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Amazing interest in the most famous Rabbit in history NoamFOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Noam Rabbit Nears 200,000 Readers Worldwide as Easter Appro
good evening. my best wishes to you, and habit’s recovery.
i also see you made cookies. do you like to bake?
Ah. A question about me, hm? I’m flattered - no one else usually gives a shit.
Say, why don’t I tell you all a little bit about myself? I’ve got the time to type.
—
Hundreds of lives ago, our mother taught Michael how to bake when we were ten years old. Michael got really good at it, so I also decided to pick it up too. I would practice making bread in the middle of the night and rob him of sleep so he couldn’t practice during the day. I thought it would make me feel as good as it did for him, especially if I was better than him at it. Well…
After dying in that life, we start all over again somewhere new as always. One summer- we're about 15 years old and just wandering aimlessly on the beach while we talked and enjoyed the sunshine. Then we started bickering over something so stupid I didn't bother to remember what it was. We're just throwing around petty insults and then I say, "I bet you couldn't bake a cake even if the only ingredient was shit."
We stop walking and Michael goes, "well duh, I don't even know how to bake." I didnt say anything for a moment, and Michael continues humorously, "but I bet I could still bake a better shit cake than you!”
I couldn't keep up the bickering after that...even though Michael remained cheerful, I just felt this horrible, aching sadness; like a hole had opened up inside me.
We went home without further argument.
Just the life prior Michael had been an amazing baker in his own right. It made him happy. I may have hated it before, but it was true. Now he knew nothing, straight back to square one, completely unaware of this fact.
Except I knew, and I felt terrible because...well, I could still remember how to bake. I've never forgotten. But Michael would have to relearn everything, including the things that helped us both survive the darkness we were stuck in.
How awful is that? Never being allowed to keep even the most innocent of memories, only for me to be the one stuck with them all. What am I supposed to do with that? Let it all go to waste?
15 year old me was pretty fucked up by this awareness for sure. I kept going over it in my head trying to make sense of things, and what I concluded was this:
My job is to protect Michael's happiness, not rob him of it for myself and do nothing with it. I felt like I stole something precious from Michael that day. I was a selfish fool; being “better” at Michael never actually made me happier in the grand scheme of things. So…
I decided I'd continue baking, from that life onwards, in honor of the memory Michael lost. I’ll hold onto it for him. I had the power to make him a little happier, even though I felt like I could only bring him pain.
Despite the tall cunt and despite my own destructive tendencies, I still managed to leave a tray of Michaels favorite treats by our bedside at least once a week.
So you could say I enjoy baking…but only because I know how much it makes other people feel better. I get nothing else out of it. It’s taken a long time to not be bitter, and I’ve done a lot of fucked shit because of it, but I’ve learned how to channel it into something positive now I think.
—
Anyways, that’s my story about the baking thing. I have many stories, but I should probably leave it at that for the moment.
Habit looks to have stopped shaking so much, but still hasn’t touched the cookies. Rude I say - my cookies are freaking awesome. I’m going to put my phone down and try talking to him again soon. -P
>>
Author Warren is a cutthroat dealer that finds hard to get items for wealthy collectors. But when he’s approached to find a one-of-a-kind recording of the last song done by a sadistic musician that...
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Ch 1. Loading...
“System on.”
A pause.
“Restoring data.”
A pause.
“System Booting.”
A pause.
An electronic squeal sounds through a white room, echoing off the empty walls as eyes opened, a digital blue behind soft brown eyelids, peeking through dark eyelashes. Now sitting up on the floor, the female figure looked down at her hands. Nails were properly manicured. Hands pure and smooth aside from the occasional stitched up scars. Looking up to the window in the room, the figure saw its reflection shining back. Long black hair now shiny and straightened, with bangs sitting just slightly past her eyebrows.
“Loading...” The words played in her head in some automated and across her field of vision. These words weren’t playing in front of her in some screen or in some weird sort of plane, not quite one she could reach out an touch, it was invading her vision itself.
Looking around the space, she turned around to realize a cable was trailing behind her into the wall, attached somewhere behind her she was unable to see, under her loose white dress.
Then a door made itself apparent, opening into the room showing a man standing there in a black suit, with a black button down and a black tie. She turned to face him, curious eyes staring him down as she took a step closer, only to find herself frozen where she stood.
The man in the suit was soon walking into the room, pacing around her to view her from all angles. “And you’re telling me she was received yesterday, so her hardware should be up to date, correct?” The man had a remote in his hand.
Hardware? What hardware?
A woman in a white lab coat, over a black high neck sweater, walked in, following the man and eager to answer his questions. “Of course! Now, do we need anything else, or shall I fetch the paperwork?”
He stopped once more in front of the girl’s face, having to look down slightly to look at her eyes and his own widened slightly.
There was something else in there.
Something different.
“I’ll take her.”
End of the #estory soirée... passing right under the #EiffelTower ... she is so beautiful in #bleublancrouge ! #viveparis #vivelafrance (à Mercure Paris Centre Tour Eiffel)
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Writer’s Block- When Your Imaginary Friends No Longer Speak to You
Writer’s Block- When Your Imaginary Friends No Longer Speak to You
Writer’s Block- When Your Imaginary Friends No Longer Speak to You
Writer’s block is simply anything that stops the creative flow to your work. It can be a result of fatigue, sickness, procrastination, idleness, or simply too much stimuli to the creative side of your brain. Some say there is mo such thing as writer’s block, but I say that is debatable.
There have been many times when I sat down…
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