Warnings : 3
Joined: 21 May 2007
AIDS Rank: Samuel L. Jackson
Location: In the kitchen, like I should be.
|F. C. Waddymellin wrote: |
|I'm new to this epic hobby of raiding, and I want to know which areas of habbo have pools. Please help. |
You wake up, you're in the middle of a field, and the scent of burning rubber is in the air. You don't know where exactly you are or how you got there, and most importantly you don't know why you are holding a cookbook.
You hear a voice, whispering gently into your ear for you to go through the door. Confused, you ask what door.
"THE DOOR. GO THROUGH THE DOOR"
"WHAT FUCKING DOOR?" Is your confused, and somewhat aroused reply.
Then, the same voice tells you to press your face into the mud at your feet and listen to the sweet melodies of years past.
Yet, upon looking down, you find that there is only dried grass and the occasional animal dropping. But, you do not question the soft caress of the wind on your bosom, the gentle breeze like the touch of a sweet penis.
Slowly, you lower yourself to the ground, on your hands and knees and then eventually onto your stomach, arms outstretched and legs quite the same. Your ear is pressed to the soft dirt and decaying vegetation, and suddenly you start to hear something.
A sweet, sweet soothing melody.
The lyrics lull you off to sleep until you can no longer think of anything else, nothing matters anymore.
Then, then you see the door. It is bathed in a golden light, perched on top of marble steps. You wonder what is behind the door, what you could have possibly done to have something so flawless and perfect appear before you.
You want to open the door, catch a glimpse of what is behind the heavily polished and well taken care of barrier to the unknown.
Stepping closer, you hear jovial laughter coming from behind. Children are singing, water is splashing, and music is playing. You want so badly to join them, they being reminders of what had never been a presence in your own childhood.
The door is just within your reach, you can almost feel the cool metal of the knob in your hand, you push and push and the solid heavy surface yields under your touch and you are pushing it open.
Roughly, you are yanked back to reality. You are sitting in your parent's basement, having fallen asleep in your computer chair which is threatening to break under the immense weight you put into it twenty hours out of every day. Your face has gone unshaven for the past three weeks, take out containers litter the floor, and there is a nasty smell coming from behind you. You haven't taken a shower in days, too busy with pressing F5 and fapping to tasteless loli cOoKiEs.
Your life is meaningless. You start to cry, whole frame wracked with sobs as each one of your three hundred and fifty pounds jiggle.
Creaking one final time, your chair breaks and you flop backwards, unable to avoid the onslaught of fresh tears at the sight of the fresh wound you obtained when your arm had gotten caught on one of the many utensils sticking to and fro from one of many containers.
Your mother calls down the stairs for you. It's time for dinner, she made lasagna. It's your favorite.