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drowning together in a sea of kyubeys…
always reblog kyubey chomp
nightmarish
(Source: pema001, via cpubasic13)
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pigachu
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“That night was in the summer. Right? I think it was in the summer. There’s a heat, which is always appropriate for these kinds of activities because you gotta get your clothes off anyway. But I lived in the attic, where it was always hot. The kind of heat that drives your clothes forcibly away from you and then makes you wish you had them back, any clothes would be preferable to the sheen of sweat, which then becomes a dried crust of salt on your skin. It cracks every time you move, and then you start trading it with the other person. It’s foul.”
As if by autosuggestion, he sweats, tiny beads pushing forth from his scalp and trailing their slalom of deep crevices down past his curled mouth toward his chin.
“The heat remains, I guess because it was so omnipresent that year, but the overall sensory imprint left behind is mostly visual. Like… I can remember that her nipples were different than I expected. Brown. Not in a bad way. But I can’t remember how soft her breasts felt, and I know they must have. Right? They had to! And I can remember the way she shaved, it was just a kind of soft tuft. And not black. Sometimes I thought she was younger than what she said. But I know I must have run my fingers through it, and for the life of me I can’t remember what that felt like either.”
Finally, he pulls the bottom of his shirt up and dabs at his face. It soaks through quickly.
“Of course, I don’t remember anything about the fundamentals. We went all night, numerous times, I coulda keeled over at any point. Trading that salty layer with each other, it’s just gross now. God knows what the good parts were but they must have been there, it’s not rocket surgery right? And that was it. In the morning she was gone. I saw her around, of course, and eventually found that I was part of a not-so-exclusive club.”
Here he chuckles, with a little side-to-side shake of his head that tells me it’s sort of self-deprecating.
“But that night, you know. I guess that’s what she was after, so it’s appropriate that it’s really all I have. I wish there was something more than salt driving that memory.”
I nod sympathetically. I really do understand.
Our brains, I tell him, are strange. And these strange brains brine our memories, and ferment sex. Like pickles.
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Oh God, Ditto Pikachu
gfksdjhldgasd I WANT IT
hgbhdsjkhsjg WANT omg cute
(via fish-blog)