[And find out how he lives? Oh no no no. But he's also mid-beer, and walking off his current buzz to head out into the cold sounds... bad.]
ROOM IS FINE. 105. JUST GIVE ME TEN MINUTES.
[Cue him rolling from his hunched-sprawl pose, off the bed and onto his feet. A cat-like acrobat. From his new vantage point he's able to reevaluate the state of his kingdom. VISUAL CALCULUS — Several glasses scattered about on various surfaces—one a quarter-full of what was once water, now a cigarette-butt graveyard. Crushed cans. Numerous bottles. Scattered clothing, some dirty and balled up, others clean and... slightly less balled up. Magazines, books and a selection of boardgames stacked up on top of each other with a precarious lean. Wrappers, screwed-up receipts and tissue. Plates and cutlery. Unmistakable drug paraphernalia and...
He stands there for a long, long moment, then looks down to his phone again, like maybe he should just text back and say tacos. VOLITION — No, you can do this. Triage.
With a steadying breath, he explodes into action. A hurricane of hiding smaller bad things in larger bad things—matryoshka dolls of sin that get slammed into the depths of his cupboard. Some things get binned, others survive the purge.
When time's up, he's a little red-faced, sure, but the room looks more shitty bachelor pad than crime scene. He even remembers that aforementioned shirt, buttoning it up as he waits for the knock.]
no subject
...He'll don a shirt though. And uh:]
SURE, MAN. WHERE?
no subject
your room?
i dont know what a couple of beers is to you
unless you want some fresh air then we can get tacos
no subject
ROOM IS FINE. 105. JUST GIVE ME TEN MINUTES.
[Cue him rolling from his hunched-sprawl pose, off the bed and onto his feet. A cat-like acrobat. From his new vantage point he's able to reevaluate the state of his kingdom.
VISUAL CALCULUS — Several glasses scattered about on various surfaces—one a quarter-full of what was once water, now a cigarette-butt graveyard. Crushed cans. Numerous bottles. Scattered clothing, some dirty and balled up, others clean and... slightly less balled up. Magazines, books and a selection of boardgames stacked up on top of each other with a precarious lean. Wrappers, screwed-up receipts and tissue. Plates and cutlery. Unmistakable drug paraphernalia and...
He stands there for a long, long moment, then looks down to his phone again, like maybe he should just text back and say tacos.
VOLITION — No, you can do this. Triage.
With a steadying breath, he explodes into action. A hurricane of hiding smaller bad things in larger bad things—matryoshka dolls of sin that get slammed into the depths of his cupboard. Some things get binned, others survive the purge.
When time's up, he's a little red-faced, sure, but the room looks more shitty bachelor pad than crime scene. He even remembers that aforementioned shirt, buttoning it up as he waits for the knock.]
no subject
ugghhh. ]
ok
[ better play some tetris or something. ]