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Post by THOMAS LULA ROTH on Aug 18, 2012 23:21:54 GMT -5
Tom lit up his cigarette, breathing out smoke into the warm summer air. He wore a suit, but it was american cut, easier to breathe even though it didn't look as nice as another cut suit. And it was practically law to look good at Blackjack, it was where the creme de la creme hung out. The professor may not have been high class, but he did well for himself and his parents did pretty good, too. They were secure in their wealth, so much so that they could take cruises whenever they wanted. He could only hope for their pension plan one day.
And even though he felt old, he didn't feel that old. Not yet. He was getting on in years, but he still had a lot of energy left in him. Of course, he didn't club much anymore. It was more annoying than anything, being surrounded by a bunch of twenty-somethings who couldn't hold their liquor while dancing to some obnoxious 90's printer soundtrack. It was enough to make him want to bang his head off something. Blackjack served to be a much better venue for him to drink and socialize. He didn't have to pretend to be interested in Pintrest or any of whatever else those twenty-somehings got into, he didn't have to be thrown up on either. And he could wear a suit. That was the best part.
And he decided for once he would bring Mickey along. The guy didn't seem to get out much, it seemed. He was just a relatively odd guy, and not very sociable. Of course, Tommy managed to become friends with him but that might have been because weirdness attracted other weirdness. He was sociable, even though he might not have been terribly nice. More unpredictable than anything. Even still, he didn't mind other people's company.
As much as he preferred Blackjack, socializing with the wealthy snobs did take its toll after a while and he decided that a cigarette break was in order. "Do you ever go to bars and actually talk to people?" he asked Mickey as he leaned against the side of the bar. "I mean, without being forced to." Tom felt like he already knew the answer to that one, so it was more or less rhetorical. He would still like to hear the answer. He knew Mickey was a good guy, but not much else about him, really. Like everyone else, he was oblivious to the underlying condition the man suffered from.
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Post by MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE on Aug 31, 2012 22:19:29 GMT -5
matching set of marching clocks ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | [th][bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true] | tag ! stark && thomas ;; word count ! 711 ;; setting ! blackjack bar ;; outfit ! suit ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | The minute they got there, Michaelangelo had wanted to escape the building. He just didn’t feel comfortable in that sort of setting. He didn’t belong there. That was all there was to it. Why did the guy insist on bringing him along? Hell, why had he agreed to go along? He sort of resented Thomas for making him come, but they both knew he could have just said no. He could have turned down his coworker and stayed home and graded papers or watched cartoons or taken a walk. Why hadn’t he? It was a good question, he decided, finding a seat at the bar that seemed to be in a less dense area. He was dressed to fit in with the others around him, a neat suit he usually saved for some sort of business situation, as opposed to socializing. He looked around, resisting the curiosity about the alcohol and refusing to order anything even when the bartender threw him an irritated look.
He breathed out in frustration, looking around and rubbing at his face with the base of his hand. Why was he here? Outside of having agreed to go, being invited, and all that jazz. Why was he here? Really? He had no idea. It wasn’t his scene. He wasn’t the type to dress up and go to expensive bars that sold expensive drinks he wouldn’t buy as long as he possessed self control. Braedon, gleeful in his head about the indecision and the discomfort, suggested he might be even more screwed up, but he ignored the sing-songy voice. He needed a smoke. Cigarettes always made him feel better, whether it was the voices bugging him or just some sort of normal irritation. He searched through his pockets, looking for the cancer sticks and his lighter, glad he’d noticed others around him smoking a few minutes before. He hadn’t seen any no-smoking signs around, but better safe than sorry. He hadn’t seen anyone else get escorted out or being asked to kill the little orange lights. Wasn’t like they would kick him out for smoking anyway, just because he wasn’t buying a drink. No, he definitely wasn’t going to do that. He glanced at the selection of bottles behind the counter, mostly out of curiosity.
His gaze flickered over the names of the various drinks, running over familiar letters and unfamiliar words. He recognized some, mostly from commercials that interrupted his midnight cartoons occasionally. Others were as foreign to him as most other languages were. He didn’t go out with “friends” either, in part because eh wasn’t so close to people and when he was, they refrained from ordering alcoholic drinks because they weren’t relevant to the situation. Whether that was related to the fact that they were vodka and vodka was from Russia or something was irrelevant. Maybe he’d visit Russia sometime, though, if he ever succumbed to curiosity and tried some vodka. Might as well go to the hometown of the drink he was experimenting with. The bottles were colorful, the print on the labels fancy but still somehow legible. He mouthed some of the names, letting his tongue taste the silent words, successfully distracted from his desire for a smoke until Thomas grabbed his attention again. Well, it was more the smoke from his cancer stick that tugged him back to reality and his own little want.
