The most /lit/ short story ever

[Anonymous No.17706497]

I have it, /lit/. The most /lit/ short story ever. Move over oat posting, move over bear Stirner: something greater is in the course of construction.

Ever been in a relationship? I have and I’m going to tell you about it, /lit/. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, look at this tangle of thorns. How did we meet? We met on a dating application —simple as. The day before our first date, I went to go fetch some dinner from a discounter, but ended up getting drunk in front of a bus stop instead. I decided now would be a good time to confess my love for her feet which were mediocre and beautiful and I had admired them the most in her profile picture; she wore open-toed sandals, her toes were pale and looked like they smelled of wet chalk. Well, I walked home from the bus stop after that and had some mayonnaise for dinner. I woke up at around 1 pm: all the lights were on, the window was open and a Charles Manson interview warbled away on loop in the background --
>I’m the king of the underworld guy. I roll the nickels.
Where was I? At home, I thought excitedly, knowing that I needed to prepare for my first date in some time. And which locale did I choose for our first rendezvous, you might ask yourself: I choose a bar close to where I live, a familiar place. I waited for her to arrive at my stop at the subway station. I waited anxiously and alone and when she stepped out of the subway car, I didn’t immediately recognize her, but as she approached, I mean, when I came to understand that it was her, I knew that this relationship would not last for more than a month. She wore tennis shoes — lesbian, I thought, dead giveaway. She wore loose-fitting jeans. My dismay grew. I was eager to get to the bar. Finally she came close to my face, pushing back the salt and pepper blonde pelt of tufty, bobby-trimmed hair beneath her piercing ear and said:
>Oh, hi. You must be Anon.
>Oh yes, I said, feigning surprise and joy.
>I really like your shirt, she said.
>Oh thanks, I said.
>Where do we have to go now?, she asked.
>To the bar, I said.
The rest, reader, is so banal as to not even merit a narrative thread.

[Anonymous No.17706506]

>>17706497
I got her hammered and we stumbled back to her place after a fifteen minute subway ride. We found ourselves in a compromising position on her bed. She crawled on top of me wearing her rad, Super Dry surfboard t-shirt and the mandala cloth glued to the wall swayed a bit in the moonlight. "Do you want me baby?" she asked with an inquisitive tone as she crawled on top of my derobed hips and her large white breasts swung just above my eyelashes. I was still hungover from the spoiled duck filet and beer cans from the fish store outside her apartment that we buyed the night before and so I yawned a bit and then reluctantly deigned to touch her. Her tits swung and smelled like anchovy drippings. „I love you, babe“, she said. Then as I was about to remove her panties she stopped and whispered, "Stop. I have something to tell you. I think I might be a lesbian..this is", she faltered like an iron, "my first time." I immediately went flaccid said I had a family emergency and without taking my medication retired to the subway station to listen to KoЯn and drink a six pack…
Let’s skip ahead a couple of weeks now, to her birthday, sometime in the first week of March. I was in a bad mood the whole day anyways and being around her didn't help. So here's how it started out: it was 8 in the morning and I needed a beer. I was up all night alone watching Thomas Oberg orbital exam videos (inbred Mormon plastic surgeons make the best opthalmeter and tono-pen ASMR videos) and drinking beer. I read my messages on Telegram and the dreaded name appeared there: "Good morning". I nearly dropped my phone in fear. "I forgot that today is her birthday", I thought as I masturbated. While I was trimming my toenails in the shower I was trying to remember how old she was, maybe 20 or 21, she told me which perfume she wanted but I had deleted all of our messages after she booked an AirBnB without my permission. She said "Fine! I'll go with the only person who cares about me then". I said "Oggay". She relented and stayed in her apartment. After I showered and put my clothes on I went to the train station to get some four beer for breakfast. I couldn't for the life of me remember the name of her perfume so I went to the travel store and searched for the cheapest available perfume — Moj! by Stefanie Gieseking. It costed 3 dollars. I even acquired a gift bag but lost it on the subway ride to her apartment because I fell asleep after such a big breakfast. I finally arrived at her apartment. On the way there I harassed two teenager girls with loudly recited Frankie Boyle jokes and asked for her number before she treated to call the police.

