The book - bit by bit

[lukas989]

Something woke him up – possibly the dream he'd been having, but he couldn't remember it.  Something to do with a guy with a gun.  Enough anyway to be considered a candidate for the reason he was reaching over to check the time on his apparently expensive but actually not wrist watch, which he'd found, was going to sell, but decided not to because he had found out it was worth fuck all.  Six thirteen.  The alarm was scheduled for a six forty-five arousal attempt – offering him thirty-two minutes of dozing.  He decided to take it.  The day ahead was uninteresting enough in theory to be forgotten about for the allotted dozing time – instead he decided to think about breasts and vaginas.  The usual result of thinking about this subject matter was already in evidence, so what the hay. 
The faceless yet gorgeous women danced through his mind adding weight behind the swollen member between his legs.  Masturbation had actually now grown kind of boring – which he assumed was the reason most guys finally reached the decision to get off their arse and find a lady friend.  Those who generally didn't bother that is.  Of whom he most definitely was.  There had been a strong recurring theme of failed relationships caused by a disappointing sex life in his past.  The excitement generated by the possibility of no holds barred sexual activity with a reasonably good looking girl had always without fail kindled a fire within him, that had him realising he was an extremely sexual person...he fantasized about everything.  At least up to the extreme of human waste becoming involved, cutting each other, torturing each other....the usual reasonably acceptable stuff to reasonably open minded people.  A lot of stuff performed with tongues, mouths and fingers for example.  His horniness - up to this point at least - had not been seized upon by a like-minded lady however....they had all fallen very very short of his expectations.  A vicious cycle had thus been revolving – mind-numbingly slowly right enough – up to now, with regards to a long drawn out hunt for a willing lady friend, the struggle through the early courtships leading up to gaining that first entry into the ladys panties, the overlook of the relief felt at getting some action, then the drip drip drip of increasing disappointment upon realising the adventurousness would never stray too far away from what was familiar.  i.e. not even so much as a discussion about grazing a single digit over a certain forbidden region.  Then it was the pain and suffering endured trying to end this debacle as painlessly as possible, meaning he was comfortable in his mind, she was as happy with moving on as he was.  It once had happened – she was completely amicable, which needless to say had caused several months of brain racking as to what was so terrible about him, as to warrant a happy and cheery 'sure, I thought the time with you was crap,' type reaction to the suggested dissolution.  It was cool for him to be disillusioned, not for her.  Arrogant for sure – but his whole attitude was based around a philosophy of giving barely a person reason to dislike him – even those tasteless fuckers he thought to be complete arseholes.  Eventually, he had replayed those moments where she had acted a complete cow enough in his head to finally move on.  At least enough to think about it only within his slideshow of life lows he sometimes mentally viewed in those moments where he felt crap about himself.  At this time he was at the fun crossroads – just far enough away from the last lady to be relieved to be single again, and still a good distance yet to travel before the yearning for another blind turn down the 'possibly shes up for something a little freaky naughty' trail.  He liked the crossroads – but no doubt the masturbation was still boring all the same.  The decision to crack one off anyway, brought the turning into view...shit, he thought.    The bags are packed again.

[wither-I]

never stop writing. never stop growing. you are a shaman and a warrior of good and peace.

[lukas989]

