If you were to introduce yourself as a fictional character in a novel, how would you?

True story, at the age of 25, she took me to the city and made me fit an entire wardrobe.

I hope you took it as the wake up call it was.

*sniff*

Well now I look as an respectable gentleman, but I'm still a psychiatric patient so in some ways I'll never truly grow up to become a respectable and self-sufficient adult. I still try to work on it.

this is literally me but replace the catholicism with autistic rambling

Catholicism is autistic rambling my dear user.

Polishing a turd is never a good idea. It was a nice gesture of her but she has zero idea how humans function. It actually made everything worse.

Some day, perhaps in 40 years you will also get very sick and become dependant on medical services. I'm just unlucky that it happened to me so early in my life

Unlikely.
Also, is the 10 yo boy fashion sense a side effect of the medication? Never heard of that before.

he was a total retard. he said nothing to other people under the ruse of shyness, but was actually avoiding revealing to his peers of how pathetic he truly was

"Haha, look at that faggot!", they said

>he masturbated a lot. Even for a porn addicted shut-in. He found the idea of sex unappealing. Women seemed dirty in person. As if they carried a warm moist incubator of diseases between their legs.
He wasn’t particularly hygienic himself. Numerous boogers encrusted the underside of his battle station chair. He also failed to wipe thoroughly after defecating on a frequent basis.

>battle station
Lordy lord user

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The hair on his head was a greasy brown that went straight up on the side like a Bersaglieris feather. His blur eyes once brought were now faded and lifeless. Now matter how hard he tried, his clothes always looked wrinkly. The Calvinist priests and psychologists got to him too early in life. Every aspect of his personality was dissected and pathologized; labeled and discounted. He tried to find understanding of his life in philosophy and literature, but the damage had already been done. The only place left for him now was fantasy.

To user, he shrunk when watched, answered noncomittaly and, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, slithered away like a chided student, retreating to his friends (For he never went out alone) with which, later, you could hear him, engaged and charismatic, with a seemingly practised confidence that did not extend to strangers.

You aren't the first person he's scared on first meeting. Ugly, wonky teeth, long hair and generally unattractive. He will not talk unless spoken to, and if he does it is short and to the point. You will not like him, although he does like himself to enough to not change his appearance

The level of sheer faggotry that this cunt exudes is indescribable without an infinite series of repeating derogatory expletives. His name is . He is six feet and six inches tall. His complexion is a rosy pale, and he has a large number of acne scars that nobody has ever bothered to count. His patchy scruff seems to grow in greasy, and mainly on his neck. His eyes have the piercing look like that of a hawk's eyes, and his teeth are coffee stained. He has an average build with substantial reserves of muscle he has been slowly losing over the last year. He needs to lose 30lb of body fat before he could be considered attractive in the conventional sense, but he isn't exactly ugly. He is a hermit who would rather shitpost about theoretical physics on Yea Forums than live an actual life, though he is fully capable. He is a classic example of the fact that even people with a 160+ IQ can be objectively worthless to society.

>And I saw on his jacket the words 'Clive Cussler'

One sentence horror story

Trips of faith lost

as a talking dog

> He was a connoisseur of one of the most esoteric arts. Chinese transexual pornography

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He comes in, limping, tangled mess hair, matted and shit. He stumbles in, he's mumbling to himself, shaking his hands, knotted greasy hair in his face. His pupils are off the wall, he must've have a concussion. His suit's deteriorating, the pant legs ripped, the white sleeves are stained yellow from water, FUCK dude. And look at the top of his head, that one hair sticks right up. Elf eared, tiny donged, long armed, bandy-legged, manlet albino.

“Dorcas belonged, as I now realize, to that vast group of women (which may, indeed, include all women) who betray us—and to that special type who betray us not for some present rival but for their own pasts.”
― Gene Wolfe, The Sword of the Lictor

he was like god but with a bigger dick and a motorcycle and sunglasses

In the dark corner, we can see a lanky young man, crossing his arms over his dark clothing and staring indifferently into the undefined distance. From this place, his appearance and demeanor seem to exude complete serenity, but upon closer consideration, his deep-eyed stare reveals a silent disgust of his environment, otherwise utter apathy and lack of interest in anything outside of his own mind. The dense, witless, autistic personality that occupies his blocky skull has been lost in space for as long as he remembers. On the table in front of him lies an empty sheet of paper, his hand is holding a pen. Eternally forgetting himself in the moment, he fails to translate his chaotic inner dialogue into something comprehensible. As you step closer, the man musters you with interest, but then steps back into his own mind.

