homer yawns, stretching his arms out and cracking the joints in his neck. he definitely has dry mouth, despite the fact that he’s been gulping down every glass of water that Ray Ban and Donut Mouth have brought him, and brushing his fingers against his watch indicates that it’s only been three hours. three.
jesus christ, he’s going to die in here.
he doesn’t know where anybody else is. the last thing he remembers from the party is calliope brushing her fingertips along his knuckles and saying your poems are really good. you should do a reading.
calliope muse thought that he, homer, should do a reading. of his poetry. that he wrote.
“maybe she wants to date you,” muses Donut Mouth. “that’s literally the only reason anyone would ever encourage anybody to do a poetry reading.”
“that or she was trying to get him to leave her alone, since there is literally nothing less sexy than a nineteen-year-old poet with the beginnings of a mullet,” Ray Ban says.
“please be kind to me,” says homer. “i’m trying to tell you a story.”
Brinens and Things 