Sensiblestuck: An AU Fanfic

[Quirk]

So then. Here's the dealio. Of late, I have developed some issues with Homestuck, all too lengthy, ranty, and overall bitchy to put here. So I decided to put my backed up venom, spite, and burnt-out-ness to constructive use and write some fanfiction.

I make no promises of any kind on this, other than that given work scheduling, expect a hiatus over July. If it survives that long.

So here we go. Homestuck, minus gimmicks and plus sensibility.

Sensiblestuck
I

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Okay…let’s go. One and two and three and four and…

Bum-dumbadumumumumumumum

Dum-dumbadumumumumumumum

Dum-dumbadumumumumumumum

Bum-dum-dank-doink

John Egbert sighed. His fingers weren’t cooperating. Again. He could usually get that part. Maybe it was just birthday jitters. You only turned sixteen once, after all. The fact that the SBURB beta was three days late wasn’t helping matters either. He shut the piano lid. Enough practice for today.

John stood up and stretched. Today was the thirteenth of April, 2009, and it was his sixteenth birthday.

Puberty had been rather kind to John: he had taken after his father in stature, growing out of his middle-school huskiness to a more respectably manly height and width. Outside of that, notable details of his appearance included dark curly hair in a general state of mess, squarish glasses, khaki shorts, blue t-shirt bearing a smiling slime ghost, and the overall impression that his nickname of “The Great Derp” was well earned.

His room was, given the excitement of the last several days, more of a mess than it usually was. Gifts from friends and family members were scattered around and top of the dirty clothes and unmade bed. His computer was on, with the browser open to Microsoft Paint Adventures, where the author was being a troll and taking a bit too much of his sweet damn time with Problem Sleuth II. Updates had crawled to a trickle of late.

Then there was the bunny. A little stuffed bunny, that looked like it had been through a war zone and back: it was smoke stained, ragged, crispy around the edges, and the stitching was coming undone. But this bunny was not just any poorly-treated stuffed bunny. It was the bunny. The actual prop from Con Air, with the official paperwork of authenticity to back it up. John didn’t know what strings Dave had to pull or what deals he had to make with what devils to get that bunny. Whatever the case had been, he had been reduced to gibbering like a madman when it had come in the mail two days ago. The bunny now sat at the place of honor: the highest shelf in John’s bookcase.

The various B-list movie stars on the various B-list movie posters gracing the walls looked upon this throne with various B-list expressions of approval.

A voice echoed up the stairs as John finished his stretch.

“John! Mail for you!”

John was down the hall, down the stairs and in the living room in the matter of a few heartbeats. He could feel the birthday mojo flowing through his veins: today was an SBURB day. He was sure of it.

Jane Egbert was standing there in the living room, holding a package under her arm and sorting through a wad of envelopes. She was a plump, bespectacled woman, now a full four inches shorter than her son.

“Did the game come yet?” John’s fervent hope was of the sort when one knows that the whims of the universe are aimed elsewhere, and yet said hoper holds onto the unlikely desired outcome nonetheless like a corpse gone rigor mortis.

“No, not today.”

“AUGHHH.” In the immediate split-second retrospection, he berated himself for not seeing that outcome, as it had been clearly dictated by the laws of irony. Still so much of the comedic arts to learn.

“You did get some cards and a package from Rose, though.” John’s mother handed him the items. The box was plain, roughly the size of a larger book, which knowing Rose, was most likely the contents. The cards were of far lesser importance at this point.

“Awesome.” He grinned.

“How’re she and the rest of the guys doing?”

“Oh, they’re doing fine. Rose’s been looking at colleges already, Dave got a job at McDonald's and Jade’s still living it up on a tropical island.”

“Lucky her.”

“Tell me about it. Hey, is Dad home yet?”

“Not yet. He wanted to stop on the way home to get some more cake supplies.”

“More? Aughhh. He does that every year! We always have enough cake to last a month!”

“You are the only boy I know who complains about getting a cake on his birthday.” Jane smiled in that way mothers do in this sort of situation as she walked back towards the kitchen with the remainder of the mail in her hand.

“Well…at least make sure you’re the one who’s making the icing.”

“Good heavens John! I’m shocked you’d think anything different. I may have married the man, but there is no way I’m letting him near my buttercream icing recipe!”

They laughed.

John grabbed a conveniently located pair of scissors and did not run, but in fact walked back up to his room, because running up stairs with scissors whilst holding a package was a thing that stupid people did. John was derpy. There was a big difference.