He reached into his pocket again and pulled out his own cigarette. “Nope,” he replied easily, sticking it into his mouth and lighting up quickly, then stashed the box of cigarettes and the lighter in his pockets again. It wasn’t something he was embarrassed about. “Not my thing. I don’t drink.” For personal reasons, mostly. He didn’t want to self-medicate. He knew that people with his little problem were more likely to get addicted. He’d rather stay with the cigarettes than worry about alcoholism. Cigarettes were safer, in his head. “Why do you go?” That was more interesting to him. After all, people generally needed more of a reason to do something than they did not to do something, to avoid doing something. You could just not do something, but when you did, you had a reason, even if it small or simply or stupid. |
[/color][/size][/font][bg=000000][atrb=align,justify][atrb=border,0,true][/td][/tr] [tr][td] notes ! he's so blah Dx ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b][atrb=cellspacing,0,true,bTable][atrb=cellpadding,10,true][atrb=width,410,true,bTable][/td][/tr][/table][/center]
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Post by THOMAS LULA ROTH on Sept 1, 2012 21:01:10 GMT -5
Tom could not imagine a life over the influence. He'd been on the wrong side of the tracks since middle school, he was that boy that your parents didn't want you to hang around. As a youth, he seemed more airheaded than he actually was and that could be blamed on the fact he was high a lot. He did not miss those times, though, because now he was an adult who had things to do and could not just sit around eating all the food in his house. So in a way, he could understand Mickey. He didn't go to bars too often, he was busy with life and he did not have the time to just go out all the time like he wished he could. Tom did realize he was a lot more social than his friend, however.
And as he didn't know about the fellow professor's mental health issues, he said, "To each their own, I guess. I suppose I don't drink much either, but that's mostly because we all do stupid shit when we're fucked up." Nothing like a quote from The Hangover to describe inebriation. He couldn't recall ever finding a tiger in his bathroom, but there were a lot of instances that he woke up in the morning without a clue of what happened the night before. And now that he was older, hangovers were the worst. In his teens and early twenties, it was easy. He'd still be able to function, he'd just have a headache and the dry heaves. He'd make plans for his hangovers. At his age, though, he could barely even function with a hangover. It was like the world suddenly became this sick, masochistic place bent on destroying him and everything he was. A video game for people who made mistakes with drinking, such as him.
Tom blew out and shrugged. "It's about all I can do for fun these days. I'm getting old so it's not like I can just take random trips to Vancouver or just...go out like I used to." He wasn't that old, but he was thirty-two and he was definitely not as young as he used to be. And he felt old. Mickey was a little younger than him, so he didn't know if the guy could relate, but he was not as young as he used to be and couldn't be always doing something. "And I'm busy. Blackjack's close, I have friends, and I'm not about to go clubbing.' He was not a fan of that scene. A bunch of sweaty twenty-something's bumping up against him as he tried to carry drinks to a table. He couldn't remember ever thinking that was fun. It wasn't fun. At all, and he wanted to punch any adult who said that they were going to a club. Of course, some of his friends still did it and he withheld, but he did mock them.
The man looked over at Mickey and said, "You should just go out more, man. You don't even have to go to a bar." There weren't many other places where people could socialize, however. Adults, at least. You didn't exactly meet people in restaurants. If you went alone, you sat alone and ate alone. No one was going to come over and strike up conversation. At least Tom came to Blackjack half the time and expected to meet people, mostly women of course. He was a man with needs.