Masturbating first thing in the morning, was an important decision.  If there was plenty to keep yourself occupied, then sure – it frees up the mind to concentrate fully on whatever tasks present themselves.  Alas, on this occasion, there was fuck all scheduled, meaning there was a clear period of time where it was more than possible there would be some depressed reflection of how empty things were...woke up, wanked, sat around waiting for bedtime.  Not to mention, a task that he had often managed to spread out over a two hour period (mental foreplay, use of pornographic material, gentle build up and so on), had now been completed in all of 15 minutes.  A waste of a chug in many regards.  Still, it was done now, and the challenge of realising an exciting activity to quickly and efficiently do instead laid itself before him.  The duration of making and consuming coffee ought to prove sufficient.  Fully aware of how tough a task this was, what with the recent experiences that had recurred (and with that the heightening of difficulty owing to several options having now been exhausted), he prepared a full cafetieres-worth to eek out the time allotted.  A sigh escaped his down-turned mouth in time with the slow plunge through the black liquid.
Officially eight cups worth of coffee – but truthfully two and half mugs full...plenty of time would slip by whilst making the choice of the days activity(s).  The TV on switch is depressed on the way to the inviting sofa – inviting insofar as one could stretch themselves across fully with minimal angle created in the neck area, thanks in full to the sloping armrest – a sofa fully in appreciation of the lazy person.  The channel was defaulted to channel 4, after the previous nights viewing of Desperate Housewives, an embarrassing admission in truth, which was the main reason as to why no admission had ever been made.  Noone was available to discuss the craziness occurring each week in Wysteria Lane, but he cared little.  He'd grown up watching oily men in tights fake fight each other alone without problem – hot women becoming embroiled in random dilemmas both episodically and series-long was a mere drop in the ocean in comparison.  The TV shone out Everybody Loves Raymond, a choice that would have been made anyway – he smiled satisfied at the saved effort, settling in to the sharp observations made by the grandaddies and 'mas of American sitcoms.  Often he had mused about creating something – the idea of a format upon others created appealed to him greatly, mainly because there was a shedload of cash to be made from just having his creations used.  The effort required to expand on his mental money-makers always seemed out of reach.  In truth the effort wasn't the only problem, it was mentally building on the idea of creating something.  He had always seemed pre-occupied with spending the cash as opposed to the formulating of the idea upon which the cash would build.  Musing on this problem then spawned the faster route to a creation being used a lot – one song based on a popular theme that would be used every year at that special time...a christmas song, an easter song...ok just a christmas song.  Alas the general feel of a christmas song repulsed him so, that it would be a proverbial taking up the arse creating something adhering to the rules of what made a popular christmas tune.  Which then lead to how much he would be willing to receive to actually take it up the arse – not that he thought his arse was worth much, just that the fact it would take a high bid to get at it, meant those who just had to have what was forbidden, would surely create a bidding war, and thus the bragging rights to his previously forbidden arse.  It often made him wonder though – if one person offering a once in a lifetime oppurtunity to receive some money for the right to bugger him came along, what sum would it be that he would accept?  How low would he go?  He was pretty certain there would have to be a thousand in there at least – but as little as one thousand?  In all fairness this was a wondering that only occurred when cash was tight, or when he was checking the lottery results.  Consuming coffee was always something he overdid – at least half a mug too much was consumed on any given coffee drinking occasion.  Coffee was one of the few luxury food items he allowed himself – the majority of his diet was made up of food that totalled just over thirty pounds for a weeks worth.  With this in mind, he made sure that whenever coffee was consumed, absolute value for money was sought, bloated sicky feelings aside.  He felt he was at the point of no return now anyway – much like a sixty a day smoker.  His sanity was now dependant on a daily coffee consumption – it was required to see him through the trials and tribulations any given day had to offer – which whilst mainly caused through self inflicted pessimism were tribulations in plentiful supply nonetheless.  On top of this, coffee made him feel cool.  He'd witnessed many many suave bastards consume coffee over the years – and he wanted to join them.  He had been a smoker for many years too, but in truth, the coolness was negated by the lack of money and cardio he now had.  He drank his coffee black – like the all the coolest drinkers before him.  They wouldn't have been nearly as cool supping back a cinammon flavoured decaf latte.  The very hint of a thought of smoking had him reaching for the crumpled packet of golden virginia sat on the coffee table in front of him.  He looked up at the sound of the first of the ads in between parts one and two of Raymond, and momentarily found himself lost in the decision to abandon rolling in favour of urinating.  He used the indecision to gauge how desperate he was...a couple of seconds rolled by before he scolded himself for even suggesting that he postpone pissing.  Doing so would mean either, missing the beginning of part two, or even worse, having to sit through all of part two being tormented by the ever increasing discomfort caused by the pee pee progressing down his urethra.  Thus he dropped the packet and trotted towards the bathroom.

