i just can't seem to get it right today
“I. No. Just. Just, no.”
In front of his hut, which had inexplicably lost a wall in the middle of the night, Tom stood before his unmoving ATV, shoulders slumped and a wrench dangling loosely from one hand. “No,” he mumbled again, almost pleading. If one looked closely, his chin gave the slightest tremble.
“It’s not fair,” he explained, rubbing one eye despondently. The move, however, only deposited a smear of grease on his bottom eyelid, which promptly turned bright pink and began to weep. Hobbes muttered something horrible under his breath, groping for a rag.
This was the portrait of Tom Hobbes this morning: his face was a mass of black and blue, and what patches of skin had escaped had broken out with the first case of acne he’s had ten years. Every so often, he scratched disgustedly at the seat of his pants. Not too far away, there was a half empty tube of itch ointment, a bottle of pain killer, and an extremely ugly statue, which he’d already tried to get rid of six times.
And now…now he stared down at his unmoving quad and whimpered.
“No,” he said again, “I got it for Christmas. Just.” He dropped the wrench on the grass and the rest of him soon followed, folding like a house of cards.
“Today…needs to be over.” He swallowed. “Now.”
[yes, yes. He’s got the idol. He’s also a complete wreck. Feel free to comfort or, more likely, mock him]
In front of his hut, which had inexplicably lost a wall in the middle of the night, Tom stood before his unmoving ATV, shoulders slumped and a wrench dangling loosely from one hand. “No,” he mumbled again, almost pleading. If one looked closely, his chin gave the slightest tremble.
“It’s not fair,” he explained, rubbing one eye despondently. The move, however, only deposited a smear of grease on his bottom eyelid, which promptly turned bright pink and began to weep. Hobbes muttered something horrible under his breath, groping for a rag.
This was the portrait of Tom Hobbes this morning: his face was a mass of black and blue, and what patches of skin had escaped had broken out with the first case of acne he’s had ten years. Every so often, he scratched disgustedly at the seat of his pants. Not too far away, there was a half empty tube of itch ointment, a bottle of pain killer, and an extremely ugly statue, which he’d already tried to get rid of six times.
And now…now he stared down at his unmoving quad and whimpered.
“No,” he said again, “I got it for Christmas. Just.” He dropped the wrench on the grass and the rest of him soon followed, folding like a house of cards.
“Today…needs to be over.” He swallowed. “Now.”
[yes, yes. He’s got the idol. He’s also a complete wreck. Feel free to comfort or, more likely, mock him]