It was the end of the day, she was utterly tired. Then I came along and ruined her peaceful evening. I sat down and ordered some ramen. First time I was eating ramen. I liked it. The most confusing part was managing to hold the chopsticks together.
I found it easy to talk to her. Yeah, about that. I knew I wouldn’t last through the day if I didn’t converse with another human being, so I met up with her and began blurting out my thoughts nonconsecutively, all the mess that had built up inside my stupid head. She listened attentively and without harsh judgment. It was a relief.
She called me a wimp. That hurt. Nobody who truly knows me and my nature has ever called me that. I’m not even going to dignify her remark with an answer. My actions speak for themselves, and my writing... well, I’ve always said that I’m better at art than I am with waffling words. You’ll see.
* * *
She thought for a while. I conjectured that the prospect of having the power to choose anything she wanted was something she’d not come across before when it came to the art of drawing. The silence was broken — my eyes. The following day I went and drew her eyes, and on observation felt that I had not done her enough good, albeit feeling pleased with given efforts, and in the hopes that the client was left happy. That’s what counts, at the end of the day.
$root - whoami elated endorphin
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