[lostpilot]

yes, don't stop writing

[theis]

...but learn how to use a paragraph.

[lukas989]

Supporting the decision to drop and go, was the unfortunate fact that he was useless at peeing under pressure.  The house was empty sure, but placed under any kind of time limit, or even more so in the company of others, brought upon the strange sensation of forgetting how to piss.  Knowing full well he had a whopping four or more advertisements to drain his body, he stood relaxed in front of the porcelain haven.  Public peeing meant cubicles – the security of a locked door, released the mechanism within himself – otherwise he was left standing in front of a urinal awkwardly trying to ignore the fact people had pulled their cock from their pants peed and zipped up, in spite of having initiated the process well after he had.  This dilemma meant forward planning – nothing worse than standing helpless in front of a open view watering hole, whilst the show or gig or whatever continued on regardless.  Worse still, was the oft had desire for a shit, but not quite yet, which meant hanging on until the last possible moment before leaving.  This of course put added pressure on producing resulting more often than not, a 'problem' shit – one that left the sort of residue that would chafe and irritate for the duration of the experience that was supposed to be enjoyed.  Often a  period of some days would follow, while the arse repaired itself, seemingly angry at him for treating it with such disregard.  It was a valuable reminder that the anus and penis deserved respect when it came to ridding the body of waste – much like the head and stomach do during a hangover.  The careful clean up process drew a close to this instance of urination – every drop was squeezed from the hose soaked up by a gratefully receiving length of toilet tissue.  Much like the angry anus, the penis too offered up a revenge of sorts, by dribbling the hastily ignored last droplets by dismissively spilling them out into the unwelcoming arms of the underpant – itself a short term reminder of why care and consideration was an extremely important component of maintaining a confident and problem free mindset.  This sort of attitude had avoided a repeat of the horror of having pissed the bed one night, caused by the arrogance of an alcohol tainted mind.  The sort of attitude that had been absent for so long, that it was almost thought to be no longer relevant.  Its relevance was hammered home via the medium of an elongated stretch of scrubbing stale pish out of the mattress that still sat proudly atop his bedframe – and thus a lifelong reminder.  Taking for granted of course he never again replaced it.  Best to play it safe, therefore offering that glorious unexpected day of unwrapping a brand new pillowtop.  He felt sorry for all that shared the bed with him, totally oblivious they were snuggling and drooling on top of his once bathroom.  It had crossed his mind to bring this into an argument – kind of a fuck you, to replace the awkward pause he often had to endure by way of not thinking quickly enough of a witty retort,  which always came after.  There was rarely a moment he could fit the fuckers in after thinking of them.  The beauty of the soiled mattress quip, was that it needed no real setup – he could slip it in at any time, maybe even atop a crescendo of abuse being aimed at him.  He always bottled out though – mainly because of the fact he would ultimately be mocked for pissing himself in his bed.  He therefore clung onto the internal knowledge the bitch was afflicted with his now few years old pee pee remants, forcing himself to be satisfied with the filthy reality alone.

[lukas989]