>describing stuff

dabumpadump

An adult of 26, more an adolescent than a man. And he knows. the desire to become more is the only thing keeping him going. His true weaknesses is compassion.

He could've arrived from fifty years in either the past or future and he was clothed in the severe cynicism that characterises men who, in their formative years, were fathers unto themselves.

Ah there he is.
That motherfucker.
What a tool.

He was clothed in the ill-fitting pride of a man who criticises others for making mistakes of the kind he had only learned were mistakes that same week.

And there he sat, a curly brown haired odd fellow, scribbling away at a piece of paper, not bothering anyone the least.

The fat bastard looked up from his desk with yellowed, bloodshot eyes. A tumbler glass filled with cheap vodka on his left hand found it's way to his lips, taking in an oblivion seeking gulp. He let his gaze fell back to the cluttered desk, finding a pack of cigarettes amid the empty beer cans and coffee-stained papers. He coughed viciously, a gurgled sound that made him sound like he was dying, and lit the Marlboro Golden with a worn out Colt lighter. His long brown hair, matted and filthy in the office's derelict lights made him seem like a creature that was merely trying to pass as a human, and not being particularly good at it.
Rubbing at his crusted beard, he gazed up once more and said, "Did you want something or are you here just to see me suffer?"

Whoops a cry ejaculate spattersmocking ringéd lips lively tittybreast over the originator's foremother: aaaaa-OOOOO-ga!

>"There was that guy who farted a lot. I can't remember his name or what he looked like."

His most salient characteristic, to an outside observer, was that he spoke to nobody for days on end and spent most of his time alone on his computer.

>Rail-thin, with a large hook-nose and deep-set eyes, he seemed to fold in on himself when he sat. His legs were always moving, a knee bouncing or a foot swinging, and he seemed uncomfortable and ready for affairs to hurry up and get themselves over with.

I’m a pig, and I smell bad. Mr. Smother is my god, and that’s what he says. He’s always right. I kiss his ass. I suck everything down into my guts. I never shit. My body’s greedy (there’s nothing I can do about it). I’m bloated. I’m soft. I weigh 349 pounds. I’m fat scum. I despise myself. I’m sitting here in the pink pajama bottoms my mom gave me when I was 15. They still fit. I hate them, but I wear them. They’re caked around the crotch with various foods that I dripped, and old sperm I never wiped up. My sperm’s sweet. A lot of that old sperm’s there now because of Mr. Smother, so I like it. I like to break it off in chunks and grind it between my fingers just thinking about him. Then I feel disgusted with myself, but I like feeling that way for him. I’d like him to take a shit on my face and tell them how I deserved it, and they’d laugh again in agreement with him. I’d feel good. I like to feel good. I like to touch myself, especially when I pretend I’m someone else. Sometimes in a restaurant I lose myself, I forget I exist. I sneak my hand up under my shirt and rub it along the hair that collects around my bellybutton. The hair’s soft like the hair on a baby’s head. I get hot and I can smell myself. I’m being smothered in my own armpit and then I come, but I don’t feel anything. I discover a puddle of sperm in my crotch. I hurry and pay, then I leave, afraid they’ll notice. When I come, I don’t get an erection. I love myself, but I also hate myself. I should be destroyed. People look at me and think I’m repulsive. They hate me. I like them hating me, because they’re right to do so. I get an erection when I think about a specific person who hates me. Then I get an erection but I can’t come. Otherwise I just come, like pus drains out of a sore, without getting hard. I need them to hate me, to be sickened by me. Then I get what I deserve.

Are his novels good?

I wouldn't be worth an introduction.

>He was a shallow man of few words.

He was the best of his kind, he was the blurst of his kind.

>A young man who seemed to be lost in a crowd; whose appearance led one to believe he might be incredibly rich, or indelibly poor. At a glance, the young mans body was well framed against his unscrupulous appearance. He was a man of average height, but had the build of what you imagined to be a champion gladiator from middle Rome. Alas though, the young man was unknown, characterized by the whispering rumors amongst the townsfolk.

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A cynical fuck, who thought too much of himself and for that, had the illusion of being greater than he actually is, making him a complete sloth with no actual interests or ambition

Bryan is a manlet mexican with a big ego and a a small pepee, he saw the qt jewish girl and he told her "show bobs ans vagene plz pendeja"

Glitterhoof send his regards

. . . Secretly.

