dave is a sugar.

he wanted to deny it through knuckle and bruises, but that would only make him look desperate to achieve that one douchebag aura girls were attracted to. and for once, just once, he wanted to be called as one, or at least be as sweet as one to someone he could call as the taffy in his metallic life.

say yes, he has a weird liking to name calling. but a young and curious single teenager like him living in the wilderness and chaos of puberty and heroism can't help but wonder — does he have tape worms going on in his tummy? a whole damn zoo of it?

the wheel of his cycle fell on a spiral right before his eyes, his life flashing in a thousand neon lights all at once on a blinding, gut-flipping, multiversal motion. like he's on rushing cart speeding through endless rollercoaster loops.

the manic pixie dream girls, the incognito windows, the hound-worthy magazines, the final fantasy type of fantasies, the school bus daydreams. his versions, from his lactate days to the guy in green tights he is now.

all of himself stood there, actively present within him, dumbfounded and high like mario on mushrooms, like a monkey having a lice eating fest out of a hair right at that moment you grab him in the middle of the riot, mashing your lips against his.

and he just have to ask himself— what blasphemy have he've been doing for eleven years? and fuck it got him sprung.