He arrived back in the living room , with enough time even to have a quick glance at what was occurring on bbc 1 – the time told him the local news would likely be on, and with that an outside chance to flick over at the exact moment the strangely posh lady was telling him about the weather he wasn't going to experience.  Such was the apparent fairly sizeable difference in the weather these days, he felt a need to continuously check up on what craziness was forthcoming as often as possible...maybe the ever increasing amount of natural disasters would one day hit Scotland.  On this occasion however, it was still the stuck up cow on the sofa sitting next to the apparently fed up yet suave dude on the sofa back in London – so he flipped back over to four, mentally noting to catch the same tidbits in just over an hour.
Chuckles timed nicely with the onslaught of well constructed observational scenes littered the final part of Raymond – nicely owing to the fact he knew when they were supposed to happen having watched each and every episode at least now three times.  He was more than aware of t6he increasingly poor signs relating to how sad he was judging by how many times he'd viewed the continuous cycle of the popular channel four sitcoms.  He'd watched friends the first time round – and was still catching it now – several years later, and knew deep down he would continue to do so until it stopped.  Then he'd probably buy the box set.  Just in case.  There was something comfortable to be enjoyed in the familiarity of these feelgood jovial characters...memories rekindled in a 'where was I' stylee with each viewing...although they were kind of blurring into each other now they spun two episodes a day, repeated several times (to a ridiculous degree when incorporative of +1 channels).  He drew comfort from the fact it still was on TV – he wasn't the only one out there.  What did upset him a touch was not knowing who these fellow viewers were, which kindled images of the dregs of society being so.  Ignorance is bliss – and absolutely no effort would be made to unearth these people through fear of having to destroy these relationships over a long drawn out period.  Extra fear was brought on by the possibility these people were obsessive maniacs who couldn't let go...a touch hypocrytical he admitted to himself – but he knew he wasn't about to murder someone or stalk Jennifer Aniston.  Under no circumstances did he wish to put himself in the position where he may be implicated in the forced buggery of Matt Le Blanc.  He would never engage in that sort of ordeal – but he could always be accused of assisting the setup – and with all the fans of the Joey character out there, he feared time in prison would be spent fending off huge dont give a fuck guys, paid to saw off his toes with a pen knife by disgusted 40 year old women who dreamt of being asked 'how you doin'?'

[lukas989]

The cafetiere read half a mug at most...and the days planning was no nearer hatched in his noggin.  This was officially now day 'too long' unemployed...the initial period of unemployment were always quite nice – away from the place that had caused so much disdain within him, that he had become dejected to the point of saying to himself 'No more!  I'd rather be sat around shitting myself that no moneys coming in and with no clue as to the duration of the drought, than endure another day of this fucking hell hole'.  But then, the fear – albeit totally expected – struck, and the desperation set in.  'I'll take my time – find whats right for me,' had become, 'Anything – lets find anything.'  Any job would do.  The realisation of where he was on this, rubber-stamped the first hour at least upon completion of the coffee egg timer.  Online with several tabs open to job search sites.  Either fuck all, or something monotonous that was merely a stopgap until he becamer frustrated again, and right back in this position at some stage in the future.  A shit proposition – but of there was always room for the dream career move suddenly plonking itself in front of him, and with a future chocka with hope and promise.  He let the fruitful fancy dissolve, and drew to him the laptop, sat abandoned on the floor nearby.
Skills had been gained aplenty over the years – alas the employing world for some reason decided to ignore these.  Enough time spent pursuing the overall goal of finding a prospected long term career solution had him question himself in pretty much every way...was he smart enough, was he confident enough, was he capable enough, was he sexy enough, was his cock bug enough, was he good enough in bed, was he in actual fact gay and so on and so on.  The one good thing was that he was single – there was no pressure to provide for someone else, or even worse, rely upon.  This very realisation was depressing in itself.  He put the negativity to one side – at least until after the likely failed search. 

[lukas989]