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Post by MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE on Sept 12, 2012 0:10:38 GMT -5
matching set of marching clocks ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | [th][bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true] | tag ! stark && thomas ;; word count ! 896 ;; setting ! blackjack bar ;; outfit ! suit ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | Michaelangelo already considered himself fucked up in one way or another. The main way was that he was a diagnosed schizophrenic who refused to take the pills he knew would help his symptoms. The problem was that there was more to it then just getting rid of the voices. His focus didn’t generally improve. His “creativity” took a drastic plummet. He felt numb and dull when he took his pills, as thought he were a knife used too often or an unsharpened sword. His mind just didn’t work quite as well with the pills. Of course, he knew he could find another doctor and explain the situation, but he just wasn’t prepared to spill his secrets to a stranger. Sharing with Dr. Jellycut had been hard enough, and that was no longer an option for obvious reasons. He usually ended up missing some of the voices, namely Elsa, as well, and no pill could stop him from doing so. So why should he take pills? He liked his symptoms, to a degree. There were, of course, aspects he didn’t like. The disorganization. The odd turn regarding human company. The paranoia. Braedon. They made him do stupid shit, just like Thomas said, but his state of being fucked up was more permanent than most people could guess so easily.
He hadn’t caught that it was from a movie. He didn’t watch a lot of movies, mostly because he grew bored too quickly with them. Sitting in a dark theater, staring at a screen, bored him to tears. It wasn’t like he could get up and do jumping jacks if he so wanted, because he’d be blocking someone’s view. He could do those things at home, but he got distracted so easily there, so there was rarely a point when he considered such situations as a whole. No, he wasn’t one for movies, but he also wasn’t about to disallow someone else the enjoyment if they found it to be such. Why should people do things they didn’t enjoy unless they were necessary, after all? Movies definitely weren’t necessary.
Nor was mocking oneself or putting such emphasis on age. He rolled his eyes at Thomas, making no attempt to hide the derision. “You’re not old.” The words came out much like they would have had Michaelangelo been saying that two plus two was four or that the sky was blue. To him, it was a fact. He didn’t consider someone old until they started shrinking. Hair was just unreliable. Some people were bald before they were thirty. Some people were gray or white before then. With Thomas, he couldn’t properly judge mostly because the calculus professor could both wear a wig and dye his hair if he still had it. Not that the man’s hair was any of his business. It was just his mind wandering again. Now, if only it could wander back to a point semi-relevant to their current situation. “You can take trips during the school breaks,” he suggested after a moment of summary by Elsa, who always seemed to be paying more attention to conversations than he, “I mean, they’re a good month long. Go and be crazy then.”
Speaking of crazy… his gaze drifted back to the bottles facing them. His lips pressed together as he tried to pound his curiosity back into submission. He had a feeling Thomas had been smashed before, so far gone that no bartender’s remedy could return him to a state of sobriety, but he wasn’t about to ask the man what it was like. It would be humiliating, revealing both his total inexperience and his need to live vicariously through others because of it. Besides, if he asked, Thomas would be likely to suggest he simply order a drink. How could he refuse without giving away his reasoning? He was old enough. He didn’t have class the following day. He could afford a drink or two if he was willing to splurge on it, which was turning out to not be the point of dragging him here. What was the point then? Was Thomas trying to fix him up with somebody?
For some reason, the clubbing Thomas mentioned seemed more appropriate for that avenue. Michaelangelo kept his mouth shut, however, and didn’t dare comment on it, regardless of potential or curiosity. Instead, he chose to frown at the statement that quickly followed it, a bit disappointed at how simple it was to deny. “Yeah? What’s the point of going out all on my own unless I want to drink my troubles away?” He didn’t really have troubles to drink away, except maybe the schizophrenia, and he didn’t drink for any purpose whatsoever. Even if one of his siblings were to ever get married and invite him, he would turn down the champagne at his or her reception. “Where would you suggest I go instead? A club would probably be twice as uncomfortable and three times as unappealing as this place. I mean, here, I can at least smoke.” He blew a ring of the haze directly into Thomas’s face to emphasize the point, lifting an eyebrow, and then slid the cigarette between his lips once more as he regarded the other professor. The guy was smart—he had to be, to have the position he did—and he would figure out a halfway decent response. Surely. |
[/color][/size][/font][bg=000000][atrb=align,justify][atrb=border,0,true][/td][/tr] [tr][td] notes ! I feel like he’s trying to start an argument and this doesn’t really please me >> ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b][atrb=cellspacing,0,true,bTable][atrb=cellpadding,10,true][atrb=width,410,true,bTable][/td][/tr][/table][/center]
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Post by THOMAS LULA ROTH on Sept 12, 2012 10:55:17 GMT -5
Tom wasn't one who'd been too interested in things like psychology. He found his love in calculus, in the pure mathematical logic. And while he did well in his psych classes, it was just not his calling. He supposed everyone had those things, the areas they excelled in but never tried to pursue. If so, he still would not have been able to tell what was up with Mickey. It was a mental illness that could be subtle enough to go unnoticed. Unless of course hallucination manifested in people someone could talk to. Like John Nash, who Tom respected because he would always respect a fellow mathematician.
