ITT:

His shirt, a spit-take of bleach, chicken crumbs and fingerholes, is puking over his belt-unbuckle and down the face of his khakis. He stands as if he is being crushed and his eyes, the color of necrosis, are shaking.

>loped
I honestly got the image of some autistic kid prancing around town.

Rather disappointing, innit?

I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies. My posture is consciously congruent to the shape of my hard chair. This is a cold room in Memeversity Administration, wood-walled, Remington-hung, double-windowed against the July heat, insulated from Administrative sounds by the reception area outside, at which Uncle Fourchin, Mrs. deLevingne and I were lately received.

I am in here.

The homeless-looking Jew, smelling faintly of pine, swilled his beer in the corner.

In between the ocean of mobiles, sits a man; scruffy beard and a twisted half-smile - as though in the climax of a painful bowel movement. He's not on his phone, but instead looking solemnly at the flowers nearby, but I knew he was looking at my tits. Fucking pervert.

A large group of people, where he wasn't present.

One million years ago I slathered a wad of my snot across the stars, which I can't really place in the narrative of things generally, but which I'm pretty sure came before me. Anyway, after that happened, my snot started to crystalize into these little orbs that I named planets and one of them could sustain life, so I crouched over it and shat out a big oozing turd full of bacteria. These bacteria ultimately became the sentient beings that gave birth to you dear reader. Me and the other Ascended Masters constantly make fun of your plight and how you think any religion or scientific thesis you've made up in any way shape or form even comes close to how your stupid fucking universe was created. But there's more to my story than all of that, so bear with me, I'm a little drunk.

The man makes his entrance and instantly, without effort, lubricates all vaginas

I woman of the age some were between 25-35, entered the seen. Her long curly dark blond hair looked like it had just had a squirrel attempt to make a nest in it. Her large frame only maid the curves of her breasts, bottom, and small belly more apparent in the loose Black linen shift she was wearing. Her make-up less face looked has though she were wearing purple eye shadow under her bookish square glasses and lips that had been kissed till they were swollen and almost red. Has she glanced around she smirked, "Lets have fun boys,"

Oh look Gods gift to woman showed up :-D

He walks out of supermarket restroom, his bathroom pole of inaccessibly, which was fully misted and left for him as usual, dabbing his hands in his pockets. There is a backlog of one person, one girl, waiting for him to be done. He stops as she had stepped in his path. She scuttles her eyebrows at him. She assumes the bathroom, closes the door, he waits for her long enough to wonder if she's hiding, and then leaves. Is willing isolated instinctive or socialized, he wondered, and dream stepped, waiting for her to come around again.

That's when I heard it, the ringing of the great bell in the town center. The entire town knew what it ment, and we all rushed to get a glimpse of what was to come. As I neared his home, I could just make out the figure of a man. He was humble, white, and from what I was told, very intelligent. It was odd seeing such a man with pale skin in the current year, as we all were dark skinned. He stood at a strong five feet 8 inches, some of the shorter residents referred to him as their king. My father in jest called him a manlet once, that was the last time I saw him. Following the man were three of his wife's sons, and the bull of the town. The white man, or cumskin as he was known, looked exhausted. It was to be expected because the bell signified that that bull was prepared, and indeed he was. A mighty 16 inch cock, nearly 9 inches in diamenter. Oh what a sight to be seen! As his sons began chanting and making grunting noises like apes, their mother opened the door to their shed and the bull entered. What happened next is why I am telling this story today, as it seemed the cumskin thought it be time he should never prep another bull again...

>seen

*record scratch*
*freeze frame*

"Yup, that's me"
"I bet you're wondering how I got in such a crazy situation. Well, to explain that we'll have to start at the very beginning"
*whole story flashes by in reverse*

I plead the fifth

I miss this meme already. Why /tv/ got so unbearable these days?

meme overdose that they forgot to separate discussion from memes

yep I suck at spelling.

It was cold, dead earth that the hero's party stepped over; and beneath it, lying still and lifeless, was Him, never to be seen again or remembered as more than a backdrop.