John sat down on his bed and slit the box open. Inside was a softcover book (a fact that was completely unsurprising), wrapped in lavender tissue and accompanied by a folded piece of thick paper. John unwrapped the book, revealing a cover that proclaimed in big bold letters: DATA STRUCTURES FOR ASSHOLES VOL. II: THIS TIME WITH PICTURES.

John broke out into one of his trademark derp smiles. Oh, Rose, you know me so well.

He opened up the note. It read:

My dear friend Johnathan:

I do not normally celebrate birthdays, finding them to be a dreadfully unnecessary round of pomp and circumstance to celebrate an incomprehensibly insignificant, if not entirely pointless, event such as the aging of a single human being in all of their inconsequentiality. However, I believe that today is an appropriate exception to this rule. In gratitude for your gift on my own anniversary of birth, and for being a valued source of companionship in this dreary and directionless world, I have included with this note a book I believe you will find relevant to your interests. I hope that you may derive some enjoyment from it.

With sincerity,
Rose

That girl truly had the most ostentatious handwriting John had ever seen. But there was some heart to it, though hers was small, black, and eldritch. He started to flip through the book. True to the title, there were pictures this time to illustrate the byzantine twists and turns of the absurdist programming languages within, all the while berating the reading will all manner of petty, though creative, insults.

Bleep-bloop

John’s reading was interrupted as his Pesterchum client popped up on his computer screen.

**gardenGnostic started pestering ghostlyTrickster**

gG: happy birthday to you!
gG: happy birthday to you!
gG: happy birthday dear jooo-ohnn…
gG: *inhales*
gG: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUU!!!
gG: heehee :P
gT: hey Jade!

[The Illusive Man]

Huh.

So far it's good. I look forward to seeing how the other Sburb Humans are introduced.

[linkzeldi]

How is a career in Mcdonalds just so perfect for Dave?

And also, so far, so excellent.

[The Illusive Man]

How is a career in Mcdonalds just so perfect for Dave?

Honestly, I think Dave should've been a DJ. BUT, I'm sure Dave could use the extra paycheck for when he isn't getting appointments.

[linkzeldi]

No, a cool DJ lacks any sort of Irony.

A cool mcdonalds employee is just drowning in all sorts of irony.

[Quirk]

No, a cool DJ lacks any sort of Irony.

A cool mcdonalds employee is just drowning in all sorts of irony.

"'sup welcome to [beatboxing] mickey-d's may i [beatboxing] take your order"

[Quirk]

Two updates in one day? It's more likely than you think!

II

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Not long in the past and several time zones to the left…


The sun was peeking up over the horizon, pouring molten gold onto the Pacific field of blue. The greenhouse windows had been thrown open to greet the cool ocean breeze, the crash of the waves below, and the squawking of the waking seagulls.

It was morning, and a glorious morning at that, and that meant one thing: Jade Harley was playing the bass to her plants.

It was a daily ritual for Jade, as it had for years. Wake up early, clean herself up, and go down to the greenhouse for breakfast and bass and watch the sun come up. Then the itinerary was morning swim, gardening, and then lunch, more swimming and gardening, along with some romping around the island while she was at it.

Today, her breakfast was a bowl of granola with sliced bananas and a glass of mango juice, all of which she had grown from sprouts.

Jade was seated cross-legged on top of her prize pumpkin, the one the size of a small car (though Jade had only seen cars on the rare occasions when her grandfather took her to the mainland, and that had not occurred for several years, so it was… more the size of a baby whale. A very lumpy and orange one.)

She had named it Paul.

Jade very much looked like someone born and raised on an island in the south Pacific: very tan, very fit, Sinic parentage (specifically Taiwanese, through her late mother’s side of the family.) and wearing a very loud floral-print top and skirt. To this was added coke-bottle glasses, a slight bucking of the teeth, long hair kept in a pony-tail and topped with a bandana (floral print, of course) and a large tropical flower perched on top. Being only breakfast time, she was not yet smudged with the typical layer of dirt and mulch from a day of gardening: she still bore the scraped knees and scratched limbs of one who spends long hours in the jungle, however.

There was a snuffling from the arch at the far end of the greenhouse. A massive white dog of indeterminate breed (the closest Jade could figure after some internet searching was that he was a cross between a German Shepherd and a Great Pyrenees), which probably weighed more than Jade did twice over and then some padded down the rows of plants. He stopped at Paul and looked up at Jade with a very distinct ‘I was sleeping” look.