He's my favourite author, so I'm inclined to say 'yes'.

Why is he your favorite?
Also, why is there so much rape on it?

Just then a fat man fell down the stairs and died.

>he had one enemy, well two if you count God

>If there was one thing he wanted more than love it was to see his enemies slaughtered in a sea of blood. The thought of shooting them and pissing on their graves was what kept him going.

Enter user,
The kind of young man with a face that says not only would he be kind enough to aak directions, but he'll be more than up to the task. However upon hearing the first syllable uttered one will regret the decision. A stunted answer follows, revealing a lack of knowledge and common sense. You'll wish you never bothered and have already forgotten him moments later. Oddly, he does not mind his bumbling nature, and is instead happily unrealiable.

>You would never again be able to forget her.
Some people are so predictable.

Catholics are like auts who learned when to and when not to shut the fuck up

He's my favourite author because I've had much enjoyment in reading his novels (not just the Sharpe series but also books of other series of his), his tendency towards history is in line with my own interests, he tried to join the Military a few times which is a similarity we share, we're both writers, in fact I think he helped inspire me to start writing 'professionally' as it were, and just in general I enjoy his work. He's awesome, as far as I'm concerned, and if others have a different view then that is perfectly fine.

As for rape, I don't know what you mean. I recall at least one book touching on the topic of rape in which a French Officer was literally caught 'in the act' of raping a young Spanish or Portuguese woman. I think how it went is that Sharpe wanted to execute him on the spot but a nearby aspiring lawyer of sorts in the Military (keep in mind this is set 200 years ago) said that he should have a fair hearing. Can't recall the outcome, but anyways, I recall Sharpe being quite clearly against rape. This would have been quite progressive for the time, after all, soldiers raped women even in WWII which occurred almost a century and a half later.

One glance was enough to figure out this lad used his unnaturally young looks to creep on priests, and he never believed in anything. Turning everything into obsession or fetish made him the opposite of moderate.

Grigorin offered Ivan Pyetrovich his matchbook. Ivan Pyetrovich thanked him and lit the end of his pipe.

'Do you get many people stopping here?' Ivan Pyetrovich inquired of his old friend's haberdashery. Grigorin crimped the end of his long, tussled beard, more in an act of deliberation than recalling his memory.

'Oh, we get the usual lot in these parts - Cossacks headed down to the village, government officials, merchants looking for a pretty ruble trading with the mountaineers. I had a troop of soldiers a month ago who, it should be said, drunk like right sailors. But it's a quiet sort of life around these parts, Ivan Pyetrovich. There's only so many people fit for this sort of life.'

'Forgive me, Grigorin. I had you picked for a trader of road tales and just-so stories.'

'Ah. You wouldn't be the first. You know, a writer had come to visit me some months ago.'

'Yes? From Petersburg?'

'I believe so. He had just graduated from the gymnasium. He had been commissioned by one of those "human interest" magazines to write them a story. He had come this way to visit his cousin, one of the councilmen and a representative for village agriculture. I know him, but not on a first name basis. It was his idea first that the boy - Gospodinich was his name - should pay me a visit.'

Ivan Pyetrovich crossed his hands and held the pipe in his mouth, eager to hear about the boy.

'He got up here by horseback and knocked on my door. He was a lanky sort of fellow. More bone on him than meat. His bifocals seemed to weigh down his head, craning his neck forward. He almost looked like a hunchback. He told me his situation, and I poured him tea from the samovar. We spoke about his cousin, about the anarchist situation in Petersburg, French politics - you know, drawing room talk. He said he wasn't very interested in politics. He wanted to write about the condition of man. I asked him what that meant and he said he hoped I could give him an answer. I laughed and said he could do better than look for the condition of man in the walls of a haberdashery.'

Grigorin laughed and continued.

'Gospodinich started talking about Shakespeare, and Pushkin, and Schopenhauer. I told him he had to slow down a little, mainly for my sake. He grew impatient with me, so I told him an old story I had heard about a Cossack who though his beloved had been eaten by a ravenous mountain lion. So taken by grief, he decided to kill himself than go on without her. When she had found his body - she had torn her fabric on a branch, you see, she wasn't really dead - she wailed and screamed and killed herself too. When they found them, she was lying on top of him. Both of them had cut themselves by the necks. I told him this story, and he looked, shall I say, disappointed by the little taste I had given him of the "condition of man", or some such nonsense.'

