/vt/ - Virtual Youtubers

>>54982729
Nyatasha Nyanners sits alone at a two seat dinnette set. A window open her cats chirp back at the birds near the windowsill. A TV is on playing a Direct TV music channel, loud enough to hear, not loud enough to process or enjoy.

She stares at her freshly DoorDashed tempura chicken. A phone with silent notifications ping endlessly, it sits next to her styrofoam containers. A half filled hyrdoflask quietly flanks and condensates on the opposite side.

Her heart rate has been raised above 90. Consistently elevating every moment she's been awake this day. Full of rage. She lurches over, face close to recently fried food. Hands pressed hard against the sides of the small table. She screams loud and long, until hoarse.

Her hands move to the front of the table she sits at nearly pushing the front two legs of the chair she sits in off the ground. Her brow lowers flattening her gaze forward, scanning the rooms she sees before her. Her mouth pressed flat furrowing down, angry. A small muscle spasm creeps at the corners of her lips and eyes. Signifying.

The entryway to her apartment catches her gaze. Pictures align against the room divisions. A picture of her with her family, young. A picture with her friends, at a con, before. Smiling in it in a way she can't understand currently. A marginal table beneath, weathered after several moves.

Upon it: an aloe plant with brown tips. The cats have likely bitten into it previously. A small collection of wristband aligned neatly. A flat and long old style sake cup she received as a gift. In the cup the contents are loose change, less than three dollars. Seven crumpled and unfaced dollar bills. A USB drive, the contents forgotten. Keys, on a lanyard, one charm, another gift.

Her vision shifts to the door. A fractional amount of false hallway light gleams through the peephole. She looks at it. Her face curls further down.

Her two cats hide under her love seat unsure of their owner's next move. Their backs are arched and claws dug in. They mew softly and afraid.

This is Tuesday, August 31st. 2021. And Nyatasha Nyanners sits alone.

>>40918968
>>40919084
>>40919227
>>40919278
>>40919393
>>40919582
>>40920205
>>40920535
>>40920613
Nyatasha Nyanners sits alone at a two seat dinnette set. A window open her cats chirp back at the birds near the windowsill. A TV is on playing a Direct TV music channel, loud enough to hear, not loud enough to process or enjoy.

She stares at her freshly DoorDashed tempura chicken. A phone with silent notifications ping endlessly, it sits next to her styrofoam containers. A half filled hyrdoflask quietly flanks and condensates on the opposite side.

Her heart rate has been raised above 90. Consistently elevating every moment she's been awake this day. Full of rage. She lurches over, face close to recently fried food. Hands pressed hard against the sides of the small table. She screams loud and long, until hoarse.

Her hands move to the front of the table she sits at nearly pushing the front two legs of the chair she sits in off the ground. Her brow lowers flattening her gaze forward, scanning the rooms she sees before her. Her mouth pressed flat furrowing down, angry. A small muscle spasm creeps at the corners of her lips and eyes. Signifying.

The entryway to her apartment catches her gaze. Pictures align against the room divisions. A picture of her with her family, young. A picture with her friends, at a con, before. Smiling in it in a way she can't understand currently. A marginal table beneath, weathered after several moves.

Upon it: an aloe plant with brown tips. The cats have likely bitten into it previously. A small collection of wristband aligned neatly. A flat and long old style sake cup she received as a gift. In the cup the contents are loose change, less than three dollars. Seven crumpled and unfaced dollar bills. A USB drive, the contents forgotten. Keys, on a lanyard, one charm, another gift.

Her vision shifts to the door. A fractional amount of false hallway light gleams through the peephole. She looks at it. Her face curls further down.

Her two cats hide under her love seat unsure of their owner's next move. Their backs are arched and claws dug in. They mew softly and afraid.

This is Tuesday, August 31st. 2021. And Nyatasha Nyanners sits alone.

Nyatasha Nyanners sits alone at a two seat dinnette set. A window open her cats chirp back at the birds near the windowsill. A TV is on playing a Direct TV music channel, loud enough to hear, not loud enough to process or enjoy.

She stares at her freshly DoorDashed tempura chicken. A phone with silent notifications ping endlessly, it sits next to her styrofoam containers. A half filled hyrdoflask quietly flanks and condensates on the opposite side.

Her heart rate has been raised above 90. Consistently elevating every moment she's been awake this day. Full of rage. She lurches over, face close to recently fried food. Hands pressed hard against the sides of the small table. She screams loud and long, until hoarse.

Her hands move to the front of the table she sits at nearly pushing the front two legs of the chair she sits in off the ground. Her brow lowers flattening her gaze forward, scanning the rooms she sees before her. Her mouth pressed flat furrowing down, angry. A small muscle spasm creeps at the corners of her lips and eyes. Signifying.

The entryway to her apartment catches her gaze. Pictures align against the room divisions. A picture of her with her family, young. A picture with her friends, at a con, before. Smiling in it in a way she can't understand currently. A marginal table beneath, weathered after several moves.

Upon it: an aloe plant with brown tips. The cats have likely bitten into it previously. A small collection of wristband aligned neatly. A flat and long old style sake cup she received as a gift. In the cup the contents are loose change, less than three dollars. Seven crumpled and unfaced dollar bills. A USB drive, the contents forgotten. Keys, on a lanyard, one charm, another gift.

Her vision shifts to the door. A fractional amount of false hallway light gleams through the peephole. She looks at it. Her face curls further down.

Her two cats hide under her love seat unsure of their owner's next move. Their backs are arched and claws dug in. They mew softly and afraid.

This is Tuesday, August 31st. 2021. And Nyatasha Nyanners sits alone.