He smiled his broad, easygoing smile when Mickey said that he could take trips during breaks. "That's what I do," the man said, nodding a little. "Yeah, usually it's to visit family, but luckily my family is pretty close in the area." His parents lived here, as did his siblings. A lot of his aunts and uncles could also be found in the Hollow, and his beloved grandmother too. There were some in the states, and even some in Ireland, but those were the really distant cousins that no one actually talked about. The professor had often found them hard to understand, so usually smiled and nodded when they spoke when he had to go out and visited him. He liked them all the same, though, they were good people.
If Tom ever went out clubbing again, he'd have hit that mid-life crisis, the age when he was trying to recapture youth. It's what people who could not accept age did, tried their best to go back. And he didn't want to revert it. Sure, he was acting much older than he was, but that had been mostly because he felt older than he was, older than he should have been at thirty-two. He didn't have a particularly traumatic past, but he'd lived through a lot of things he wished he hadn't. While they scarred deep, he tried not to carry those things with him. He'd successfully moved past a lot of it, and he believed that's what made him an adult. He wasn't about to go back to the years when he could club and drink all night without getting a hangover that was the equivalent of a lobotomy. Another thing that worsened with age was hangovers.
Tom shrugged at the words. It was like the man was trying to put down any chance of going out. On Tom's part it was a simple suggestion and he wouldn't be devastated if Mickey decided he was better off alone. It was the guy's life, he was just making friendly conversation. "Go out to eat or something." Then again, it was an equally sad sight to watch a lone man eat dinner. But in a lot of situations he could meet new people. That is, if he wanted to. "Amusement parks are fun. A lot of screaming kids around, but they have smoking areas." Hell, he'd like to go to one and he didn't think of it as trying to recapture his youth since he didn't really go to that kind of place in his youth. "Or you can sit at home and watch movies all the time, I don't know man. That's how you end up like my buddy, Rudy." He didn't go into a description of Rudy, who he was or what he did, he just implied that one did not want to become a Rudy.
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Post by MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE on Sept 13, 2012 0:43:54 GMT -5
matching set of marching clocks ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | [th][bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true] | tag ! stark && thomas ;; word count ! 784 ;; setting ! blackjack bar ;; outfit ! suit ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | His family lived in the area. He’d grown up in the area. He’d gotten in two car crashes in the area. The area was a relatively small one, too, when he considered it, and it had a fairly small population to it. Especially now that the humans were gone… it was even smaller. The town felt deserted. It was almost amazing how crowded the bar felt in comparison to what he’d expected. In a sense, though, it also provided a sense of freedom. They could talk openly about their powers here, about the academy and how it worked there, about the alliances people couldn’t get over. They could even use their powers, as long as they didn’t assault someone. What wonderful, dangerous freedom. People would take advantage of it, he knew. He also knew that the segregation would cause prejudice just as much as it had when color and race still segregated the country geographically below them. Segregation fostered hate. Was that what the government was trying to do?
Of course, it would weaken the individual dissenter. Hatred and fear bred easily in separation. Tales would grow and turn into hyperboles as the truth was lost. Of course, he was being extreme. There was only such a minute difference between them and the humans. They looked alike. They acted alike. Elementals were simply more capable of doing odd little things—such as causing earthquakes (though he had yet to see that) and creating tornadoes (a thing he had never once tried himself). Sometimes, he suspected elementals were more evolved than humans, that it was a sign the race was returning to its roots in nature, but in a way so incredibly different than anyone had expected. Or perhaps the humans were more evolved, and elementals were a phase between them and nature. Or maybe elementals were simply a different species altogether, completely unrelated, that had somehow evolved to look pretty much exactly like humans did. Any theory was a bit ridiculous. The development of humans irked him. He didn’t think any one person had the answer. Surely there was more to it than the accident of evolution, but he didn’t believe there was much of a higher power. Maybe he was just weak in biology.
