Thread:Mabel Pines/@comment-26627091-20181209222806/@comment-26627091-20181209224030

''I sit across the room, intently staring at you with my visual orbs lodged in my skull--inspecting your every move slight or not, each hint of your facial expression morphing into an emotion of discontent, each subconscious muscle spasm urging you to look away from my gaze, and yet you can't. You're horrified, fixed on my eyes locked on your form as I loudly slorp spaghetti into my mouth. I do not even have a fork to help me shovel it into my mouth, no; I simply reach my hand into my fanny pack of spaghetti, flinging scoop after scoop into my mouth. It is very cold and flavorless, like a cup of ramen noodles that was left out for too long. The room itself is unnervingly empty, a white that matches that of an asylum with the silence to match--a quiet only pierced by my pasta-slurping, and the echoes that follow.''