“You’re always sleeping, Bec. Because you’re a lazy BUM, that’s what you are!”

Bec snuffled again and went on walking out of the greenhouse. Jade would most likely find him curled up somewhere. Maybe down by Grandpa’s fireplace, he always liked that.

Jade shrugged, and as she did so a particular flash of blue caught her eye. Light blue rubber band, right pointer finger, April 13th, John’s birthday. Jade gently set down her bass beside her, and took out her laptop. (It was more of a tablet, really, with a little hologram projector, very experimental, one of Grandpa’s inventions).

Come on, update Problem Sleuth II already! Crikey.

**gardenGnostic started pestering ghostlyTrickster**

gG: happy birthday to you!
gG: happy birthday to you!
gG: happy birthday dear jooo-ohnn…
gG: *inhales*
gG: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUU!!!
gG: heehee :P
gT: hey Jade!
gG: heya john! Hows it feel to be the big 1-6, huh?
gT: a lot like it did before, to be honest.
gG: oh you. its your special day today! i even put a special rubber band on to remind me. light blue, right pointer finger. right there it says “today is johns birthday make sure to sing happy birthday to him.”
gT: gotta respect the finger.
gT: it knows what’s up.
gG: also, i just remembered to apologize that your gift hasn’t gotten to you yet. im soooo sorry!
gT: oh, no problem
gT: you do kinda live on an island in the middle of the south pacific
gT: where it’s not washington
gT: we had snow last week
gG: ive never seen snow
gT: because you are too busy being DANGEROUSLY AUSTRALIAN and punching crocodiles in the FACE.
gG: john! I would never punch a crocodile in the face.
gG: you need to get them from behind first :P

**turntechGodhead has joined the chat**

tG: what up

Love that bassline.

[Quirk]

This time with even more coolkid.

III

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Around the same time but over thataway

Houston burned. Not in a literal “the city is actually on fire” sense of course, but most certainly in the “holy shit it’s hot out” sense. This was no pleasant heat wave: no, this was the cloying, humid blanket of air that was more liquid than gas, the heat that sautéed mankind in a brine of their own sweat, that hell where everything crawled to a standstill because it was just that damn hot out.

Dave Strider lay on his bare mattress and stared at the ceiling. Thinking was out of the question: too great an expenditure of energy, too great of a chance of organ failure due to catastrophic meltdown. All there was to do was lie there, think of nothing, listen to the crows outside, and watch the hypnotizing oscillations of the fans as they did jack-shit.

Dave was down to undershirt and boxers with the heat. He was pale, somewhat scrawny, with a bad load of acne on his face and shoulders. His untrimmed reddish-blonde hair hung down into his eyes, or it would have if he was not wearing his shades. Of course, he never took off the shades.

His bedroom was cramped, most of the space taken up by the two stacked mattresses he used as a bed, and the cinderblocks and plywood he used as a computer and turntable desk. On the walls were the shelves bearing his collection of records and his collection of gross preserved dead things, as well as posters for the short-lived Midnight Crew spinoff adventure (and the even more short-lived and obscure Felt spinoff adventure). A length of twine hung his most recent set of photos.

Seven-to-three shift Saturday morning shift at McDonald’s. They had him hit the ground running. Dave didn’t like it, but his finely-tuned irony would get him through it. Anything for some extra money in his pocket.

Wait…today was John’s birthday, wasn’t it. Ugh, now he had to move. But the Bro Code dictated celebration, and anyone who gifted deliriously biznasty Ben Stiller shades like this was a bro indeed.

He rolled off of the bed and slumped his way to his computer chair. His computer chugged to life. Still no Problem Sleuth II update.

Pesterchum said John and Jade were already online.

**turntechGodhead has joined the chat**

tG: what up
gT: dave!
gG: dave!!!
tG: sup
tG: happy b-day john
tG: what’s the haul so far
gT: well let’s see…got a suit from dad
tG: whoa there looks like we’re dealing with a badass right here
gG: classy! knock ‘em dead john!
gT: and then some cards, some money, a couple books, a few movies i’d had on the list, that’s about it
tG: no sburb yet
gT; nope. i just got data structures for assholes volume two from rose today
gT: and then the bunny from you
gT: how did you get that bunny?
gT: i mean seriously
gT: how?
tG: my bro knows some guys
gT: your bro is the coolest
gT: you are the coolest
gG: soooooo coooooool
tG: of course
tG: just who the hell do you think i am
gG: anikiiiiiiiii!!!
gT: you and your giant robots, dave
tG: hell yes me and my giant robots
tG: i cant even handle how giant these robots are
tG: im all like you there how giant are these robots
tG: pretty giant sir
tG: yes but how giant i need specific measurements here
tG: i estimate that they are roughly the size of ms yokos jugs
tG: holy shit those robots are massive

**tentacleTherapist has joined the chat**

tT: Hello, Johnathan, Jade, David.
tG: heaven help my japanese schoolgirl panties its tentacle the rapist

[The Illusive Man]

I still get the feeling Dave could be netting more irony at Starschmuck's. Other than that, nice update and misspelling of "aniki".