Pre-job search, he did the usual – checked emails (fuck all outside of sex toy promotions and Amazon deals), the forums he contributed to (responses in forums where his posts were deliberately weighted with mock, ranged from tones suggesting he was fucked up in the head to just boldly accusing him of being a cunt; the ones he sought actual fodder for fuelling his interests and was actually constructive, had him bookmarking purchases and adding friends on Myspace), and finally racked up a few points on the 7 simultaneous games of Scrabble he had on the go.  Using the 'net in company was stripped down to checking emails – he was embarrassed by his own contributions to the world wide web, and enjoyed the anonymity.  The email checking was always just a fleeting glance on top of this owing to that weeks butt plug promotions sitting boldly in his inbox.  Best not to let anyone have the opportunity even to form a suspicion.  The usual line up of job sites were checked through...optimism turned to pessimism as predicted – he had formed a self-depricating screening system of picturing himself in the imaginary job created from the few lines written in description of the company offering the position, and more often than not found himself struggling.  He'd apply anyway, with a strange hope he would hear nothing more about it – a desire apparently listened to by the powers that be.  There were a couple there he did actually reserve a small amount of hope for, but he tossed aside the laptop satisfied he could move his mind onto different matters.  He lit up at the memory of leaving himself a small amount of ice cream in the freezer.  Still pre-ten 'o' clock, but fuck it – time meant nothing in the world of the unemployed.  He'd have a bowl of cereal for that evenings dessert to counter the imbalance.

[lukas989]

Lots of free time was reawakening in him a desire to make his body look good – big biceps and pronounced abs.  Reawakened, because he had before...he had spent one summer going nuts...living out in the middle of nowhere as he had at the time, had drawn the obsessive nature out of him and thrown it towards actual movement as opposed to sitting about doing fuck all.  That and the fact her had no internet connection.  Rambles along country paths had mutated into, brisk walking with bursts of running, and then – actual full blown running.  Everything bad was extinguished – food, fags, drugs, drink – he woke up to smoothies, arrived home to stir frys, and fell asleep with an apple core on the table in front of him.  Running was soon joined by weights and press ups...sometimes he would stand and stare at himself in just his pants, wide-eyed and grinning at the phenomenon he had become.  The larger and fitter he got – the more work he did.  Until one day, he met a girl, and slowly but surely the effort subsided...firstly owing to time constraints, but soon because the girl had plunged him back into depression and overthought – even coupling a fabulous body with his usual sparkling personality (all that was needed before) had ultimately not worked in bagging himself a life partner.  Eventually the constant bickering and argument had him traipsing along to his dealer and picking himself up a bag of homegrown.  Such was the amount of exercise he had been able to do in one sitting, anything short of that seemed a waste of time.  Ultimately the decision was made to fuck effort and go back to doing what was comfortable and unchallenging.  The madness was so obvious that he knew if he was looking at himself from outside, he'd be shaking his head confusedly – but he also knew he was rational in general judging by the effective shoulder he was able to provide to others in need.  Putting your own good sense into self-practice was tough at times.  But as time settled things down (girl by this time was long gone), he realised his search for companionship would be hindered by such dedication to putting pop in his pecs – he had spent practically all his spare time thrusting his body in all directions to achieve the results.  Which, whilst pleasing to his own eye, was really just an alternative method of social avoidance.  Not to mention a large briquette placed on the glowing embers of the 'he must be gay' inferno.  He knew smoking pot was eventually something that had to subside  - but until such time as he felt life basically insisted stop, he was fucking well gonna.  Being stoned suited him.  He also recognised moments when it didn't suit him (feeling shit mentally was only enhanced by being stoned) and whereas he would blaze up regardless, he had now turned into a positive smoker – one who did so when the occasion called for it.  Bless the Summer of Exercise – it had drawn him out of the sofa for long enough to make adjustments.  Now all he needed was a token representing the correctness of these adjustments – aka, a hot lady who laughed at his jokes.  Thankfully the experience of life was extending the acceptance to let things flow for longer – he decidede to extend the zen with a leisurely stroll through the park – all in all an acceptance he had to start again if he was to once again at least look like he might have a chance of beating up someone semi-tough.

