO!
oops that happened didnt it
the switch is now on OFF
wow a post about stuff
Domrek Medved
ye ah good fantroll name
ye a h
she can be the uhhh
knight of doom ? ? ?? maybe
knight of doom is my personal title so idk if i should give it to any of my fantrolls
ooooooooooh she could be the rogue of blood!!! yeah
yeah
y e a h
ye ah good fantroll name
ye a h
she can be the uhhh
knight of doom ? ? ?? maybe
knight of doom is my personal title so idk if i should give it to any of my fantrolls
ooooooooooh she could be the rogue of blood!!! yeah
yeah
y e a h
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wow a post about stuff
im so hungry and im not finished my starter assignments im barely even started
getting back into the rhythm of doing stuff is stressful wow
getting back into the rhythm of doing stuff is stressful wow
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wow a post about stuff
You glance at your clock. It's already eleven thirty p.m., and Dave isn't there yet. He usually joins you in your room by ten thirty, asking you to perhaps read him a book, play a game, tell a made-up story, something to take his mind off of "them". The nightmares, of course. And you always oblige, every time, because you do love your dear cousin, and although you aren't sure how healthy it is, you would feel terrible hearing him cry in the middle of the night and doing nothing about it.
Maybe he's already fallen asleep. He'd seemed tired earlier, not overly enthusiastic about playing with you, even though you'd let him pick a computer game. In fact, you'd beaten him rather quickly, and he'd let it go without any excuse. He'd probably not been feeling well. The fact that this observation had slipped by you earlier is more than a little bit disconcerting. Perhaps you should go check on him...
You sit up slowly, your feet not quite hitting the floor when you swing them over the edge of the bed.
You're wearing the most dreadfully sweet-looking lace nightgown in the entire world, the hem of which hits your ankles, and the sleeves of which go all the way down to your wrists. You'd been admiring its special form of hideousness in the store, wondering just how it had gotten so awful--did it have a bad home life?--and inspecting it thoroughly. You'd finally turned away from it and gone on to look at books instead, and when your mother had come to collect you, she'd announced that she had a surprise and handed you the hideous lilac thing that was the nightgown. You'd smiled widely and thanked her graciously, and told her that it was a lovely present.
You tug gently at the collar of your nightgown, the lace itching on your neck, and then slide slowly off of the bed. You slip on your slippers--expensive silk ones, just as visually unappealing as your nightgown--and then quietly sneak out your bedroom door. You step gently as you walk down the hallway, as to not rouse any suspicion or wake anybody. The house is totally silent, sleeping, dark. You think that most children would be afraid in such an environment, but you rather enjoy it. The silence does not last long, though, as you approach Dave's bedroom. You can tell he's fallen asleep already, because you can hear him cry.
You quietly inch his door open, and whisper-call into his room: "Dave?"
But, being asleep, he doesn't hear you, and he stays silent, aside from his quiet whimpers.
You close the door slowly behind you, approach his bed. You slip your slippers from your feet and sit down on the bed next to him. Slowly, gently, you place your hand on his shoulder. "Dave?
His muscles tighten under your touch and you can hear the sharp intake of breath. You've woken him. Good. "Dave, it's only me. It's only Rose."
He sits up and throws his arms around you, holding onto you dreadfully tightly, so that it almost hurts. "Are you real?" he whispers. "Wh-when you aren't, your voice is different. But you have the right voice now. Are you real?"
You can't imagine what he could have been dreaming, but somehow it hurts you somewhere inside to hear his panicked whispers. "Yes, Dave, I can assure you that I am very real. I am Roselle Lalonde, the one and only, I swear that to you."
"Y-you have the right voice," he says quietly. "But I... Turn on the light."
You give him a questioning look, but realize he probably can't see it. You oblige, switching on the lamp and looking back toward him.
He inspects your face rather intently, his bright scarlet eyes seeming to judge your every feature. Then he slumps forward into your chest. "You're the right one," he says finally.
You gently pet his hair, wait for him to fully come out of his nightmare--sometimes they linger in his head for a while, things that are pure imagination to anyone else are a harsh and frightening reality for him. So you just wait it out, wait for his heart rate to slow to normal, wait for his breathing to become soft and even, for it to not hurt when you look into his eyes.
"My head hurts," he mumbles after a while. "Turn off the light."
