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[Occupation: a) English Literature, b) Philosophy, c) Creative Writing student]
[Career Prospects: Starving to Death, as a result of a), b), and c)]
[Runs #pointlessfactsbelowrammpics / #messerstein / #tillchardfans]
I fucking hate it when you’re in such a fantastically giddy mood and then you see one simple little thing that makes you think, “oh” and then you just get this empty feeling in your chest and you get nauseous and the world just crumbles and you want to just lay under a blanket and close your eyes and fall asleep and never wake up.
I’m not providing any context today
"Why," he ends up shouting across the cafe, flailing his arms frantically to catch the other’s attention. “holy shit, it’s our friendly neighbourhood G-rated drug dealer.”
"How’d you like your java?" Guy says, and plunks down a cup upon the counter. Thomas runs up, reaches for it and grabs it around the handle before taking a closer look. It’s an empty cup: perfectly clean, white, unpatterned bone china, warm from being freshly washed and dried, and ready for Thomas’s use only. All he needs is to speak up, and the friendly neighbourhood drug dealer will fulfill his order down to the very last drop. Not a bad deal at all, except for the fact that Thomas isn’t actually a human being and doesn’t know what ‘the kind of java that he would like’ actually tastes like.
You see, Thomas as you read him isn’t a corporeal being. He’s text. He does whatever the author says that he does, even though when he ponders over those things later on he realizes that they will often make no sense in comparison to reality. But reality - or more accurately, ‘how things are supposed to be’, is in reference to something that many of us simply pre-assume that we share, even though we don’t. Arguably this means that canonicity or authenticity can’t be achieved in text (the moment you try to write reality down, you’re not doing justice to reality), so, you know, anything goes, I guess. Make them do whatever you want them to do, I’m sure it doesn’t actually matter. To give one such example, Thomas here quits the chain of postmodernist thought and picks up the empty cup, intending to call out a perfectly-reasonable order of a black coffee with two sugars and no milk; but instead of caffeinated bliss, the moment he raises the cup and tries to call for Guy his right arm seizes on its own and ends up hurling the cup towards the back of the counter, narrowly missing the other’s head, shattering it into tiny pieces.
Thomas hates his arms.
He hates them. He really does hate them.
He thinks he ought to slice the fucking things off someday.
sorry this isn't really an opinion but i have a grudge against sjws as a whole because once i said something about writers not being obliged to stroke PoC/homosexual/whatever minority egos (i'm myself a PoC technically ftr) off anon (out of some misplaced idea of respect) and i got bitched out and my tag got flooded and long story short i lost a pretty cool username T_T
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