[lukas989]

He always plugged earphones into his head on these walks – the plus gained from the jogs through the country was knowing meeting someone was rare...it was his in the main.  Park strolls brought home the reality of the city – even the green regions were awash with people.  Music offered him a barrier – if someone came at him for his wallet, he would in all likelihood be oblivious, and that moment of oblivion would hopefully be enough to dissuade the assailant and move on to a pensioner or something.  Not only did he want to avoid being mugged, he wanted to avoid the suggestion of being mugged, having in fact been the victim of one sometime ago. The weeks that followed were invaded with thoughts of what if – he had escaped unharmed and unrobbed (he had had no money, and the guy was quite literally shitting himself, running off muttering 'you had better not be lying').  A couple of years later had seen his flat broken into further to this – and with that a pattern leading up to a fairly obvious disdain for repeat.  Anything threatening his general sense of chilledness – paranoia, anger, fear and so on – were treated with a great deal of seriousness, steps and measures of evasion were well thought out and calculated.  The piece of shit who had let himself into his flat, whilst he sat oblivious at work, was never caught (he often wondered if a chase had even been initiated), and that wrangled.  The thought of catching the fuck in the act was one he had retrodden many many times since, the conclusion being he would beat the shit out of him.  The thought didn't end at him repeatedly booting him in the guts as he lay prone on the floor of course – it stretched to the consequences of being the fuck to a bloody pulp.  Police charging him for GBH or something, the fuck recouping, gathering up some compadres and reaping revenge on him, followed by completing the pilfering of his possessions...a whole trail of life disruption, which led him to believe it was probably for the best he hadn't caught him.  Never once had he been involved in a physical fight – he liked to believe he hadn't because he was worried he would beat the foe so badly he'd cause irreparable damage.  In reality, if pushed he would perhaps concede it was more because there were more ruthless Disney fans.

[lukas989]

The day was pretty much perfect for walking – just cold enough to justify a jacket and a light breeze just strong to take the uncomfortable edge off the inevitable sweat.  He had living in the same house for roughly 15 months, two weeks – and the only people he knew were the corner shop folk, and the chip shop folk.  Sure he would say hello to folk coincidentally walking up or down the stairs, but that was all – didn't know names, jobs ages – just faces.  The fun was in the assumption – the body language was the source upon which to create possible stories behind these people.  He strangely enjoyed the more introverted types, those that shied away from any kind of contact – a guy he saw fairly frequently, whom he had eventually worked out stayed in the flat on floor below on the opposite side from himself.  He stayed with a fairly flamboyant, larger older guy...a pandoras box of assumption swilled from side to side.  Still struggling with his sexual orientation, comfortable only in the company of his oversized lover, living vicariously through him ,and becoming a snivelling wreck when not around him.  He imagined the poor fool was still not out of the closet with anyone other than his close family – work colleagues likely played the same game as he was himself, but without the physical ammo of a chunky piece of evidence loudly and proudly pushing himself to the forefront in his 'partners' 'definitely a gay man' trial by jury.  He revelled in the discomfort felt by him for whatever reason – there was something comforting in knowing he wasn't the most uncomfortable person in the hallway.  Not the most confident, but definitely not the most unconfident – step forward mr closet gay (as he was known).

[theis]

[lukas989]

He would find himself imagining being in his shoes – what motivated the decisions he mad...why he chose to put so much effort into keeping the door closed on others knowing.  In light of this, he discovered there really wasn't too much difference in what he chose to do himself – the difference being he felt his choice to shut others out was because he genuinely couldn't be fucked dealing with a great deal of the people who had wandered through the front door of his life, free of official invitation.  Mr closet, was more because he was shit scared of judgement, seeing only the negative judgement, people hating him, laughing at him, taunting him.  The thought process ended when further realisation revealed, this too was similar to him.  He had mused on this often enough – obviously seeking to distance himself from a group that was dipped for a prolonged spell in the nervous sauce.  Because he didn't feel nervous – he didn't panic a lot.  He just revelled in distance. He had a strange perversion for assuming people wanted to hang out with him, and not getting the opportunity to.  Getting invited places and not going, then being told it was a real shame he wasn't there and stuff.  Being wanted, but not attending.  That often seemed to be enough – just as a confirmation his patter was appreciated, moved people enough to desire his company.  Once he had that affirmation, the decision was more about whether he wanted to hang out with them.  It wasn't a case of whether he felt he wasn't up to contributing, and being lost in the mix (well thats a lie, sometimes it was), it was more having to perform like a circus act without any  comeback.  Talking at people was ok for a while, but after that, some contribution was desired.  The flipside was obviously being cancelled out – just as bad...it was a rare and sought after dynamic, the hallowed 'each-way street'.  He'd had it a couple of times....moving home, job, whatever usually put a stop to it – and the irony often seemed to be, that the other end of the street would be occupied by a guy who was also happy to leave it, safe in the knowledge there company was desired.  That was enough.