It wasn’t so much that Michaelangelo didn’t like children, but rather that children didn’t like him. He intimidated and scared them, he supposed, and he wasn’t interested enough in them to give much of a damn if they were upset by his lack of smiling and coddling. Children were little, undeveloped humans and elementals. They weren’t quite as “smart” or “mature” as the older ones. At the same time, they had a sort of innocence that fascinated him. Sure, they still discriminated in favor of those who agreed with them and in favor of their own selfish desires, but there was an unintentional sweetness to it. He didn’t think a baby could grasp the concept of evil. Because of this inability, he found it equally difficult to believe that babies didn’t immediately think the best of everybody. They cried because they assumed it would get them attention, although even that could be judged as too high a manner of thought for the age group. He wasn’t picky, or at least, he tried not to be. Either way, having to listen to kids shriek and screams due to the rollercoasters they were on did not appeal to him in the slightest. He’d end up with a headache and being rather unpleasant. Besides, he’d probably be singled out as some sort of predator if he went to an amusement park all by his lonesome. He didn’t need the rides either.
“And what is so wrong with your buddy, Rudy?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow and regarding him seriously. There had to be some sort of problem there. Why else would Thomas bring him up? He wanted details. He wanted to know what could possibly be so wrong as make Thomas say he shouldn’t become like him. Could it really be that bad? What was he possibly thinking? Was the man a drug addict who regularly went out and raped and/or murdered women? Michaelangelo didn’t think he was likely to get there at all. He was a bit crazy, but he wasn’t violent. Not really. Not usually. Sure, he had a bad temper, but he wasn’t about to go and strangle someone for real. As for rape… he wasn’t even interested in sex for the most part. Sure, he had urges just like anyone else, but he suppressed these for the most part. Even if rape was generally more about control, he had no particular problem with or need for it. |
[/color][/size][/font][bg=000000][atrb=align,justify][atrb=border,0,true][/td][/tr] [tr][td] notes ! Mickey why you so quiet? D8 ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b][atrb=cellspacing,0,true,bTable][atrb=cellpadding,10,true][atrb=width,410,true,bTable][/td][/tr][/table][/center]
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Post by THOMAS LULA ROTH on Sept 14, 2012 18:02:29 GMT -5
Tom didn't mind quiet people. They were easy to get along with, that was for sure. And he didn't feel the need to bridge gaps in conversation, simply enjoyed the companionable quiet. He couldn't be described as quiet himself, not really. He wasn't talkative, either. Save for when he got on something he was passionate about. A lot of people learned that the hard way. One did not make a foul comment about something he loved without repercussion. He was a passionate man, but he was also shifty. He could be your best friend one moment, and then a cagey, flighty man the next. His students were the ones to be thrown off the most by this, but usually he had the image of a hardass professor to uphold. He did it well, with stern features and droning lectures. Though he did make an effort to connect with his classroom. He saw no benefit in teaching anyone who wasn't at least conscious in his class. It was rather difficult to make the subject interesting to people only taking the class as a requirement, but when that was the case he didn't even bother. They should want to pass for their future.
As it were, he was fine with just smoking a cigarette. The man did indulge from time to time on the Academy grounds, though he tried to avoid it. Not that he wanted to be a bad influence to his student. If they were going to get into shit, it was going to be because of their peers. As a matter of fact, he was sure most kids would want to do the opposite of their teachers. As a professor, it was funny to think of his teacher friends and how they must have seemed like evil robots to their students. He probably thought of them much the same way when he was younger, though he couldn't really remember teachers. Though the select few that he could bring to mind when swapping stories of high school experiences. There was always those evil teachers, the ones who made your life hell. He at least tried to avoid being that, though he wanted what was best for his students.
Because otherwise they would turn out to be Rudy. Mickey seemed very curious about him, and he supposed it was understandable since Tom only gave a little snippet of information about him. "He's a buddy of mine who sits at home all the time eating cheetos and smoking pot." Okay, so he did smoke pot but he had a life and he didn't do it that much. He was an adult, he had things to do, and honestly being stoned all the time was some middle school bullshit. "Usually he's the one calling me at two in the morning asking why gravy boats aren't used for things like ketchup or other condiments." No one wanted to be that guy and no one wanted to be friends with that guy. Though Thomas did love all his friends, he wouldn't be around them if he didn't. "I mean, a lot of factors have to go into it before become that. A lot of DUIs, years of being a bag boy at the grocery store, and family disappointment. But the life of a shut in is not glamorous." And such was the tale of Rudy. He had other friends who were similar but got themselves outside. A lot of his friends were Academy teachers and professors, though, because he saw them the most. He spent a lot of time at the school.