[Anonymous No.17706517]

>>17706506
I waited in front of her apartment for her to return from the Asian store to buy onions sauce and pocky. When I saw her, it was a deja vu moment. She wore tennis shoes — lesbian, I thought, dead giveaway. She wore loose-fitting jeans. I relished this time my dismay. I saw an array of dark bruises around her kneecap and wished that I had been the cause of them.
>Oh, hey babe, she said.
>Oh, hey, I said, feigning any sort of feeling.
>Let’s go up to my place, she said.
>Oggay, I said.
All of her dumbs friends were there. She introduced me to them and I tried not to laugh at their stupidity. Later, we, her bearded Serbian friends and I, ate, in front of a bus stop, our McDonald's dinner with Moet Chandon. Now rest assured: this was truly degenerate, even by my standards — and I have harassed a prostitute, urinated on UNESCO World Heritage Sites and been banned from a McDonald’s for indecency (not this one). At any rate, they all studied business: I hate business. I was already slightly buzzed again from breakfast and the champagne (we order food from the touch screen at McD’s. I ordered jalapeño chili cheese poppers and a Filet of Fish. I ate the chili cheese poppers and then flushed the Filet of Fish down her toilet out of spite) and I wanted to kill these business "people". I also thought it was odd that she only had male friends. One of them had a dumb, monosyllabic nickname and got lost in a field before finding her apartment. He seemed like a real business loser. While they talked about garbage, I went to the bathroom to masturbate and see if the Filet of Fish had clogged the toilet or not. As I wiped my cum off the toilet rim, I saw bits of swollen crust float up from the back pipe but luckily the toilet was still operational — smooth flush! I was worried because the weekend prior her shower had sprung a leak and so she laid down on her bed, buried her fat face in her pillow and started to cry profusely. At that point, I really wanted fill her mouth with my dung and solder off her fingertips, but instead I panfried some mussels in olive oil and had a bottle of red wine while she laid on the floor crying. I felt full and found this not very entertaining and went home. I was thinking that, if the toilet were to overflow, she might cry even more which would be bad, since I had no more mussels or wine.

[Anonymous No.17706524]

>>17706517
Anyways, I rejoined the circle of her friends and while they were talking I searched my favorite video on YouTube, the one where famous TCAP predator Lorne Armstrong gets caught by Chris Handsome, and played it at full volume. His catchphrase is "oggay", so is mine now. "Oggay" I bleated. I was now hungry and wished I hadn't flushed my Filet of Fish down the toilet. Oggay? After her friends had left, we initiated some buzzed pseudo-intellectual pillow talk.
"And that's why I think the market should be regulated", she said with a smug grin that said "I eat shit but not your’s". I hated business and slowly but surely I was starting to hate her. She was laying down with her back against the glued mandala wall and her ugly feet hung off the edge of the bed. I paused for a moment to relish my disappointment and then said, "I think the market should be open because I am a Gary Paul Libertarian". Without a moment's notice she said "Shut up" (she had taken this phrase from one of her friends, which is ironic: she unconsciously adopted, like some passive sponge conch, a phrase meant to express assertiveness, this shows how she is hypocritical). Well now wanted to punch her in the face, but instead I got distracted by a dimple she had on the right side of her cheek. The sheer combination of physical unattractiveness plus her ill-informed economic views mad be so very angry, so I told her I forgot something at and rushed out the door to the subway home. I could hear her stupid voice in my head: "Don't leave without telling me!", she muttered as she dug her fish stained fingernails into the bed of my palms. Her harangue on market regulation and the cavernous dimple on her right cheek had engendered such black introspection in me -- for I began to understand that she was indeed ugly: other times I had observed her and managed to convince myself that her face only had several minor flaws that sometimes worked in concert to throw me off course and that I had to look at the big picture, to squint my eyes like at a Pollock piece and think "This is the best you can do" -- anyways, I decided to sketch and analyze the anatomical proportions of her jaw using a photo of Nicole Scherzinger I found on a YouTube compilation of bad X-Factor auditions as a reference. Now that was a woman: lean, clean jaw, tall, long hair, no dimples and good feet. Pulling out my protractor, I noticed that her cheeks protruded far out past the caruncles, at least by a quarter of an inch. Well, I had my results: she was officially fat. At this point, I resolved to never speak to her again.

[Anonymous No.17706918]