[lukas989]

That didn't stop him from wondering what they were doing, where they were, all that sort of thing.  Not because he felt any huge desire to track them down or anything – it was more to find out if these people who were more similar to him than most, had 'made' it, had got somewhere.  Something concrete to give him the belief that if they could, he could.  Of course there was no guarantee they had carved out there own opportunities, but just knowing that a jackass cut from the same weird cloth he was had got somewhere would theoretically be enough to justify him actually getting off his pessimistic arse and  going for something.  Trying to make things happen.  Relying on something maybe happening was getting a little annoying...his belief in fate was waning in tandem.  In saying that, maybe on this very walk he might stumble across a man turning blue; staring death fully in the face, that being until he races to him, quickly deciphers the gestures being made to him by the blue man, and proceeds to perform the necessary manouverings to save his life.  This blue man then offers his eternal gratitude, and by luck, it turns out hes an incredibly rich man who runs his own multi-million pound company, and sees it as a returned favour to offer him a position, ridding him of financial dire straits, and enough varying responsibility to make even the working day a happy and fruitful experience.  Beautiful women start paying attention, he perhaps wanders into a Porsche dealership and picks out a nice Carrera, perhaps he strolls into a designer clothes store, and receives preferential treatment.  Perhaps – it has happened to some.  He scanned the scene in front of him – no blue men alas.  A woman strolled towards him, trailing behind a dog, who was energetically retrieving a ball.  She was an attractive woman, older by say five years or so.  She called enthusiastically after the dog, bending to greet it as it sprinted towards her with the ball.

[lukas989]

He had always been a pet fan – specifically dogs and cats, having grown up with both.  Once, a girlfriend had tried to appease his desire for a cat by bringing into their household a tortoise, which he hated.  He was far from being a person who dismissed purely based on appearance, but the judgement of the tortoise appearing to be a turd slowly oozing out of a boulder, became a guilt-free assessment, when it one day hissed at him as he attempted to return it to its plastic box home.  The experience had drawn immediate attention to its sharp looking jaws, so he had scooped the bad tempered feacal looking mother fucker, and never went near it again.  Two weeks later he had his cat.  The tortoise was no substitute – and within a few days his girlfriend had been converted to his way of thinking.  The cat had apparently listened to his instructions, and writhed on her lap, rolled on its back in front of her, and meowed in chatter form when she spoke to it, all topping up the 'convert to love' tank.  The cat was still in his life, but was now residing at his parents house.  He'd lost a few possessions during the move out of their shared flat, but the cat was coming with him – it was the one 'shared' possession he insisted on.  Having not seen her since that day, he had no clue whether the ex had replaced little Sally (he had insisted on a real person name), but he guessed she may well have.  He had thought about internet stalking her to confirm, but realised fairly quickly he didn't give a fuck.

