Hey Sexy What Time Do You Plan On Being Done Grieving

my ideal existence is not knowing about the oscars or the super bowl or any of that horseshit...I jerk off to clear running water and live off whatever wanders into my open mouth

i want tyler to slobber over every inch of narrators face and snake his tongue in his nostrils & it makes the narrator feel violated in ways he didnt know was possible. places a tongue should absolutely not be going. its his way of stimming dont be ableist

They should make a gay media where they all survive and the children aren't burdened with the knowledge their father didn't love their mother after the death of their dad's affair partner

i watch seinfeld and fujo tf out

The narrator is like the American Mark Corrigan mayhaps

Thinking about Angel Face sneaking out late at night when his parents are fast asleep. Maybe they said goodnight to him, or even tucked him in, maybe they just ignored him. Ignored. That's how he felt, how he's felt for months, for his entire life, ever since he'd learned what being a man was. To be big, to be tough, to hit and be hit, to drink and watch TV and laugh and lust after women with men. But he wasn't a man, wasn't big or tough, or made from marble like he saw on the television set in his living room. He wasn't a man, was he?

He walked, walked through the night streets, past groups of grown men, drunk off of their asses, shoving against eachother, and not caring how disgusting it was to behave that way- those were men, that was a group of men, just like TV, just like everyone older than him at school. Big and tough and hairy.

Eventually, maybe he walked past a group of men, who were leaving some closed bar, some hoisting others up off the ground, holding them steady as they walked. But unlike the other groups, it wasn't because they were drunk. No, it was because they had been beaten, had hurt eachother, fought and won and lost and bruised and broken. It was real, not some movie, a real group of men, men just like he wanted to be. And, last in the group, a man stumbled out, dressed in a mismatched outfit, and colored sunglasses, dried blood crusted to his mouth and lips, ruining his shirt.

That was it. That's all that the boy had needed to see. Men, talking and laughing together, coming out of a bar after hurting eachother. He mapped out the final man permanently in his mind's eye, taking it all in, imagined himself beside him, just as beaten and ruined and somehow better than he was now. It was perfect.

He had to get a fake ID for next week, he thought to himself, had to be there, join in. He had to become a man, no matter what it did to him.

Imagine if you locked Light and Patrick Bateman in a room together. They would be having the most generic conversation but you wouldn’t be able to hear it over the sound of their overlapping internal monologues. There would be a few seconds where their monologues both play in sync to say something misogynistic.

I need to draw Narrator as the unhinged psychopath he is. He thinks he is this loser and that Tyler is the part of him he wants to be. On the outside he’s the guy who is putting his cigarettes out on his arm and making homemade pipe bombs in his underwear. You are not some lovable pathetic loser you are a domestic terrorist who openly talks to himself.