anonymous asked:

are you still an asexual worm or have you started developing feelings for the cock

It was late, but to Anon, that didn’t matter. There was no way of knowing just how late it was; the basement had no windows, being some six feet below ground level, and Anon hadn’t been outside in 3 days. Or was it 4? From their seat on the moist desk chair, they checked the calendar above their desk, groaning with the weight of old Dorito bags and latex gloves. June 25th. They furrowed their brow. They could have sworn that it had said June 25th for a very long time. 

They hadn’t seen the stars in at least a week.

There was no way of knowing. 

As the seconds ticked by on the clock on the adjacent wall, the passing of stagnant time indicated by the tick-tick-tick of the second hand against the same number, protesting the dead batteries within, Anon scratched their buttocks. 

Teashoesandhair’s ask box had been open on their laptop screen for a good 3 hours, and it was nearly time. Anon had spent the better part of the early morning - not that they knew it was early morning, of course - constructing a pithy message designed to strike shame and despair into Teashoesandhair’s heart, and the mission was so close to completion that Anon could almost taste it. Or was that just the remnants of last week’s spray cheese sandwich?

There was no way of knowing.

The clock ticked its weariness, and Anon thought about what they had chosen to do. This was not the first time that this particular thought process had flitted across their stilted synapses. The blog with which they had, for no discernible reason, taken umbrage; the human being behind that blog, with whom they had never shared a single interaction; the empty, gaping maw of the solitude they had now come to accept as their sole companion, emptier even than the basement in which they now found themselves. And they thought of the hobbies they had had as a child - the afternoons spent lazing in the sun with a book and a portable CD player, the hockey games, the visits to the newsagent’s where they would buy a pack of gum and a music magazine. All this, consigned to the past. All this, the life of another person. The life of an Anon they no longer recognised in the puffy face reflected back at them in the mirror, sullen and sallow from a lack of sunlight, or a lack of something much more fundamental. Human connection, perhaps. Dignity. Pride. A diet which consisted of more than potato-based products.

None of that mattered any more. All that mattered was this: the empty ask box, and the promise of provoking a reaction - any reaction at all - in another human being. So starved was Anon of any human interaction - of touch, of laughter - that this would have to suffice. This would have to do. Would it have the desired effect? Would their witty message, cleverly designed to poke holes in a cause with which Teashoesandhair had previously announced she was personally affiliated, make them feel alive again? Would the use of the word ‘cock’ give the desired thrill to Anon that no amount of Internet porn had managed to provide? Would the sheer act of imagining Teashoesandhair’s reaction to the message feed Anon’s ceaseless and as yet unfulfilled longing to interact with the real world in the only way they knew how - through senseless and trivial cruelty?

There was no way of knowing. 

They pressed send.