caped crusader wrote:
panache- not one of your better works, but still hope to see your posts persisting...
He assimilated this analysis and the one before it and their implications. "Thread's supposed be about Chreschtian Hisch," he slurred extravagantly. In the nearby kitchenette, black, acrid smoke billowed from a saucepan in which he'd begun cooking two boxes' worth of mac and cheese an hour earlier; he'd somehow forgotten about his incipient meal and the water had boiled clean away, leaving only a charred and angry hunk of durum semolina fused to the metal in its stead.
He had officially been drunk now for over seven days straight and was theoretically bled of meaningful emotions. Nevertheless, at the caped one's humble acknowledgment he burst into loud, violent sobs; a few pebble-sized tears made their way into the corners of his mouth, and these tasted like Stoli. Even his navel stunk of booze.
"Tell me," he whispered around his spasmic contractions of chemically induced catharsis, leaning close to the screen, toughing it gently with a shit-caked index finger. "Tell me how I can do better." Then, his nostrils twitching at a newly detected olfactory insult, he arched his eyebrows and shuffled off toward the kitchenette, blearily curious as to what the deal was.