He flicked ash to the ground, putting the cigarette back in his mouth as he looked out at the dark. It was near impossible to see stars in the city, but in some places they flickered in the sky. The bar was not one of them, unfortunately. "Feel like going back in?" Tom asked the man, watching his cigarette steadily wane, closing in to a butt. Unless Mickey wanted another, they could go back to their drinks. It wasn't cold out, so Tom didn't mind being outside. Though the temperature did drastically drop, it was a comfortable kind of warm with a lack of humidity. It was especially appreciated what with the suit her wore.
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Post by MICHAELANGELO DONATELLO GRACE on Sept 29, 2012 18:48:55 GMT -5
matching set of marching clocks ! [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | [th][bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true] | tag ! stark && thomas ;; word count ! 694 ;; setting ! blackjack bar ;; outfit ! suit ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b] | Movies didn’t appeal to him. He didn’t watch them when he could avoid it. He didn’t have the attention span to accomplish something like that. His attention span, in general, was rather poor. He was just easily distracted, but he knew he wasn’t the only person on Earth who suffered from that. It tended to impact people negatively, too. It was one of the many reasons he had taken forever to get his degree and it was a lesser reason why he hadn’t become a cop. That was still a sore case with him. He didn’t mind so much that he’d been in school for years. He sort of liked school. Why else would he go back to it, if he despised the place so much? But it was only a secondary choice. Those who can’t do, teach. He couldn’t be a cop, so he would teach those who could and hopefully not screw up too much. He was far more insecure about it than he wanted to be. But then, people in general didn’t want to be insecure. They wanted to be confident because confidence was key to success or some shit like that. Depending on how you defined success, he had it already.
Well, he was successful in some parts of his life. He had a job. He had his own place—though his mother had tried to talk him into moving in back home again several times, considering the apartments downtown weren’t the safest places to live. He made enough money to live off, though he couldn’t afford the luxuries some people could. The thing was just that he didn’t really need or even want those luxuries. He had what he needed. He didn’t really want more, except the occasional bit of knowledge, for which he still searched with insatiable curiosity. It was why he asked endless questions, like he did about the man’s buddy Rudy.
He listened to Thomas’s speech mostly with quiet curiosity. He honestly wanted to know about this friend he’d mentioned, what was so horrid about him. From the details, he knew he was nothing like the other, but he also disagreed that he was among the worst out there. “Well, I only smoke cigarettes, so the pot won’t be a problem. I don’t drink and I don’t drive, so I won’t be getting a DUI. Though, I do sometimes wonder why gravy boats are only allowed for gravy. You could so put other sauces in them, though ketchup is way to viscous for it work properly. I’ve never been a bag boy. And I don’t think my family is disappointed in me. So don’t worry about me turning into your friend.” Throughout the little speech, his voice was clear, slow, and matter-of-fact. He knew what he was talking about. He wasn’t tempted to try drugs for recreational purposes—he had enough hallucinations without them, and he didn’t want to see the voices on top of hearing them. It wasn’t nearly as fun as some people imagined. It was a damned pain in the ass and not one with which he wanted to deal. He didn’t want to deal with things if he didn’t need to.
Michaelangelo would have preferred another cigarette to going back inside. He’d prefer a whole box of them to going back inside. He was tempted to say he wished to leave. He didn’t see the point of being there. He wasn’t going to drink. He probably wasn’t going to hook up with anyone. The only reason he was here was because of Thomas. “Why did you bring me here?” he asked finally, gaze flicking over to his companion. “What are we doing here? Honestly.” They weren’t here to find dates. Well, he wasn’t. Maybe Thomas was. Maybe Thomas wanted the criminal justice professor to help him get laid or something, though he really had no idea how he would do such a thing. He also wasn’t sure if that was really the case. He could be wrong. He wanted to be wrong. But he also wanted to know what was supposed to be happening. “Really, what did you expect here?” |
[/color][/size][/font][bg=000000][atrb=align,justify][atrb=border,0,true][/td][/tr] [tr][td] notes ! bothersome little schizo doesn’t like me >> ;; [cs=2][bg=060606][atrb=border,0,true,b][atrb=cellspacing,0,true,bTable][atrb=cellpadding,10,true][atrb=width,410,true,bTable][/td][/tr][/table][/center]
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