And you do, you switch off the lamp, and as you do this, he slumps over onto the bed, letting out a deep, exhausted sigh. You lie down next to him, put one arm around him, and let out a soft humming sound. He seems fully relaxed now, able to go back to sleep. You'll sleep here with him, and if he has another nightmare, you'll be right here for him, waking him up before it can get bad.
"Goodnight, David," you say softly.
"Night, Rose," he mumbles.
You close your eyes and drift off comfortably to sleep, once again ignoring the fact that you need him to fall asleep as much as he needs you.
Maybe he's already fallen asleep. He'd seemed tired earlier, not overly enthusiastic about playing with you, even though you'd let him pick a computer game. In fact, you'd beaten him rather quickly, and he'd let it go without any excuse. He'd probably not been feeling well. The fact that this observation had slipped by you earlier is more than a little bit disconcerting. Perhaps you should go check on him...
You sit up slowly, your feet not quite hitting the floor when you swing them over the edge of the bed.
You're wearing the most dreadfully sweet-looking lace nightgown in the entire world, the hem of which hits your ankles, and the sleeves of which go all the way down to your wrists. You'd been admiring its special form of hideousness in the store, wondering just how it had gotten so awful--did it have a bad home life?--and inspecting it thoroughly. You'd finally turned away from it and gone on to look at books instead, and when your mother had come to collect you, she'd announced that she had a surprise and handed you the hideous lilac thing that was the nightgown. You'd smiled widely and thanked her graciously, and told her that it was a lovely present.
You tug gently at the collar of your nightgown, the lace itching on your neck, and then slide slowly off of the bed. You slip on your slippers--expensive silk ones, just as visually unappealing as your nightgown--and then quietly sneak out your bedroom door. You step gently as you walk down the hallway, as to not rouse any suspicion or wake anybody. The house is totally silent, sleeping, dark. You think that most children would be afraid in such an environment, but you rather enjoy it. The silence does not last long, though, as you approach Dave's bedroom. You can tell he's fallen asleep already, because you can hear him cry.
You quietly inch his door open, and whisper-call into his room: "Dave?"
But, being asleep, he doesn't hear you, and he stays silent, aside from his quiet whimpers.
You close the door slowly behind you, approach his bed. You slip your slippers from your feet and sit down on the bed next to him. Slowly, gently, you place your hand on his shoulder. "Dave?
His muscles tighten under your touch and you can hear the sharp intake of breath. You've woken him. Good. "Dave, it's only me. It's only Rose."
He sits up and throws his arms around you, holding onto you dreadfully tightly, so that it almost hurts. "Are you real?" he whispers. "Wh-when you aren't, your voice is different. But you have the right voice now. Are you real?"
You can't imagine what he could have been dreaming, but somehow it hurts you somewhere inside to hear his panicked whispers. "Yes, Dave, I can assure you that I am very real. I am Roselle Lalonde, the one and only, I swear that to you."
"Y-you have the right voice," he says quietly. "But I... Turn on the light."
You give him a questioning look, but realize he probably can't see it. You oblige, switching on the lamp and looking back toward him.
He inspects your face rather intently, his bright scarlet eyes seeming to judge your every feature. Then he slumps forward into your chest. "You're the right one," he says finally.
You gently pet his hair, wait for him to fully come out of his nightmare--sometimes they linger in his head for a while, things that are pure imagination to anyone else are a harsh and frightening reality for him. So you just wait it out, wait for his heart rate to slow to normal, wait for his breathing to become soft and even, for it to not hurt when you look into his eyes.
"My head hurts," he mumbles after a while. "Turn off the light."
And you do, you switch off the lamp, and as you do this, he slumps over onto the bed, letting out a deep, exhausted sigh. You lie down next to him, put one arm around him, and let out a soft humming sound. He seems fully relaxed now, able to go back to sleep. You'll sleep here with him, and if he has another nightmare, you'll be right here for him, waking him up before it can get bad.
"Goodnight, David," you say softly.
"Night, Rose," he mumbles.
You close your eyes and drift off comfortably to sleep, once again ignoring the fact that you need him to fall asleep as much as he needs you.
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wow a post about stuff
someone take me away it isnt getting better
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wow a post about stuff
[flies her to Hogwarts xD]
wow a post about stuff
i am happy. everything is fine. i am happy, everything is fine. i am happy. everything is fine. i am happy. everything is fine. i am happy. everything is fine.
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