Ah, that is quite good. I wish you luck despite it being possibly three days now. Simply hope this luck can somehow bend time.
You receive nothing as you are simply standing there without inserting a coin. *inserts sanity*
What? Kingdom Hearts is the best thing since the creation of video games. The plot is immaculate and the characters are perhaps some of the most well-developed and three-dimensional I have ever seen in a work of fiction.
You recieve a vending machine. *insert below poster*
If a car was driving seventeen kilometres away from Vancouver and driving sixteen miles to Vancouver whilst passing three gas stations of a varied length, what would the average rotation speed of a celestial gas giant 18 parsecs from a red giant be?
My grade presently has no exams. They all begin next year. How do you believe you have done with your exams?
I shall join with an absolutely ridiculous and horrible story. Please do not pay any sort of attention to it; this is more of a part of my experiment in certain narratives. Spoiler I bit into the sandwich slowly. Dear god, it tasted horrible. It didn't taste one bit like a sandwich. And then, I realized, I was in fact chewing on a large cinderblock. Why am I chewing on a cinderblock? I thought to myself as I chewed on the cinderblock. A sharp pang, a violent stab of energetic pain, shot itself through my mouth as I heard the crunching snaps of my teeth as they attempted, and failed, to break through the sandwich. “Goddangit”, I said to myself. “This is a bitch to eat. I don't think this even contains any vitamin D.” So then, I pumped out my fists like I was punching my co-workers on Effectual Raise Day and shot off to that dude who had the nerve to sell me this cinderblock. Nerves of steel, probably. I walked up to him and abruptly punched him in the face. A sharp pang, a violent stab of energetic pain, shot itself through my hand and into the mouth of the other guy. He fell to the floor, a look of disgust and wrenching pain on his face. Well, whatever was left of his face. Boy, if I didn't give him a concussion right then and there he is probably some sorta super man. Then, I started kicking him in the- “Hey, buddy,” asked the rather dapper man behind the counter, a slight look of annoyance upon his face. “Look, I'm here to sell you drinks, not hear about you kicking some guy in the nads.” “Wha? No. I kicked him in the face. You shoulda' seen the boot marks I left on him. I would've curb-stomped him right then and there if not for-” “Hey, hey, listen to me.” The man leaned over the counter, his oddly coarse and ragged old beard respirating with a bold sense of defiance. “Order your drink or I'll have to give you a sandwich.” The man with the hat and the large boots, the story-telling man, looked over his large nose and dirty grey moustache. “A sandwich, eh?” He asked with a sense of inquisitiveness hidden behind his rustic words. “What kinda' sandwich?” The bearded man smirked with a devilish grin. “A delicious sandwich.” The man with the boots shrugged. “Nah, I don't trust no sandwiches since that one incident with the guy I abruptly punched in the face. So, I was about to kick the guy in the head again when I realized I wanted my sandwich, goddangit. Do y'have my sandwich? I've been here for a good while now waiting for my sandwich. Goddangit, I want a sandwich. ” “But you just said-” “I said I wanted a sandwich. Where is my sandwich? Goddangit, I want a sandwich, now!” The man with the boots and moustache banged his meaty fist on the soft wooden counter. “Fine. Goddamn people whom cannot decide on what they wish to order.” The bearded man mumbled to himself as he retreated to the back. And then there was the wait. The horrible, enduring wait – a wait of desire and lust. This lust, of course, of the delicious tender and tasty concoction of the common sandwich. Cheese sandwiches the moustached man would think of. Ham sandwiches he would dream of. Bologna sandwiches he would imagine with in a lovely pink chapel, the bologna dressed in an elegant white wedding dress with a lovely collection of baubles and veiled silk. And the smell, oh the delicious smell. The various scents associated with a perfect sandwich. Gasoline oil, grease, and three-day-old mystery meat, preferably Spam. The man returned with an absolutely elegant brown paper bag, evident of re-use with grease stains scattered like spots on a haunting and angry celestial gas giant. With a smirk, the man handed the moustached, sandwich-loving, boot-wearing, abruptly-punching-in-the-face-ing man the bag. The bag was, indeed, insurmountably heavy. However, the moustached man simply thought of this sandwich as a repackaged Subway sub. He would not be fooled into eating this repackaged garbage, however, and as he walked out onto the cold sidewalk with the man wrenched in horrific pain bowling over himself repeatedly in the alleyway, he retrieved the sandwich from the aristocratic bag and took a large test bite out of it. And boy was that cinderblock delicious.