[Quirk]

I still get the feeling Dave could be netting more irony at Starschmuck's. Other than that, nice update and misspelling of "aniki".

What misspelling? I am quite certain that there was no misspelling here.

Irony at Starbucks would be predictable, I'd say.

And anyway he got fired after two weeks for challenging one of the customers to a duel over his "shitty-ass taste in coffee".

[The Illusive Man]

What misspelling? I am quite certain that there was no misspelling here.

Irony at Starbucks would be predictable, I'd say.

And anyway he got fired after two weeks for challenging one of the customers to a duel over his "shitty-ass taste in coffee".

That needs to be made more clear. So that Dave's expertise in duels is dealt with by the McDonald's manager(s). I mean, there's the whole of background checks that could happen that explains why Dave is so combative with customers, and how Dave could get therapy for that, even if it's for ironic reasons.

[Quirk]

That needs to be made more clear. So that Dave's expertise in duels is dealt with by the McDonald's manager(s). I mean, there's the whole of background checks that could happen that explains why Dave is so combative with customers, and how Dave could get therapy for that, even if it's for ironic reasons.

That was facetiousness on my part, and a bad bit at that.

[The Illusive Man]

That was facetiousness on my part, and a bad bit at that.

Oh.

And all he had to say was "Oh"

[OrangeAipom]

Is this like Rational Twilight?

Jane very much looked like someone born and raised on an island in the south Pacific: very tan, very fit, Sinic parentage (specifically Taiwanese, through her late mother’s side of the family.) and wearing a very loud floral-print top and skirt. To this was added coke-bottle glasses, a slight bucking of the teeth, long hair kept in a pony-tail and topped with a bandana (floral print, of course) and a large tropical flower perched on top. Being only breakfast time, she was not yet smudged with the typical layer of dirt and mulch from a day of gardening: she still bore the scraped knees and scratched limbs of one who spends long hours in the jungle, however.

Isn't Jane 40 years old or something?

[The Illusive Man]

Isn't Jane 40 years old or something?

He meant Jade.

[Quirk]

He meant Jade.

Palm le face. Fixed.

@OA - I'm not familiar with Rational Twilight. This is supposed to be "Homestuck, minus all the fat on the edges and with a more reasonable storyline that focuses more on telling a story than gimmicks and deconstructionism"

alt: "Quirk is burnt out and thinks this is better than throwing a bitch-fit."

[OrangeAipom]

No gimmicks and deconstructionism? That is so unhomestuck.

I'm interested.

[Quirk]

In which the last of the four main characters is introduced.

IV

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Very much around the same time and very near but not quite in Canada

The evening rain pattered against the French windows of the reading room. Inside, the fireplace crackled and flickered. Frigglish was curled up on the mantelpiece, his tail flicking back and forth idly. It was a very cozy room: hardwood bookshelves up to the ceiling, lined with a great many leatherbound tomes and worn paperbacks. The overstuffed chairs were positioned just the perfect distance from the fireplace, with the ottomans at just the right altitude for maximum comfort. Though the sun had not yet set completely, the shadows were lengthening, and soon the room would be enveloped in darkness. It was designed to do so.

Rose Lalonde enjoyed the rain. It was soothing. It took her to her own little world, and that loneliness was a great blessing in this house. She knew Mother was somewhere around, most likely drunk and plotting the next step of her passive-aggressive warpath, but for the moment that was a non-issue: it wasn’t as if Roxy Lalonde paid her daughter much mind anyway.

Rose licked her finger and turned the page. She was reading The Thing on the Doorstep, again. She had tried to make her way through the works of Derleth, but the addition of a good/evil mechanic to the mythos had proven itself too unbearably insipid for her.

