THIS. IS. BREAKFAST. Sept 2, 2011 19:34:09 GMT -5
Post by Laura Lot on Sept 2, 2011 19:34:09 GMT -5
For Your Condensation
Look at my horse
Pawns: Laura Lot
My horse is amazing
give it a lick
Setting: brief idea where you are.
it tastes just like raisins
Scene: it was Monday morning, in the cafeteria, with the 8am.
with a stroke of its mane it turns into a plane and it turns back again if you tug on its-
Laura sat in the canteen, alone. That is not to say the canteen itself was disserted or deserted, it merely and simply meant that there was on a singular table a singular young woman eating a single bowl of porridge with a single spoon. Amusingly, she was also single romantically but that has little to none to do with anything at the current moment in time and most of the moments after it and maybe even beyond.
The time was, according to the clock on the far side of the wall, eight o’clock in the morning dead on. And it was also a Monday. A morning hated for the simple fact it came after Sunday night. In fact any day that at any time that comes after Sunday night is looked upon with about as much loves as a Hitler impression at a Jew convention. Except Friday nights, because that means you can start getting shit faced again.
But Miss lot was not getting shit faced, she was quietly eating her porridge that, beyonf all expectations, tasted alright. It wasn’t an explosion on the tongue, which is never welcome at anytime never mind when you’ve just woken up… except on Friday nights when it becomes hip and cool to endanger ones tongue in such a manner akin to that of a fire eater eating fire. No, the substance she slowly spooned into her mouth was a plain and simple and more importantly; warm and filling. Porridge, in Laura’s opinion, was the perfect breakfast for a person who had accidently dressed themselves in both black jeans and black stockings. It was a warm comfort food that said, everything will be alright, it is still morning and you have the right to not be awake just yet.
So their Laura sat, sleepy and slurping porridge on her own, at five past eight on a Monday morning. Not thinking of dreams or the fact she was still stuck in this dammed place. Just eating her breakfast as she did and had done every Monday morning for the past while, safe in the knowledge some random person wouldn’t mistake her for a newbie to the area or a friendless loaner and try and conscript her into a series of wacky hi-jinks and shenanigans.