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[poetryslamming]

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[reiterated]

[ He sits down more fully on the bed, ignoring an instinctive urge to protect his buttocks - after all, it's all in his imagination by now, what a terribly amusing place to be, oh dear - and takes another long drink. He doesn't hate beer at all, once upon a time (in Berlin, naturally, where else) he even had preferences. Certain brands above others. Then, his sense of taste more or less evaporated amidst the flood of about a thousand buckets of cum. Joy. But there was a time and sometimes, that in itself is a nice thought. ]

Yes, lucky you.

[ He gives her an earnest smile. Regardless of her shortcomings - and really, just like him she has quite an impressive collection of those - she's by no means ugly or unattractive, not like him, and he'd most definitely know. In many ways, her parents probably, presumably, gave her many important things, groundwork, foundation; they've just lost sight of it with their heads so far up their own arses. He sympathises, of course. He certainly knows what that is like. Stinky business. ]

Parents are tricky gestalts, huh? The sum of so many confusing little parts, ourselves included. It's not like you owe them anything - yet, there's a positively morbid pre-conception in the world that we're to be somehow grateful that they screwed each other and chose to embrace the consequences. I wouldn't expect you to understand that, Alexa. Goodness, I wouldn't expect anyone to understand.

[ There's more than a tint of anger in his voice and he drowns it, chugging down half the can in one go. Alright, more than half. Not that it matters, she brought a fucking six pack. ]

[poetryslamming]

Shut up with your emo, Timm, of course I understand.

[ And Alexa thinks she does. As she watches him chug down his beer in one go, sucking a bit more cautiously on the rim of her own can. She thinks she understands that feeling, of ungratefulness, of wishing not to have been born. Sure, she's been there. She isn't there any longer, but she knows the place, it's dark and hateful and lonely and if Timm floats around in those waters still, she might just as well keep him company until something reminds him that death comes to everyone regardless, you don't need to fucking rush it. Ugly shags and hard drugs and excessive use of alcohol not taken into account. Those are called living, right?

She puts her plate aside and stretches out her legs a little, her right knee making a fun popping sound as she disentangles herself from -- you know, herself. Reaching for her backpack, she pulls out a small stack of papers, all of them facing down so he can't read the words. The multitude of words she's written while she thought he was dead. Or had abandoned her. With a small exhalation, she turns them over in her lap and lets her eyes read over the top sheet. It's his poem, completely by chance.

Would you look at that. One fucking reason to have been born. ]

Having kids is completely selfish anyway. Now, producing art on the other hand, that's a selfless act for you. We should get more recognition for it.