[You wake up | Active | Open]
Who: Jack and ANY ONE OF YOU!
Where: The kitchen.
When: Day
What: Upon arriving in a new home, Jack takes the most obvious course of action. He makes himself a PB&J sandwich.
Warnings: There may be the occasional swear.
Well.
Jack had gone to bed in the house on Paper Mill Street. His head had been on the pillow that was crusty like cardboard and his slippered feet had been wrapped like little sausages in the moth eaten blanket. He had been on his bed watching the water collect in the crown moldings lining the ceiling. He had been waiting for the water to become a drop and for the drop to fall onto the pile of Reader's Digests he had stacked in the corner of the room.
Counting the water droplets was like counting sheep. It didn't make you tired, it just kept you awake because maybe this next drop would be the last one. But the supply of water was endless on rainy days so the last drop never fell. It never fell on dry days either.
He didn't remember his eyes closing.
But when they opened it was because Jack was falling out of the bed and he wasn't in the Paper Mill Street house. He was... He didn't know where he was. He was in an entryway of some sort in his robe and faded black old man slippers that fit his feet snug as a condom.
Despite what anyone thought, this wasn't odd. Jack was used to waking up surprised at where he was. Normally he was just happy to be waking up because it meant he had slept.
This was probably part of Tyler's master plan anyway.
Tyler.
Jack walked through the rooms in a daze. His feet still felt heavy and the jagged crusties of sleep lingered in the corners of his eyes. The sound of his slippers clacking against his heels reverberated against the walls.
He ended up in the kitchen, clacking louder as he passed through the doorway. There was a pot on the stove and he could hear it bubbling, a thick slurping sound like a messy blowjob.
His heart-shattering sense of rejection bubbled, thick and slurping like a messy blowjob in his stomach when he thought of Tyler. Tyler had dumped him. Tyler had dumped him in every way a man could dump another man. He had left him, abandoned him, and had him removed him from their house while he slept.
Jack opened the fridge. He didn't want whatever was in that pot. It was probably the fat from some overweight trust fund baby's hips anyway. Some dumb kid convinced that if she was skinny enough someone would love her.
He pulled out a jar of whipped low fat peanut butter and a jar of strawberry jam with the seeds still in it made by the hands of an honest Christian man living on some farm in the bible belt.
He wondered if Tyler's space monkey was going to come stir the fat/water mixture in the pot. It needed to be done regularly. Every fifteen minutes. Making soap wasn't hard. It was just like any other job a man was expected to do.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
Eleven minutes.
The steam rose from the hole in the pot's lid and disappeared into the atmosphere around it.
Nine.
Eight.
Jack opened the jar of peanut butter and shoved his finger in it.
Six.
Five minutes.
Four minutes.
He sucked the peanut butter off his finger wondering what the difference between whipped low fat peanut butter and normal peanut butter was. His tongue couldn't tell the difference.
Three.
Two.
One.
Jack looked at the doorway to the kitchen then back to the pot. It continued its steady boil.
He could have called for the space monkey. But he didn't.
Where: The kitchen.
When: Day
What: Upon arriving in a new home, Jack takes the most obvious course of action. He makes himself a PB&J sandwich.
Warnings: There may be the occasional swear.
Well.
Jack had gone to bed in the house on Paper Mill Street. His head had been on the pillow that was crusty like cardboard and his slippered feet had been wrapped like little sausages in the moth eaten blanket. He had been on his bed watching the water collect in the crown moldings lining the ceiling. He had been waiting for the water to become a drop and for the drop to fall onto the pile of Reader's Digests he had stacked in the corner of the room.
Counting the water droplets was like counting sheep. It didn't make you tired, it just kept you awake because maybe this next drop would be the last one. But the supply of water was endless on rainy days so the last drop never fell. It never fell on dry days either.
He didn't remember his eyes closing.
But when they opened it was because Jack was falling out of the bed and he wasn't in the Paper Mill Street house. He was... He didn't know where he was. He was in an entryway of some sort in his robe and faded black old man slippers that fit his feet snug as a condom.
Despite what anyone thought, this wasn't odd. Jack was used to waking up surprised at where he was. Normally he was just happy to be waking up because it meant he had slept.
This was probably part of Tyler's master plan anyway.
Tyler.
Jack walked through the rooms in a daze. His feet still felt heavy and the jagged crusties of sleep lingered in the corners of his eyes. The sound of his slippers clacking against his heels reverberated against the walls.
He ended up in the kitchen, clacking louder as he passed through the doorway. There was a pot on the stove and he could hear it bubbling, a thick slurping sound like a messy blowjob.
His heart-shattering sense of rejection bubbled, thick and slurping like a messy blowjob in his stomach when he thought of Tyler. Tyler had dumped him. Tyler had dumped him in every way a man could dump another man. He had left him, abandoned him, and had him removed him from their house while he slept.
Jack opened the fridge. He didn't want whatever was in that pot. It was probably the fat from some overweight trust fund baby's hips anyway. Some dumb kid convinced that if she was skinny enough someone would love her.
He pulled out a jar of whipped low fat peanut butter and a jar of strawberry jam with the seeds still in it made by the hands of an honest Christian man living on some farm in the bible belt.
He wondered if Tyler's space monkey was going to come stir the fat/water mixture in the pot. It needed to be done regularly. Every fifteen minutes. Making soap wasn't hard. It was just like any other job a man was expected to do.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
Eleven minutes.
The steam rose from the hole in the pot's lid and disappeared into the atmosphere around it.
Nine.
Eight.
Jack opened the jar of peanut butter and shoved his finger in it.
Six.
Five minutes.
Four minutes.
He sucked the peanut butter off his finger wondering what the difference between whipped low fat peanut butter and normal peanut butter was. His tongue couldn't tell the difference.
Three.
Two.
One.
Jack looked at the doorway to the kitchen then back to the pot. It continued its steady boil.
He could have called for the space monkey. But he didn't.