Binge Lore

(part 1)

When I go to the local restourant (cheap and cheerful) and order a steak, the nice waitress always asks me how I want my steak done. I usually take it bloody due to my Croating upbringing during which our gas stove often failed and we had to get used to eating lots of raw meat spiced with paprika. Anyway, one day when I was ordering I noticed how much she looked like Jenna Coleman, the actress famous for playing Clara Oswlad during Peter Capaldi's controversial tenure on Doctor Who. My autism kicked in and I found myself telling the nice waitress that she had quite a similar face to Jenna's, and when she gave me a confused look I was quick to assure her that it was meant as a compliment (perhaps she thought I was hitting onher?We'll never know). I realized how awkard this sounded in my flawless yet heavily accented english and my dour manner of speaking. I headed to Birmingham train station and vowed never to go to that restourant again.

(part 2)

It had been a great holiday back in my home country! I got to saw my parents, brother and one remaining friend (all the rest having been caught in the crossfire between the various bubble wrap cartels). We went to the bar and practiced social distancing together, and I even convinced my mother to watch a spot of Doctor Who! It may have been Voyage of the Damned but it was something. To tell you the truth, I wasn't thinking about Doctor Who at all on the way home to Birmingham. Recently I had been eating a lot of sardines sourced from the local sewers in my home country and was feeling rather sick on the eurostar. I didn't vomit in the end, though I came quite close. The important thing is that for a few days after I had quite potent fish burps (and probably a bit of mercury and god knows what else poisoning too lol) and also found a girl on tinder. She was a bit frumpy and blonde but idc, i was horny and there's not much going on pussy-wise in ol' Hrvace, believe me.

So I did the usual and came round to her place - thank god, I don't have netflix, only an hdmi cable - and did the usual crap sex routine. i'm not good at sex, but I was the best she cold get. I was feeling nice so i ate her out, and burped fishbreath quite a few times into her vagina. I thought nothing of it, but a few days later, it hit me:

I had become obsessed with fishy pussy. I was imagining the smell, pondering the aroma, you name it, and couldn't go anywhere near the fishmonger's I ws so scared of getting a hard-on and getting branded as a fish-nonce.

This is where it gets awkard.

(Part 3)

Maybe I wasn't so obsessed with fishy pussy after all. Indeed, I had just been discharged from hospital with severe rectal distention due to sitting on a P'ting funko pop which had been left on my seat as a "practical joke" by my normie co-worker. Yes, I do have a job, suck it bitches. The hospital I went to is a bit out of the way and I didn't know the bus schedule well enough so I decided to simply walk home. I didn't realize it while I was walking, but the shear twist force had been slowly tearing my rectum apart unbeknownst to me. Now that I think of it, the reaso everyone was avoiding me that day was neither due to my autism face and unmistakeable Balkan ethnicity, both of with I'd learnt to hide thanks to growing a beard and wearing a red thong as a distraction. It's not ideal but when push comes to shove the tough get going. Now where was I? yes, walking hom, nearly there now, just starting to notice anal pains. It's when I sat down in front of my microwave to watch the soup bubble that I realized something was wrong, and that that something was also the cause of the rather unsightly brown stain on the back of my thong.

Two or three things were at the very back of my mind that day I sat on that Pting Funko Pop:

-My sudden and passing fetish for crusty fishy piss flaps

-My hitherto unmentioned but all-consuming crush on Jenna Louise Coleman, star of fictional.child

-The fact that I had passed by my old haunt, i.e. the restourant with the pretty waitress and which I had vowed never to eat at again due to factors including but not limited to my Slavic autism.

I went on to ring my doctor to schedule an appointment regarding my very real butthurt, though I fear our communication was hampered by my thick accent and repeated burning of my tongue with hot soup. And of course I had to be drunk.

4

The morning after, well I say morning, it was more like noon, I was badly hungover and needed to shit. I got my shitbucket and pissjar and prepared for pain, but to my relief the pting-related injuries had healed over the night. However, the tinkling of my piss against the plastic was simply too much for my vasopression-shrunk brain. I crashed back into bed after catching my reflection in the mirror - I was getting grey in my beard and years of resisting Islam and repressing my homosexuality had taken their toll on me. God, what was I doing with my life? Maybe a fry-up would sort me out. But even I can't stomach British food and this would make matters worse. With great difficulty, I arose from my squalid bedding area, changed my thong, and went over to the toilet to shave. They can take away my youth but they can't take away my chad Bosnian jawline. A great hunger crystallized in my belly: the hunger for steak, and where better to go than the best steak restourant this side of Bristol, with the cutest waitress I've ever known? Fuck it! I didn't even feel hungover anymore! I got my trenchcoat and jumped through the front window, and in no time at all made it to the restourant. After rummaging around for a while in search of enough food money, I entered the restourant and quietly sat down in my favourite Sheldon spot.

I saw at myself in the mirror again and was shocked to see myself smiling for the first time in years.

And just who came up to me? That's right. Jenna Coleman.