i have to take a shit

totallytrippingballs:

runmonsterun:

I was supposed to try to write a polished fic one day but instead I just write snippets during class so instead I will opt for occasionally drawing art of these two with a picture to go in hand sob.
Second Again. Second Always. If second was a state of mind, it would be the one I’m perpetually stuck in.
Because no matter what I do, I fall right back into place if I’m ahead.
It’s nauseating, looking up at the list. Nauseating to know no matter how hard I try, I wasn’t programmed with the ability, the mentality, to beat Ike Broflovski. But oh, I try. I really do.
He’s a machine; I have a hard time seeing him as human most days. The way he tapped at his desk as if he were in front of a computer screen, or how he managed to skim through every page of his textbook within a minute, regardless of word count or content.
I knew this because it made me sick.
I couldn’t look away because, by some stroke of sick fate, I sat within his circumference—whether aside, behind, or diagonal—in every class we happened to share. And I could hear his pages turn, one minute at a time, for the last twelve years of my life, like clockwork as I struggled to comprehend the exact same concept he so easily managed to master upon introduction.
Ike Broflovski was a ticking clock, one I had to face as I counted down my fate as second best, one page at a time.
The sound of squeaking shoes against linoleum tiling should have been muffled by the particularly jovial hallway chatter after school, had it not been so loud and abrupt. So loud, in fact, I broke out of my hypnotic and depressed train of thought to find myself arm to arm with a tiny blue-clad senior, glare bouncing off the lens of his glasses, obstructing the view of his eyes.
And there he was: my personal ticking time bomb.
That was another thing. Those glasses. You could never see past them, to his eyes. To me, his eyes were the reflection of artificial light; artificial like him.

[Loosely basing New-Ike off of runmonsterun’s Ike. Also, New-Ike has reading glasses. So he doesn’t wear them most of the time, except in school he leaves them on his desk and takes them on and off as necessary and stuff. So yeah.]

runmonsterun:

I was supposed to try to write a polished fic one day but instead I just write snippets during class so instead I will opt for occasionally drawing art of these two with a picture to go in hand sob.

Second Again. Second Always. If second was a state of mind, it would be the one I’m perpetually stuck in.

Because no matter what I do, I fall right back into place if I’m ahead.

It’s nauseating, looking up at the list. Nauseating to know no matter how hard I try, I wasn’t programmed with the ability, the mentality, to beat Ike Broflovski. But oh, I try. I really do.

He’s a machine; I have a hard time seeing him as human most days. The way he tapped at his desk as if he were in front of a computer screen, or how he managed to skim through every page of his textbook within a minute, regardless of word count or content.

I knew this because it made me sick.

I couldn’t look away because, by some stroke of sick fate, I sat within his circumference—whether aside, behind, or diagonal—in every class we happened to share. And I could hear his pages turn, one minute at a time, for the last twelve years of my life, like clockwork as I struggled to comprehend the exact same concept he so easily managed to master upon introduction.

Ike Broflovski was a ticking clock, one I had to face as I counted down my fate as second best, one page at a time.

The sound of squeaking shoes against linoleum tiling should have been muffled by the particularly jovial hallway chatter after school, had it not been so loud and abrupt. So loud, in fact, I broke out of my hypnotic and depressed train of thought to find myself arm to arm with a tiny blue-clad senior, glare bouncing off the lens of his glasses, obstructing the view of his eyes.

And there he was: my personal ticking time bomb.

That was another thing. Those glasses. You could never see past them, to his eyes. To me, his eyes were the reflection of artificial light; artificial like him.

[Loosely basing New-Ike off of runmonsterun’s Ike. Also, New-Ike has reading glasses. So he doesn’t wear them most of the time, except in school he leaves them on his desk and takes them on and off as necessary and stuff. So yeah.]