It’s 11pm, and I’m really tired of getting my ass whooped in ranked, so I may as well do a little introduction spiel.
Hi, I’m Cheno. I’m 23 and a grad student. I live at ninety-f- an apartment near the outskirts of downtown with my flatmate Ori, and commute twenty minutes to university every Monday-Wednesday-Friday. My degree’s in Writing and Rhetoric, so look forward to seeing me on the streets soon. I have a freeform essay due tomorrow. If a stranger asked for my hobbies I’d say writing and embroidery, but really I just play League and then scream into my pillow for a little while. I have an essay due tomorrow, and I just lost four games in a row on Nidalee. Did I mention my essay due tomorrow? It happens to be very blank.
Okay. It’s not that I don’t like writing. I’m actually pretty big on the whole “follow your dreams!”, “shoot for the stars!” rigamarole, and that entails a healthy love of putting stuff into words and then putting words onto paper. But when the words suck- okay, sorry, I mean when the words are about the purpose of structural irony in Gulliver’s Travels, a little piece of my soul breaks off and dies. Probably not a good sign, but I will eat my shoe if I have to write another rhetorical analysis essay. It’s fine. It’s made of foam. The shoe, not the essay.
Like man, I want to write. I want to spin one of the endless universes that exists in my head into something tangible that people enjoy. I want to get one of my high school L̶e̶a̶g̶u̶e̶ D̶&̶D̶ fantasy AUs published. I want to blow up as hard as the person who wrote Harry Potter, Daniel Radcliffe. Maybe that entails learning the intricacies of Gulliver’s Travels. I don’t know. I’m a train and I sure am on a track.
Anyhow, I’m well-off enough to not have to worry about my overambitious idealism launching me into a homeless shelter. Yet. I think the bakery lady likes me enough to not fire me on a whim. Apart from that, parents’ money is- hm. Parents are- huh. Y’know what maybe not today.
I like soft-boiled eggs. I embroider clothing patches whenever I get in the funk of it. I’m not very good at staying on topic.
The walls are thin; I can hear Ori clacking away on his little cherry-switch mech keyboard. I still don’t understand how he afforded the thing. It’s not like he has a job, much less leaves the apartment. I still remember when he tried to pay me with an honest-to-god drachma once, so I hope whatever tech store employee wasn’t traumatized too hard.
Maybe I should invite him to flex queue. Then again, he’s really bashing the shit out of the keys, so maybe not.
The spam-clicking stops, replaced with the rustling of wires. I think he’s switching keyboards. Over-considerate bastard.
A message pops up on the dim glow of the screen.
ori00: goodnight <コ:彡
I really don’t know how he can sense these things from a room away. I’m kind of used to it, though.
ori00: ( ´∀｀)b
Well. Sleep it is, then.