Her face bore the exquisite features of a roman marble bust; the head attached to the body of an ox. Her feet were those of a prepubescent russian gymnast.

He walked into the room, a certain air about him. It wasn't so much that he was self-absorbed, rather he had faded from the presence of others. Sure, he was in the same room as them, and indeed he acknowledged them in a cordial manner whenever it behooved him, but he was as always, lost in his thoughts, no more than a specter among the drones. He had developed a certain skill. Whereas many people are capable of tuning the noise of others out, he had developed the keen and rather useful ability to tune them out of his personal reality altogether. They were there, and so was he, but he was naught but a ghost, and they naught but a shadow. Like fundamental particles they interacted, entwining for but a moment to share their charge, but it was nothing more than a formality.
"Nice weather we're having." He said.

m'weather

My name is Ishmael.

He strolled into the room, his entrance not interesting enough to drew much attention. When he saw nobody he knew well enough to approach he walked over to a wall, leaned against it, and started playing games on his phone after pretending to text. It was rather like watching a background character in a movie. Just a moving bit of wallpaper.

He slanted into the room so his back was parallel with the 2 on the old analog clock—kept for merely aesthetic pleasure of course. He stood under the clock, a wry smile on his face as if he knew your secrets and was ready to keep them. for a few days, at least

Imagine mediocrity made into a person, and you'd have a fairly accurate image of the individual that had just entered the room.

He came through the doorway in a sweaty crabwalk of flesh and must, balls deep in an big-tittied asian bitch that was bent over walking on her hands and feet. A second woman, this one a milf with a massive ass, was crouched behind him holding what appeared to be a miniature pillow beneath his balls, as if it were wedding ring full of seed. Perspiration glistened on his thirty-four pack of abs and his golden hair shined in the spotlight. The six-legged sextaur rotated slowly toward the crowd seated before the stage. He paused for a moment, then gave a final pump, blowing a load of pure liquid gold with flecks of diamond in it onto the back of the big tittied asian. The crowd erupted, welcoming the midas-stroke with a standing ovation accompanied by pleads for an encore. Women throughout the crowd simultaneously orgasmed, squirting uncontrollably and fainting while men cried tears of disbelief, wonder, and awe. Jesus Christ himself repelled onto the stage from a helicopter above a skylight in the ceiling, handing him a Nobel Prize in Being A Fucking Genius and Having a Massive Cock.

There he was, in the middle of the street, servicing two erect penises at the same time. "It's okay, we all said no homo", he beckons when he sees me walking down the sidewalk.

Call me, shemale!

Call me Caitlyn

He was a soft cunt, but he dressed like he thought he was someone. Stone roses and oasis clearly his inspiration in terms of fashion. Straight from the football terraces, if he ever left the house that is. His hair like some mod from.that movie based on the who album, nose squint, probably broken in his youth before reclusive behaviours had taken over. Somewhat book smart, but also dim witted in a not so cute way.

The details of my life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.

There was something different about him. You didn't probably notice it at first, but when and if you got to know him, you saw it. He didn't look at the world like most people do: it was as if his attention was oftentimes pointed at things deemed uninteresting and irrelevant by others - he'd look at the bird flying above the playing field instead of the players. What was between the lines was more interesting to him than the very text, and he could ponder about a single word more than most people thought about the whole book.

Intelligent, nihilistic and with a wicked sense of humour.

And then there was this fucking loser.

"Frick. It's me," the young man said into the mirror as he realized what he was seeing. Inexplicable. Of course it's him. Could he be hinting at some degree of fourth-wall awareness, which would be tacky and cliched for a pomo book?

"Oh, no, I mean like, ah... I was getting ready for one of those Undertale fuck-offs, reading one of the lines, you know? I called myself Frick in that game lmao," he said, saying lmao out loud, hopefully earning the reader's loathing. What's more he was lying - he was not in fact going to some Undertale-themed orgy or even convention. Let's conclude he is just insane.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, insanely. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

He may never know the answer to that. He started weeping and mumbling things like "oh god, just kill me now."

