She's been lulling about your apartment building, rolling on the carpet and snuggling into the Internests you taught her how to make. While the pupil has become the master in the aspect of laziness, you think this might be overdoing it. You're not going to let a sweet boned chica have her way in this brave new world. No orgy porgy mixes of secondhand lazy red gunk for her, she should be getting the freshest shit Texas has to offer.
You struggle to get her out of the apartment door frame. This is the kind of stuff you see in cartoons, where she's literally extending her body to heights unconquered and her nails are leaving marks on the door as you play tug of war with her legs. You win because she's become pretty decrepit from digital media and law book atrophy. It's only when you have her strapped, belted, and nailed in your pickup (you call it shitty shitty bang bang) that she admits she was being a little childish. You say something witty but she isn't listening because she's slobbering over your rear-view mirror and telling you all those fireworks packed in-between suitcases have to be illegal. Somewhere.
She needs fresh air, fresh road, and fresh sun. You plan out this trip like a bridezilla about to get married, stopping everywhere you can in the state where you were born and festered. Your favorite tourist tar pits include the spray painted cadilac ranch (for the colors), the creationist flavored fossil museum (for the laugh track), and Austin for a roller derby (so you can both watch some sweet girl-on-girl carnage).
At the beginning she's practicing her zen by being one with the carseat. You drag her into some hilarious cave with a green dinosaur lurking inside, but she doesn't lick a single overweight Texan. It irks you that she's not appreciating this shit like she should, this is a top quality, 4.0 GPA tourist trap. The next few days go the same, until one night at a motel you would rather not name, where you woke up at 3:00AM and found her in the empty dirt outside. She had dust in her hair and was smelling the stars, and you nuzzled her head like a pussy until she told you of herself and how pitiful this human planet was. You thought pity was a troll-love-pheromone-boner-emotion, and she didn't respond to that logical quip. Instead she gives you this spiel about how this wasn't what she was expecting at the end of the road and you say save it honey, life is a highway. You feel shitty about quoting that awful song but she just rolls over and falls right asleep. You carry her back.
Slowly she emerges from her metaphorical hive and by the end of your patented month long Dave Strider roadtrip extravaganza, you're both sitting in the back of the auditorium in Austin, booing the Oklahoma City derby girls after a few beers and a lot of lovin'.
She doesn't want to go back to your apartment, and you don't really either. You go back anyway, but just for a week. She asks you why and you tell her because you gotta plan our next trip. This time, she says, this time I'll help too.
FILL: TEAM JADE<3KARKAT
You struggle to get her out of the apartment door frame. This is the kind of stuff you see in cartoons, where she's literally extending her body to heights unconquered and her nails are leaving marks on the door as you play tug of war with her legs. You win because she's become pretty decrepit from digital media and law book atrophy. It's only when you have her strapped, belted, and nailed in your pickup (you call it shitty shitty bang bang) that she admits she was being a little childish. You say something witty but she isn't listening because she's slobbering over your rear-view mirror and telling you all those fireworks packed in-between suitcases have to be illegal. Somewhere.
She needs fresh air, fresh road, and fresh sun. You plan out this trip like a bridezilla about to get married, stopping everywhere you can in the state where you were born and festered. Your favorite tourist tar pits include the spray painted cadilac ranch (for the colors), the creationist flavored fossil museum (for the laugh track), and Austin for a roller derby (so you can both watch some sweet girl-on-girl carnage).
At the beginning she's practicing her zen by being one with the carseat. You drag her into some hilarious cave with a green dinosaur lurking inside, but she doesn't lick a single overweight Texan. It irks you that she's not appreciating this shit like she should, this is a top quality, 4.0 GPA tourist trap. The next few days go the same, until one night at a motel you would rather not name, where you woke up at 3:00AM and found her in the empty dirt outside. She had dust in her hair and was smelling the stars, and you nuzzled her head like a pussy until she told you of herself and how pitiful this human planet was. You thought pity was a troll-love-pheromone-boner-emotion, and she didn't respond to that logical quip. Instead she gives you this spiel about how this wasn't what she was expecting at the end of the road and you say save it honey, life is a highway. You feel shitty about quoting that awful song but she just rolls over and falls right asleep. You carry her back.
Slowly she emerges from her metaphorical hive and by the end of your patented month long Dave Strider roadtrip extravaganza, you're both sitting in the back of the auditorium in Austin, booing the Oklahoma City derby girls after a few beers and a lot of lovin'.
She doesn't want to go back to your apartment, and you don't really either. You go back anyway, but just for a week. She asks you why and you tell her because you gotta plan our next trip. This time, she says, this time I'll help too.