I have been trying to work around different writing styles and narrative devices for a while; as such, this piece, with its elegant verbose, is completely experimental. The narrative dealt, or at least attempted to deal, with this sense of grammatical "flaring up". Thank you for the advice, however. I honestly believed the ending was a wee bit rushed; although I must appreciate your view on the entire piece. It would certainly come together in a general way. The formal and complicated sentences, I would have to say, are not always a constant - they are indeed there in my work, but they are either toned down to suit the work, or in the case of this experiment, shifted to a higher degree. Or that is the subject matter I am attempting to experiment with. And I would find your perspective quite interesting. Understandable. It would not necessarily be an easy task to represent a progression of rationality to generic overwhelming with something as presumably short as this. I will have to agree over the fact - and it is clearly evident - that this story holds certain philosophical and thought provoking views. However, I have to say this is most likely evident in most of my work - albeit in this specific tale it is much more focused upon and used as a sort of divergence point for interpretation. Once again, this tale was rather experimental. Although I can see now where I may falter with this prose, for that I thank you. Anyhow, thank you all for your comments and advice over this passage. I can now sleep without a candle by my side tonight.
Ack, I see. I am quite sorry sir; perhaps a re-test will be available?
I shall. Quite boring and monotonous, unfortunately.
What are you doing back here in the Original Work section, What? I assumed we had ridden ourselves of your disgusting presence when we gave you that block of old cheese. No, no, What?. Please do not post one of your horrible stories again. We already had to clean the carpet before. Aw, What?. Someone retrieve the doggie bag. --- The man, he sat in front of me. At least, I assumed he was a man. The man. The Man. What was this man doing in front of me, I was not necessarily sure. In fact, this “The Man” was the only object I was absolutely sure was standing directly in front of me. Or maybe only to an extent of which I can be sure he was standing directly in front of me. Everything else was not a blur or a blank space; it simply was not there. What in the world is a “blur” or “blank space” in the first place? An empty void? I would assume. No, assuming he was directly in front of me would be an incorrect assumption. Are incorrect assumptions even possible? I would only assume of my own self, perpetual and in a state of incoherent thought. I would sense him in front of me, using what vision I had left. I would not be sure whatsoever. Thinking of something with the context of “sure” would be ridiculous, why would this be “sure” and “unsure”? Are “sure” and “unsure” even words used in that proper context? And then, that man, the “The Man”, spoke to me. At least, I assumed it was speaking. I would not assume what speaking would be, but I would think of – or rather assume – speaking to be an expression of the vocal sort. Although, of course, I had no idea what a “vocal” was. I would assume a species of cake. Boy was I yearning for a “hunger”. “Hello.” Wait, was it even a “hello” I heard, or a simple assumption? I had hoped this “The Man” had assumed a degree of contact with my own sure self, and although I would assume this “The Man” does not exist and is simply an assumption of and within my own brain, I would be sure of these translatable senses. Although I would only assume these senses, yet again. Perhaps he may not be speaking to me at all – he was certainly a very fuzzy image. “Hello?” There was that “hello”, yet again. What was this “hello” in the first place? Maybe a sort of introductory greeting, I would assume. But the word itself is quite strange. Do words even count as physical manifestation, with physical property and physical matter? I would assume; these “hello” of his appear to be digging into my existence, searching for whatever a “reply” must be. What is a reply? “Oh dear. It does not appear to be responding whatsoever. Too much individual thought.” What? Assuming he is in a state of shock, what is going on with him? Would I assume him to hold a re-assurance over my physical matter? Does he know I do in fact exist and he himself appears to be only a logical assumption of my own existence and brain matter – coagulated into a derelict form from shattered pieces of sense and image? And then, what is this? I do not understand. The “The Man”, he, I am assuming, appears to be retrieving another object of sort. I would assume, anyhow. It may not as well be some sort of object, but in fact an assumption of what I perceive to be a physical manifestation of “object”? Now, now, now now, this feeling, what is this feeling? This feeling I do not know. It appears to deny my existence. What, I would assume, no, assume, why would I assume? I should stop assuming and listen, no assume, no assume, no assume, please stop this assumption why are these no assumptions blank please assume no.
I can see a very interesting tale here. I must say, however, the dialogue is absolutely wonderful. Half of the time I was imagining The Fuk as Thelonious Monk. I shall watch in anticipation.
He obviously does not enjoy the stench that emanantes from the forum. And here I assumed the Febreze fixed it.
Unfortunately both couples lead only to the process of erosion.
I see. Indeed, these things seem to happen, and I am quite sorry for this late reply - in which the case, how was the band solo?
Oh, I shall indeed. In fact, I must visit the Traditional Art section sometime soon. I cannot wait for your work.
It is a bother to retrieve pictures of Ansem when preoccupied.
Yes, although we must be wary of its imminent shrinking. I knew Paul Martin's plans to place earmuffs in a glass of warm water every day would not be productive.
