Wolf²

<audio controls> <source src="softnoise.mp3" type="audio/mpeg"> </audio> - Greetings! [[...]]

- Hello! Hi, howdy, whatever makes you feel more comfortable :3 - This is a story about a narrator, as every story is, if you think about it. - For example, I see things in a very broad sense, as some would call me a universal narrator, an overseer, if you will. Do you follow? <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\gga.png" height="50%" width="50%"> [[Yes]] [[No?]]

- Well, I'm glad you understand, frankly I'm quite tired of explaining myself and it's pretty much all I'll be doing here for a while... <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\gga.png" height="50%" width="50%"> [[Get to the point]]

- Ughhh. -Alright, look, you'll get it in a while... <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\gga.png" height="50%" width="50%"> [[Get to the point]]

-Of course. I'll follow protocol then <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\gga.png" height="50%" width="50%"> [[Content Warning]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XX=")[''''''(text-colour:red) [This story deals with themes such as: transphobia, physical and psychological abuse, suicide and self-harm. (Keep in mind that this is not an exaustive list) If you are alright with this, let's move on, if not, this story may not be for you] ''] [[Okay.]] [[I don't feel okay with this.]]

- Welp, that might mean you're doing better than I thought, keep it up! Unless you see yourself as something else, a different creature? [[I see myself as whatever, doesn't really concern me all that much to be honest]] [[I am a sad child. I am a beast. I am a sad tranny. I am a creature, living and breathing, damaged, happy, scared, all at the same time. The great rhyzome of me is too much for even myself to undersand. I might be everything that everyone thinks is wrong with faggots like us]]

- Loud thuds flood your mind. - Yet again you've put yourself through another situation where flooding your mind with psychostimulants (and alcohol, and god knows what more) felt like the only way out of the discomfort of existing in this world. - In the bathroom mirror of this shit-pit some people call a club you look into the mirror, are you sure you see a damaged puppy? <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\DMGPUPBLUR.png" height="50%" width="50%"> [[I see it, even though I can see my face and acknowledge it's me it feels... wrong. Everything has felt wrong for a while now.]] [[I'm not sure I can recognize what I see, not that I'm not a damaged puppy it's just... that might not be me]]

- You stand in the outside area of a shit-pit people call a club. <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\INSFTRNYBLUR.png" height="50%" width="50%">

- That makes sense. The great collection of experiences that construct your existence have been overwhelming for as long as you can recall. You feel broken, but not beyond repair, if you can even understand what repair is. When a puppy is damaged beyond a certain point there is not much meaning left to such arbitrary concepts. The puppy yearns, and craves. <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\DMGPUP.png" height="50%" width="50%"> [[It craves love]]

- Liar. [[what...]]

- You can tell the truth, I won't judge you [[It's true, I feel as if I am... nothing?]]

- I have an idea what you are then. - You see, many things have

- That might be true, but there is something. A beating heart that you might not feel given how damaged you are, but it is there, it beats and it yearns and it craves. <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\DMGPUP.png" height="50%" width="50%"> [[It craves love]]

- It does. - Now look at yourself in the mirror again and try to remind yourself <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\DMGPUPBLUR.png" height="50%" width="50%">

- Let me paint you a picture then: - The emptyness in your soul reached its limit. Nothing seems to work, and even though many things might have worked, you haven't tried them. Hell, at this point there is no helping you or anyone. Faggot, puppy, tranny, whatever the fuck you wanna call it, it's something, and you don't wanna deal with it. - So, let's try something for that. [[Cut myself with the box cutter, that is itslef inside a box, along with a first-aid kit.]] [[Roll a joint]]

- You approach the blade to the skin tissue in the distal portion of your forearm. One soft cut, a harder one, then a harder one. Blood runs through your skin and drips on the floor. An arpeggio of open wounds now adorn you. Isn't it beautiful? [[No... I don't like it]] [[It is...]]

- Your hands tremble as you try your best to

- You walk to the bathroom, blood dripping from your arm and leaving traces that reveal the path to any evil that might want to follow you. The dirty laundry, stained towels, combined with an acidic piss-shit smell feel normal to you at this point. You wash your wounds with soap and water, go back to your stupid little bedroom and spend your time crying, screaming, hitting whatever seems appropriate and desperately trying not to die. The clock hits 9:00AM and your body gives in to the exhaustion, having not slept for the past 44 hours. [[Okay.]]

- Now - More specifically this is a story appears to be about an insufferable tranny and a damaged puppy that fucking hate each other, but not more than they hate themselves. - Which one are you? <img src = "X:\PHOTOSHOP\gga.png" height="50%" width="50%"> (text-colour:red)[[Neither]] (text-colour:purple)[[Damaged Puppy]] (text-colour:magenta)[[Insufferable Tranny]]

- Hello! - Hi, howdy, whatever makes you feel more comfortable :3 - This is a story about a narrator, as every story is, if you think about it. This is a story about an insufferable tranny and a lostm that fucking hate each other, but not more than they hate themselves. are trying to exchange words in the outside area of a shit-pit club. Other people talk, no one really seems normal or sober, this is not about being normal or sober. This is about having so much weird shit in your head at the same time, in the exact alignment of astral-fecal angles that barely anything is actually processed in it. Maine: It’s quite interesting how things keep on building up and up and up and up. Like, not upwards towards the sky or something like that, I just mean, like… Shit… it just doesn’t stop, like ever. Like it's just sometimes… Jolt: Fucking hell I’m not your therapist for fuck sake, if you can’t even handle the shit you keep putting yourself through then you might just… Maine: Welp. Jolt: Speak in coherent words for The wooden floorboards are dirty, ashes carved into it forming constellations, nebulas, clouds of space dust scattered.

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