I live in the American Gardens Building on W. 81st Street on the 11th floor. My name is Patrick Bateman. I'm 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little puffy I'll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now. After I remove the ice pack I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial mask which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion.

The Outsider in hand, the enigmatic man grinned benignly to himself. Haphazardly rolled cigarette in mouth, the pulsating music and flashing lights did little to abate his reverie. All around him, the ravers thrashed from side to side, synthetic bliss coursing through them. He himself was, as you would say, quite mangled.

Intelligent, nihilistic and with a wicked sense of humour.

It became apparent the third time I glanced at her that she wasn't looking out the window, as I had previously thought. She was facing the window, half seeing what went on outside it, but her attention was far removed to some cold and distant universe. She wouldn't blink. The pen in her hands was limp. Minutes passed and finally the girl was sucked back into reality, (ours, not her own) by the sound of a video playing on a cell phone. Half of her face twitched. She looked at her blank paper and drew a series of intertwining lines that ran down the side of the page. The cellphone blaster, destroyer of daydreams, turned their volume down a few notches but continued fouling the library with crude and merry sounds.
I watched her shoulders tense a little and wondered how many interrupted thoughts a girl would take before she snapped and threw someone's phone out the window.

My favorite one so far, not entirely sure why.

cringe

Absolutely disgusting.

I am Valen Cortas and I will have vengeance

In as vague terms as possible.

God said, Let there be light; he willed it, and at once there was light. Oh, the power of the word of God! And in the new creation, the first thing that is wrought in the soul is light: the blessed Spirit works upon the will and affections by enlightening the understanding. Those who by sin were darkness, by grace become light in the Lord. Darkness would have been always upon fallen man, if the Son of God had not come and given us understanding, 1Jo 5:20. The light which God willed, he approved of. God divided the light from the darkness; for what fellowship has light with darkness? In heaven there is perfect light, and no darkness at all; in hell, utter darkness, and no gleam of light. The day and the night are the Lord's; let us use both to his honour, by working for him every day, and resting in him every night, meditating in his law both day and night.

(In medias res)

''Have you ever thought about god?'' the stranger asked
''No'' I said while I torqued trying to get away from that person
''What if he entered the room right now, what would you imagine?'' He questioned, while bearing no room for an answer ''You'd see the perfection itself incarnated, a brilliant light, and no refuge for darkness in the room. A perfection to fear ; to love.''
''I-I suppose'' I asserted while babbling
Then I realized, he was not talking about god ; it was a squelch of formalities, a strange form of presentation.
He never thought of god and probably never will, he was childishly trying to know me, enabling a conversation. A kind of sad sweetness in his intentions brought a foretaste of pity. He was an autistic and awkward reprieved soul entering the room.

He reclined on a plastic chair, stroking his beard and curling his red moustache between his index and middle finger while gazing stupidly at passersby. An empty yet somehow satisfied expression adorned his unremarkable face. It was clear that he intended to look thoughtful and intelligent, but his efforts left him resembling a dispeptic monkey. His large and expressive eyes wandered to and fro among the crowd, as if searching for a familiar face, or perhaps a familiar ass. Those who chanced to make eye contact with him received a laughably proud and insolent stare in return. Some felt threatened, lowered their eyes and hurried on, but a few only smiled - it was clear he was a buffoon. Yet something in his eyes belied this notion; in them was a certain sombreness, perhaps a sad sense of self-awareness.

>points for honesty

Hi reader, I'm the protagonist. You might not like me, but you have the whole book to decide—so sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

I Kekkled

Thoughts sprang ever heavenward on gilt wings in his presence. The radiance of the golden child had not faded, even in his middle-aged state. His eyes yearned to crush these puny kings and idols, to rend them in his hands. Beauty is truth and truth beauty, but no urn would commemorate those he destroyed, lost in the oblivion of that aureate justice. Time touched not his face, but a smile crossed it as his longing glance swept past another avatar of night, her hips swelling pleasingly. What then this separation from the divine and the beautiful, when all of time could be a paradise?Why must breathing cease, and all the ancient glories turn to dust? He, too, will crumble, but those thews still say it will not be today. Very far from today; his destruction is a kind of love, to spare the imperfect.

