>>510514635

surprised youre not stealing my memeflag

wyd you fucking mayhem poster?

The restaurant buzzed with low jazz, candles flickering on the table. I was edgy, on a first date with Sarah, a woman I’d met through a friend. She had a sharp tongue and eyes that screamed trouble. My anxiety was an uninvited guest, so I clutched the pill bottle in my pocket—new psych meds for my racing thoughts. The label warned of side effects, but I needed to stay steady.As Sarah rambled about her cat destroying her couch, I popped a pill, hoping she wouldn’t notice. Then, a jolt hit. My vision smeared, edges dissolving into black. Panic clawed at me. “Sarah, something’s wrong,” I muttered, but everything went dark. I was blind.A voice, slick and taunting, cut through—my meds, not Sarah. The pill bottle itself was talking, calling itself Princess Dipshit. “You’re the chosen one,” it sneered. “I’m your fairytale queen. Wake me up.” My head spun. The restaurant vanished, replaced by a twisted forest. There, on a pedestal, stood my pill bottle, now a shimmering figure—Princess Dipshit, all smug and glowing, not a woman but the meds personified.I froze. The meds hissed, “Do something, hero.” But I wasn’t buying their fairytale crap. No way was I getting cozy with a talking pill bottle. Princess Dipshit smirked, then said, “Fine, I’m bored. Need a nap.” She faded into the trees. I staggered after, blind and pissed, the meds’ voice cackling in my skull. Soon, I heard her mocking laugh and another voice—some dude. Princess Dipshit was off with someone else, probably another delusion. The meds whispered, “You’re nothing to her.”Pain sliced my eyes. Light crept back, jagged and harsh. My vision was returning. The forest melted; I was back in the restaurant, alone, Sarah gone. The waiter hovered. “She ditched an hour ago.” My phone lit up—Sarah’s text: You zoned out. Weird. Bye. The pill bottle sat on the table, half-spilled.

Pt. 2
Yesterday, Lara got short with me—snapped at my tweet like I’d kicked her cat and I don’t know she’s a dog person. I bet if she did know me, she’d like me more than she’d ever admit in public, and be the type to tell me I’m a perv after volunteering to me the color of her panties on the third meetup (black).

So, I slid into her DMs and offered to finger bang her, knowing she’s married, because it’s not technically cheating on her husband, and she doesn’t look happy on her timeline. I mean, I can love a public figure for their beautiful mind or amazing tits, so bitch please. She hasn’t replied, probably busy exposing conspiracies or googling “how to block creeps that will haunt her in ways that are always unblocked.” My bad, Lara.

I voted pineapple to feel popular and pretend even I didnt want to be loved or at peace if I decide I want to try and grow again, but sometimes trying to grow is like throwing a party and only your cousin shows up with stale chips because asian bot gangs saturate your social media.

By minute 15, I was replying to myself: “Great point, me!”; “Wow, so true king, maybe if I start writing poetry again and Swift responds on the radio again, I won’t have another crazy random follow me into the pawn store, see me looking for a ratchet socket I need, and scream to the whole store loudly ‘who does he think he is, King Socket?’ (that actually happened in real life).

I checked OP’s profile—dude’s got 12 followers and a bio that says “Swiftie 4 Life.” No shade, but maybe he’s too busy ranking Folklore B-sides to notice this thread’s a ghost town. I bet he’s crying to “All Too Well” while ignoring my gourmet placement discourse. Rude.
Minute 20, I started live-tweeting my descent into madness. “Day 47 in the thread: I’ve named the tumbleweed Carl.” Still nada. I even tried baiting engagement with “RT if you hate Mondays!”—cringe, I know, but desperation’s a hell of a drug.