Balance Means a Spot of Good, or so Moral Philosophy Would Claim
Soo, the Boy Scout always at that podium and uber anal about the exact dates and technical names to these stringent, ancient 'moral rules,' was going through something.
They'd had a feeling there'd been some instance pricking at his head about this situation.
With a chili pot, chocolate candies, and those God awful marshmallows that could not be quality assured or even treated to not got stale, whoever's job on chemicals that is.
Jaydee figured, fuck mental breakdown, non-violent or supposedly messed up, he could get behind. And the prof surely wouldn't mind today.
So he shambled along with his shoulders, phone light on and recording.
"There are four primary principles of thought in moral philosophy..."
"But here's the thing my little chili babies."
And Jaydee by that point raised their hand.
"I am so sorry," lieee, "but that-- we can eat that right?"
"Was gonna maybe get dinner outta the way now, but fine. Thanks for ruining that, dildo-wad."
Bro.
But whatever. Jay was too hungry at this point.
Seriously that pink T-shirt was God-awful. They hoped the scratch of where such a hideous article may have came from faded once the chime sounded for lunch break.
That prof may have had a point, Jaydee quickly decided.
Having taken to lazing in the shared dorm's couch as his last two for the day dragged on.
Yeah, guy went on a whole rap about nihilism before some six out of ten blonde in size five had burst in and just held his hand like it was Senior Year 1989. Right out the room.
Jaydee had been hoping to nap after that chili stopped setting his insides black with acid. Completely ruined that, thank you, as they couldn't very well just loiter.
They'd taken the time to peruse some of their books, take a multivitamin and some benzodiazipine cookies laying about in the pantry.
Huh, that thought might have worried someone, Jay certainly shoulda been but goddamn if it didn't feel good.
So, did it really matter? Really, where he got his relief or where the stuff had come from. The kind of people you'd have to see for a discontinued, obsolete little OVC drug?
Jaydee continued reading that book until it was finished, picked up a new one, and finished as well.
Splaying his legs and having abandoned his pants straight when he locked the door.
Falling asleep as the anti-anxiety meds took hold.
And waking to find the door had been kicked in so his roommate could promptly bitch.
Absolute bitch. Last thing they needed right now.
"JD, JD. How are you today-- I... miss you whole lot, Felicity too."
His tongue heavy and scraped to sand they moaned for water.
Glass of water, yeah and surely that would make the headache go away.
Only, that face, it wasn't familiar.
"I need you in my life, I wasn't complete without you," poor young dweeb. Why did such a young person need a degenerate so bad anyway? Who'd failed such a cute looking little kid so badly?
It was not college age, it was hardly a human face at all.
As Jaydee suddenly turned half blind and well and truly out of his body.
Frick, they were not wasting all that time at a hospital.
April 15th, 2068.
Hurl. They were gonna hurl. Real bad and real right now!
"Eb, EBB!"
"JD!" he squealed. And then quicker than bird's wings relieved his overnight bag. Quickly bulged to bursting with gross vomit.
Jaydee was not paying for this!
Oh bollocks though they so were. Couldn't have the new kid, prodigy no less, dragging that trashy basic ass tote to college. To. College.
Wild and disgustingly joyous as Wyatt's pealing cries or tight his hug, it didn't leave his Iridescence to mind how battered they still were.
Having come to the hospital showered in dangerous, cutting burrs of glass and marble tiling or the minute bits of rotted aluminum and tin in the walls or ash places in place of proper fire in a 54th floor containment floor under wraps and out of public view right at the heart of the state's qualified super destruction riots. Hero and villain always at it and never satisfied. "Halfway house," would be the old word.
Those who would just do the job know what bad form it would be to tend and fluff the worn down scoundrel's pillow. Or talk their ear off about their paper flowers and how the now calloused and supple, delightful raw cut hands were doing.
He hated Wyatt's caring or how he'd kept up running commentary through each show running episode of basic base comedy during that peaceful enforced sleep, all a little less.
He cared about stupid Iridescent and his perfect smile or theatrics a little more.