The ginger fuck with the weird eyes walked up to us and asked us where the washroom was. I gave him the right direction and he just nodded. He wouldn't make eye contact with Lauren, just sort of stood there for five seconds or so,then burped and walked off. I noticed his shoes were nice, he had on black jeans and a white t shirt. I'm pretty sure it was inside out, one of those tagless labels was visible below his neck.
As he walked away, Jeff and Lauren turned to me and sneered, then it hit me. That ginger motherfucker had crop-dusted us with the worst ass breeze I had ever smelled. I covered my face with my Burberry and headed for the bar.
What a fuck.

It was me, Dio!

>and but so then

...

youtube.com/watch?v=wM7BX43nXIg

It was generous to say that she existed, since in order to do so you would have to acknowledge her.

>He could also wear a fedora and tip it vigorously

Dr. Pavel, I'm CIA.

He read/scrolled through paragraphs of smug ironic muck, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to type some mean-spirited bantz, but the opportunity never arose as his focus pipped from the letters on the keyboard, the post in front of him that he quoted and barely r/olled, and the relative lengths of his public hair compared to the size of his untumescence (both applicable meanings being slights but true about the rolling man). No images mental or otherwise remained to help him remember the inspiration of his turgidity and his post-turgidity stupor, but he hoped that it was something that he would not have to repress.

Moving dully with a hand both acrobatic prematurely arthritic, he tapped a square that popped a list of recent windows, one of which was the shame his afterglought mind forgot: pregnancy-centric hentai. He was pleased to see that it was an almost respectable cummie compared to the previous rounds of dank diddling in doldrumic depravity, and this allowed him to finish his degenerate, damaging typing in pursuit of the drug the (you).

Sitting immobile the Sultan spent his days looking at the tiger, inside a dimly lit room of the house. This is how I found him, his feline Scheherazade equally immobile. I stood quiet. After fifteen seconds, I noticed it: his eyes were moving.

"Laugh" he said, his exuberant comedic charm cheerfully chosen

Do you enjoy Smart High Art of Nu Know Brow School and find it fashionable ?

Qat Allergies, Qat Allergies, Artifcats, an skrivening campaign |iae homo sapiens gesture, legs, args, hands, face, ur sayin are prime compression canidates ioe("we privatized surveillance and police budgets by mapping their bodily movements and social interactions to those of CGI characters, instead everyone just started acting more like television show characters and now we can't tell the computers ones from the smelly ones") google Goo-gel screens, grandpa's tumor has a linkedin profile, the nastier ones don't.

Google had be verify construction vehicles

"Verily, i am a fag." - OP

And then entered a man who once held so much promise, but now squanders his existence away in abject misery and self-loathing. He was very aware of the fact that life would not end well for him.

"he turned into a bug lmao"

(not excluding the quotation marks)

And then it came to pass, as the rage stormed in the room, a light gleamed. The most beautiful, charming, spectacle of a god walked in the room. His body, enough to shake California, and his iron bar cock, erupted earthquakes in the unfertilized eggs of the XX chromosome. And he smiled gallantly, awaiting for his quest.

>he woke up and turned on his libreboot gnu/Linux thinkpad machine

He walked in, his expression projecting a cold heart and reluctance to empathy. A lanky young man with a disheveled spirit. His dark hair and eyes complemented his harsh, yet unremarkable aura.

Funniest troll itt desu.

Something about this prose feels wrong but I enjoyed it

There he is. There he goes again. Look, everyone! He posted it once again! Isn't he just the funniest guy around?! Oh my God.