[lukas989]

The dog stared intensely at the outreached hand of the woman – a fit toned arm, attached to an increasingly alluring body, complimented with a warm and pleasant head, out of which grew vibrant just-past-shoulder-length hair.  The fear quivered in him a little, a little unjustly, as in truth he only had one semi-reason for ever having to experience the fear.  The classic mis-reading of the signals, whereby he on this one famous occasion, he threw caution to the wind and went for it with a girl who he had no doubt was like-minded in here lusty thoughts for him.  She wasn't, and by fuck she let him know – shrieking in laughter, and calling out to all who'd listen that this 'thing' was brash enough to utter a line ripped straight from a Bond film.  On reflection the line – something along the lines of ' This connection we're experiencing is deserving of an elongated chance of elaboration,' - was fucking diabolical, but he felt all of the aftermath was totally unnecessary.  It was all the experience he needed to pull on the reigns for every future thought he experienced of this ilk.  Alas, this opened the doors of what-if galore...he still day-dreamed about the potentially beautiful kids he could have had with the model-esque Asian girl that stared the shit out of him – and not in a spooky way, in a way where he imagined confidently she wouldn't laugh at the sight of his flacid genitals. 

[lukas989]

The Bad Experience grabbed hold of this inane thought however and tugged him back, back all the way back to his two friends at the time – Simon and Tom – to discuss joint rolling contests in Amsterdam and  Nintendo vs Sega.  Ruing that day did taint the memory of the unbelievable beauty she possessed, so he would force himself to think well of it and realise how lucky he was to have even seen her.  She most likely was an arsehole anyway – memory of the physical form alone was actually a good thing.  Watching porn is one thing, but meeting them and finding out that, low and behold, they've got an annoyingly large appetite for uncomfortable levels of perverted sex is another.  Jenna Jameson was an arsehole, a fact he had discovered watching her getting interviewed on some stupid web show – but she was good at blowjobs, which were enjoyable to watch.  At least before becoming so de-sensitized to watching it, he actually now preferred Scrabble.

[lukas989]

The yardage was fast heading towards the fractious, and his mind raced...he needed an action to fill the moment.  Everyone likes a warm greeting, and committed to the decision with a couple of yards to spare.  His warm smile and gentle hello seemed to be an inspired move – the first in a potential daily meeting with this girl – the stride towards each other, the acknowledgement, the growing level of comfort with each other.  As it stood now however was one of nervousness, and a audible desperation to get away out of sight.  His legs seemed to be clutching at the memory of how they were supposed to work, clumsily lifting too high of the ground, his ankles weakly bearing the brunt of his heavy treadings.  The light glaze was pricking at his forehead and cheeks,which he duly smoothed away with the palm of his hand, in turn transferred to the side portion of his favourite grey hooded top, cunning in its forward thought of remaining hidden beneath the coat he wore atop the now soiled hoodie.  Aside from all the fear and self loathing, he was happy with the occurance.  It was something aside from the usual bollocks to fill his mind with until the hopeful next time.

[lukas989]

There was a sense of relish - relish to get inside and muse about things.  His thoughts had been filled with images of the young vixen reacting favourable to stuff he did or said....he didnt actually know what these things were - the thoughts started at the moment he had delivered the line or action that caused the mirth/intrigue, and ran through to a finish concentrating purely on her....sometimes laughing uncontrollably following up with 'You are the funniest person Ive ever met!', or, 'That is so true - you are so perceptive.  I feel so lucky to have found you!'  the sort of things he rarely heard, but from time to time felt he deserved, such was the level of conviction he had in stuff he thought, did and said.  Its impossible to guage whether the common opinion is the right one, he always told himself - all you can do is have faith, and that purity of thought will guide you places where positivity will be thrust upon you.  He didnt know whether this thought process extended to a generally negative view on many many things - the doubt always lingered behind the dismissive 'fuck it - who cares,' he would brush it off with.  But either way, he found it near impossible to ignore the passion he felt for getting furious with people who blanked him after saying hello to them, or being barged past, or being cut up whilst driving, or being partronised....shit like this would haunt him, pretty much forever.  Sitting doing nothing of consequence would often be invaded with memories of pricks bestowing one of these acts upon him.  Several minutes then dedicated to what he should have done or said, to make this fuck think twice about ever doing it again.  It was just achieving this, with out putting himself in the position of physical altercation.  The though of either being hit in the face or indeed hitting someone in the face filled him with dread.