Had she any actual desire to be out and about in public socializing with the unwashed masses of humanity, Rose would have drawn at least a few glances, least of all for the violet sweater with blue tentacle trim at the bottom she wore at all times. Due to some quirk in genetics several generations back spawned from that glorious gumbo that is N’awlins, Rose Lalonde was black of skin and blonde of hair, which poofed out in a ball of frizz, similar, as John had described it, to one “Susan Sto Helit” (though Rose had no interest in finding out who this individual was). This trait was shared with her mother and most other members of the Lalonde extended family, if there was an extended family. Rose was quite certain that if there was, they would all avoid Mother like the plague, which would probably explain why she had never seen any of them, if they were in fact real. Beyond this digression, Rose was of a certain heavy-set persuasion, and generally had her nose in a book often enough that it was effectively fused to her face, as it was now.

Her intent digestion of the book lasted only a few minutes more (she was a quite fast reader) Rose set the book back down on the coffee table. It was just as good as it had been all those times before. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. This seemed like as good a time as any, if she was correct on her calculation of timezones. She took her laptop out of its carrying case and powered it up.

As she had predicted, Problem Sleuth II had yet to update today. She was okay with this, as there was a marked decrease in quality from this particular adventure anyway. The author had strayed quite far from the Problem Sleuth formula, and was now reaping the benefits of having improper problems and inadequate sleuthing.

**tentacleTherapist has joined the chat**

tT: Hello, Johnathan, Jade, David.
tG: heaven help my japanese schoolgirl panties its tentacle the rapist
tG: please to not violate me with your eldritch flagellum
tG: for i am moe and prone to fits of kawaii
tT: Do not fear, David. The gibbering madness will spare you today.
gG: hey rose!
gT: thanks for the gift. Just got it in the mail.
tT: I trust it was satisfactory?
gT: rose: it had pictures. no way that’s not perfect. thanks so much!
tT: I am glad.
tG: now i hate to break up this wonderful moment
tG: but we have pressing matters to attend to
tG: like how egbert doesn’t have sburb yet
gT: i know! the wait is killing me!
tT: Patience, Johnathan.
tT: It will arrive in due time.
gG: ive got the jitters too. this is going to be sooooo fun!
gT: do all of you have your copies already?
gG: yep!
tT: I do.
tG: snapped that shit up like a fat man at golden corral
gT: rrrrg…
gT: i mean the way this is going I might not get it for a couple days.
gG: awwwww…
gG: that sucks
gT: wait! i hear my dad pulling in the driveway. maybe he intercepted it at the post office brb.
tG: its going to be a bust isn’t it
tG: totally calling bust on this
tT: The laws of irony would imply that, yes.
gG: but what if it already happened today? does irony cancel itself out?
gG
tT: We will find out in a few seconds, I am sure.

[linkzeldi]

Classy Black Woman Rose.

[FowlJ]

You gave John Rose's text colour, which confused me greatly when I was reading it.

And I'm not sure if I'm so much a fan of how you write Rose, though I can't think of what exactly is the matter with it. Regardless, this most certainly looks interesting.

[Quirk]

You gave John Rose's text colour, which confused me greatly when I was reading it.

Whoops. Fixed.

Classy Black Woman Rose.

The classiest.

As for how I'm writing her...yeah, I'm not incredibly happy with it either. She's probably the hardest of the four for me to write as, so expect to see some evolution here as I find a groove.

[FowlJ]

Yeah. Right now she seems kinda... stiff. She was wordy in the comic, but still spoke pretty casually a lot of the time, which I thought felt very naturally and was pleasant to read, but I don't know if you were intentionally going for something different or what.

By the way, one of the colour tags is still messed up. (Two, in fact)

[Quirk]

Yeah. Right now she seems kinda... stiff. She was wordy in the comic, but still spoke pretty casually a lot of the time, which I thought felt very naturally and was pleasant to read, but I don't know if you were intentionally going for something different or what.

I was trying to give her a rather goth attitude about things: life is meaningless, insignificance of human existence, no free will, bluh bluh. Of course it's all an act, her just trying to sound intelligent and grown-up, because let's face it, Roxy ain't the most mature mom in the world. So she sorta took the role.

So stiffness is to be expected for the time being.

[Quirk]

In which: the best ship to have ever sailed is introduced

V

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Back at John’s house

John found himself leaping down the stairs a second time in the last fifteen minutes, sounding once again like a proverbial herd of elephants.

The front door opened just as he hit the bottom floor. John’s father strode into the living room, carrying a brown bag of groceries in each arm. He was not the kind of man to walk anywhere: He strode, or trod, or marched, but he did not ever walk. That was an act of lesser men. Johnathan Egbert Senior was not a lesser man.

