Because I really don't wanna' repeat myself another fifteen times. Who would've thought.
[ Et tu, Brute and company. It's almost tolerable if he feigns a particularly operatic display of stand-up comedy (false bravado to mitigate that little ache that chirps that they're bored and he's boring, give it a rest numbskull, the campy 90s dialogue got old over two millennia ago, and pushing three won't make it any less dated, goddamn it). In practice, though, all it amounts him to is a very talkative patch of dirt begging the grass to grow. That kind of futility won't make concord with anything, much less how he's misinterpreted the insinuation.
One of them boasts the personality of burnt toast, the other rotten eggs. All together, they make the trifecta of disgustingly unappetizing breakfast chow long past its expiration date. What's that make Prompto? (Greasy bacon hog-tied in oil, probably. Consider this conjecture: this little piggy likes to oink an awful lot. What an incorrigible ham.) His feet go on trampling ground with an ease he doesn't feel, not for all the cheerlessness they've meted out thus far. ]
Uh, calling it now. You guys are the worst. Wooooorst. Look lively! Or at least less dead. It's not torture. You're killing me here. I'm like, the dead walking.
[ The walking dead, if the redundancy doesn't completely take ahold. Kill his ass, though. Free him from his suffering, it can't take long when he's all bird-boned and fluttery like this, brittle to the touch. He's wounded by this demotivating atmosphere more than the time he'd had schoolyard bullies chasing him in the schoolyard and making snide comments about his childhood resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy, even, so catastrophe is obviously bottlenecking itself for the moment when their little interpersonal hang-ups explode. In an effort to be amicable in the face of defeat, though, he continues to kick at every pebble in the road. Some noise to offset the resounding silence left to tamp over their ears should Prompto let the conversation loose for even a second. ]
What he said, by the way, except a hell of a lot shorter walk than you'd think. Dragging your heels kinda-sorta' took a bit.
[ Stragglers. But they've caught up with the rest of the milling pedestrians, the festival in full swing, and Prompto relinquishes the fretfulness of his steps to loiter around until they've both caught up to make his grand proclamation. ]
So, ahem, gentlemen. Gathered the rest of your reason to live yet? Tonight, we dine on ... some really fatty shit.
[ Worst. Just the worst. Someone, slap him upside the head. ]
no subject
[
Et tu, Brute and company.It's almost tolerable if he feigns a particularly operatic display of stand-up comedy (false bravado to mitigate that little ache that chirps that they're bored and he's boring, give it a rest numbskull, the campy 90s dialogue got old over two millennia ago, and pushing three won't make it any less dated, goddamn it). In practice, though, all it amounts him to is a very talkative patch of dirt begging the grass to grow. That kind of futility won't make concord with anything, much less how he's misinterpreted the insinuation.One of them boasts the personality of burnt toast, the other rotten eggs. All together, they make the trifecta of disgustingly unappetizing breakfast chow long past its expiration date. What's that make Prompto? (Greasy bacon hog-tied in oil, probably. Consider this conjecture: this little piggy likes to oink an awful lot. What an incorrigible ham.) His feet go on trampling ground with an ease he doesn't feel, not for all the cheerlessness they've meted out thus far. ]
Uh, calling it now. You guys are the worst. Wooooorst. Look lively! Or at least less dead. It's not torture. You're killing me here. I'm like, the dead walking.
[ The walking dead, if the redundancy doesn't completely take ahold. Kill his ass, though. Free him from his suffering, it can't take long when he's all bird-boned and fluttery like this, brittle to the touch. He's wounded by this demotivating atmosphere more than the time he'd had schoolyard bullies chasing him in the schoolyard and making snide comments about his childhood resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy, even, so catastrophe is obviously bottlenecking itself for the moment when their little interpersonal hang-ups explode. In an effort to be amicable in the face of defeat, though, he continues to kick at every pebble in the road. Some noise to offset the resounding silence left to tamp over their ears should Prompto let the conversation loose for even a second. ]
What he said, by the way, except a hell of a lot shorter walk than you'd think. Dragging your heels kinda-sorta' took a bit.
[ Stragglers. But they've caught up with the rest of the milling pedestrians, the festival in full swing, and Prompto relinquishes the fretfulness of his steps to loiter around until they've both caught up to make his grand proclamation. ]
So, ahem, gentlemen. Gathered the rest of your reason to live yet? Tonight, we dine on ... some really fatty shit.
[ Worst. Just the worst. Someone, slap him upside the head. ]