I can almost see your pathetic overweight frame glowing in the dark, lit by your computer screen which is the only source of light in your room, giggling like a like girl as you once again type your little Bane thread up and fill in the captcha. Or maybe you don't even fill in the captcha. Maybe you're such a disgusting NEET that you actually paid for a Veeky Forums pass, so you just choose the picture. Oh, and we all know the picture. The "epic" CIA agent guy, isn't it? I imagine you little shit laughing so hard as you click it that you drop your Doritos on the floor, but it's ok, your mother will clean it up in the morning. Oh, that's right. Did I fail to mention? You live with your mother. You are a fat fucking fuckup, she's probably so sick of you already. So sick of having to do everything for you all goddamn day, every day, for a grown man who spends all his time on Veeky Forums posting about a capeshit movie. Just imagine this. She had you, and then she thought you were gonna be a scientist or an astronaut or something grand, and then you became a NEET. A pathetic Banefag NEET. She probably cries herself to sleep everyday thinking about how bad it is and how she wishes she could just disappear. She can't even try to talk with you because all you say is "FOR YOU FOR YOU FOR YOU." You've become a parody of your own self. And that's all you are. A sad little man laughing in the dark by himself as he prepares to indulge in the same old dance that he's done a million times now. And that's all you'll ever be.

Forever...

unbearably autistic

He strolled into the room, an entrance unpleasant enough to draw attention. When he saw that no one knew exactly how to draw messages on a wall, he leaned against it, and started playing games on his phone, pretending to text. A few, such as watching a character profile of a film. Only a move a little paper.

One of existence's greatest enigmas, the man with no purpose

Her boyfriend came in right after her. He was taller than her, but still smaller than average, had dark brown hair, green/blue eyes and a roundish face. His smile was strange, it wasn't something one would pick on fast, but it looked a little forced.
As she turned to him his expression changed, finally one could see a real smile, it made him look much younger. He had a light stubble, bearly noticeable, his glasses were very soft, they had something relaxing about them. His hair was short on the sides, long on top, but not too long, just enought to swipe them back, which made it look italian.

A tall, lanky fellow capped with an indecipherable mop of golden brown hair emerged from the men's bathroom. He glanced nervously to and fro about the antiseptic and cinderblocked environs before harpooning his gaze at me. During this brief pause I marked his features in full profile; more striking than the focused, hawk-like brow and prominent beak were the halos of starburst azure resting in the ashen craters of his eyes. The initial awe transmitted by this seemingly dignified semi-angelic terror whisked away when, shattering the crystalline moment, he abruptly paced to the dead end of the corridor, made an anxious U-turn, and again stood before the door of the men's bathroom. The predatorial aspect only masqueraded a timid and startled nature; a sheep in wolf's clothing.

A rather plain looking young man had ascended the stairs. He located a nearby bookshelf and slumped down against it. He preceeded to stare at the ceiling.

Realizing how tired I was, I decided that I should rest.

I ascended the stairs and located a nearby bookshelf. As I slumped down against the shelf, I noticed movement around the stairs.

A rather plain looking young man had ascended the stairs. He located a nearby bookshelf and slumped down against it. He preceeded to stare at the ceiling.

Realizing how tired I was, I decided that I should rest.

I ascended the stairs.

nice user

Lo, here comes god

>Here Comes Nobody
It's an erotic novella.

He walked bathroom at the supermarket, an inaccessible bathroom, which completely misted up and left him confused as usual, dabbing his hand in his pocket. There is a backlog of one man and one woman, waiting for her to do. She stepped into his path. He scuttles his eyebrows at her. He carried the bathroom, closed the door, waiting for long enough to think about if you're hiding, and then left. He is interested isolated naturally or consistently, he thought, and stepped into a dream, waiting for him to come again.

Big dick swangin big money bankin

His name was Sephiroth Shadow Leonhart. He wore 20 katanas and a perpetual scowl.

5' 10", broad and barrel-chested, with one of those guts that protrudes from the belly before it begins to sag. The kind that's built on a bedrock of muscle gone unused for too long.
His eyes were hazel, painted dark brown by the shadow of his brow, set in purple-ringed eye sockets in a square, doughy face; high cheekbones almost hidden under growing formlessness.
He looked like a bouncer gone to seed, hair kept short through habit, but a sparse shrubland of patchy beard sprouting from his chin and neck. It was unattractive he knew, but he kept it out of a mix of apathy, contrarianism, and a feeling that it was symbolic of his life as a whole.

You motherfuckers best appreciate my puns.