John Sr. was a massive sight to be sure, with a physique fit more for a lumberjack than a mild-mannered businessman. He wore a neatly pressed shirt and tie every day, and the shine on his shoes was enough to sear dirt off of the floor where he stood. Atop his head was his beaten but trusty fedora, which had been passed down the line of Egbert men for several generations. Though not visible, somewhere on his person was his pipe, a packet of tobacco, a booklet of matches, and the Egbert family wallet, which was traditionally passed down with the hat. Most important of all, there was the Beard. John Sr. did not actually wear the Beard, but its presence was inescapable: you could feel it there. His morning ritual entailed a daily shave with a straight razor, so as to keep the Beard in check.

“Hey Dad, did you by any chance go to the post office today or pick up a certain game of the SBURB persuasion? Just asking, you know.”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t. Maybe tomorrow, bud.” John Sr. shrugged as he entered the kitchen. John Jr. scowled, and went out to inspect the car anyway.

In the kitchen, John Sr. set the bags down on the kitchen counter and in one swift movement swept his wife off her feet and kissed her in the manner of a man still head-over-heels in love.

After a few seconds, he gently set her back down.

“Really, John?”

“Are you somehow implying that you aren’t the most wonderful woman in the world? Because the last time I checked, you are.”

Jane just shook her head and smiled. He was still the same boy in a man’s body she had met twenty years ago. She had once thought that he had just been playing the knight, that the chivalry was an act. How wrong she had been. It was almost physically impossible for him to be insincere about anything. Joking yes, but never false.

“The game came today, didn’t it?” Jane asked.

“A couple days ago, actually.” John Sr. began unpacking the bags. “I didn’t think it would be proper to give it to him before today.”

There was a pause.

“He’s growing up, John.”

“That he is, Jane. That he is.”

Outside, John was tearing the inside of the car apart in search of the game. He knew his father well enough to know that there was a trick involved. John Jr. wasn’t going to be taken unaware today, no sir. He was on to that game.

There it was, in the compartment in the floor of the trunk, where the spare tire would have been if there was a spare tire there: a plain white envelope with a green spirograph on it.

There was a folded piece of paper tucked in the envelope, on which was written.

I knew you’d snoop for it. Happy birthday, John. I am, as always, very proud of you.
- Dad

PS: I made sure it was your favorite.

At that point a spring-loaded banana-cream pie was launched right into John’s face.

--

After general laughter and a trip to the bathroom, John leapt back into his computer chair, shaking with the excitement.

gT: got it! installing now.
gG: yay!
tT: It looks like the universe decided to cut you a break.
tG: huh thought for sure that would be a bust
tG: wait what the fuck
tG: bird fucking everywhere what the shit
tG: sdlkjdfsliualkjfaweiudjk weiuk j
tG: ef o we ui ew efwiu fkb jb4ob7fk jweiuv
tG: eh eai uhekjnfew4u w4 ilsdli kaklja slkdjaedeilu
tT: David, are you have a seizure?
gT: he said something about a bird.
gG: is he turning into a bird?
gG: or did he buy a bird or…
tT: Most likely one flew through his window.
gT: it’s his hair. his hair is turning into a bird.
tT: Oh?
gT: yeah. There’s this one photo of dave where his hair looks just like a bird
gT: like he was bald and found a dead bird and said
gT: this is a good toupee
gG: i saw that! it sorta does look like a bird
tT: That is quite imaginative, I must admit.
gT: i’m telling you, it totally looked like a bird
gT: i’ll send it to you right now.
gT: just look at it.
tT: Well then. This changes everything. Consider me completely convinced of David’s avian follicles.
tT: Though speaking of which, he has yet to return. Perhaps he did have a seizure.
tT: I do rather hope not.
gT: he’s fine
tG: im back
gT: see?
tG: fuck
tG: crow flew into my room
tG: decided it wanted to be a feathery asshole
tG: knocked over my apple juice
tG: on the game
tG: and then i tried hitting it with my sword
tG: and it had the games in its claws
tG: long story short the games are fifteen stories below me
tG: and covered in apple juice
tG: welp
gG: oh no!
tG: its cool just gonna get my bros

E: minor edit - John's dad was coming home from work and stopped to get groceries on the way. Edited Part 1 to match.

[linkzeldi]

Man I don't know if anybody else has noticed this.

but Dave's hair is a bird.

/shot.