'I bet he looked disappointed,' exclaimed Ivan Pyetrovich, 'that's Pyramus and Thesbe. That's A Midsummer Night's Dream! That's Shakespeare!'

'Is it? Bah. How could I know that. Anyway, he summarily got up, thanked me for the tea, and returned to the village on his horse. He was muttering something under his breath on the way out. Sounded like obscenities. Let him swear all he wants! He looked for the condition of man, and here he found it. I'm glad I could be of service to him.'

Ivan Pyetrovich smiled at his friend, and changed the subject to old Smyernov in the village, who was going to pass the tavern down to his second-born son.

Rawr:3

you arent nearly as interesting as you think you are

Why are all womens answers utter cringe

Ladies and gentlemen, your protagonist for the night. The pompous fool of innumerable flaws and few virtues. What a fucking loser.

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>A man who could hardly be called a man. A joke character sent to the real world. A tragedy from the perspective of one, a comedy from the perspective of six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine. Or so he perceived it to be, but truth is often up to perception.

>he was a type of jester, quite a scary look, but nevertheless a spectacle to follow

Because women as a species are utter cringe and should be considered a lower form of humanity.

He's hardly aware of how attractive he is.

try ripping one in a crowded place
pretty funny

Standing at an unimpressive five foot eight, he stared off in the distance, perhaps daydreaming or holding an imaginary conversation in his head. His shoulders, neatly broad, perked back when he caught himself slouching. His fingers impulsively scratched his head, fixed his hair, and rubbed the scraggly hairs along his jaw. A well-figured woman walked by, and as he caught his eyes falling in a lustful gaze, he looked away and prayed.

>I'm not like the other girls xd

>He hated women and niggers very much.

>There was a gait in his walk and a rumble in his belly that made me assume he was anything but a walking piece of trash.

Lost it.

He was one person one day, another the next. He lacked consistency of character. A chameleon.

in an m. night shamalamadingdongeque way

This was a young fellow, eager and depleted simultaneously. His body and mind was that of a man driven for exertion and study more out of a general frustration than a practiced discipline. Though not offensive, his manner of speech and decorum suggested a misguided but rigorous consideration for his own presentation.

>intelligent, nihilistic and with a wicked sense of humor

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I really like and relate to this one.

God stormed into the lecture Hall,

SCRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Multiple circles of deception surrounded him like ripples, shielding other people and himself from discovering what his true activities were. There were some moments very late at night where his tired mind now unrestrained by itself could observe the results of his daily tribulations with scientific precision, and this is what it saw.
The most external circle of deception consisted in convincing the people he worked with that he could not work well for private reasons and the people that were part of his private life that he was too busy working. A subtle but carefully interwoven cyclical pattern of lies convinced his family and friends that he was doing research on a daily basis, reading articles, and writing his thesis. On the other hand, professors were told that he had problems with his family, friends or some imaginary girlfriend which inevitably delayed the making of such thesis.
His closest friend and his housemates, because of their proximity with his daily works, were introduced to the second circle of deception, namely, that he was actually an artist in disguise working on a grand novel of some kind, the project of which was hinted at in farfetched manner during dinners and drinking sessions and whose random strands, carefully crafted to look as parts of some larger project, were every once in a while presented to his friends. This kept them at bay and restrained them from asking how his research was going or when was he going to visit his parents. More importantly, it restrained them from knocking at his door at any given time during the day.
The last, and closer circle of deception concerned himself. He could perceive, under the thin layer of artistic velleities and black and white intellectual fantasies he was feeding his friends, that most of his time was actually lost. Reading and researching, he would tell himself first in the morning. Youtube bingewatching, he would recognize around five in the afternoon. Actually watching porn, he was forced to admit after midnight, when he would finally take the two hours he had left after the last weak orgasm to try and concentrate on some actual work. Mostly, he failed at doing even that and went to sleep. And that is when he laid in the very center of the many circles of deception, that is, himself and the biological activity of his body. What was his body doing, at the end of the day? Processing. Waking. Entangled in a computational void with no clear aim in sight and very little capacity for pleasure left even from purely addictive activities such as watching porn. Processing: doing nothing.
There is little money left. Tomorrow, tomorrow I'll do something.

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>Literally who?

You sound like a thoroughly based man

Uh Oh... stinky!

A man walks into the room, features shaded by an all-encompassing perplexed emotion. Shrewd eyes offered me a simple, lonely comment.

If you only knew how bad things really are.

Good job.

Lit cigar in pooper.

>He had a flaccid penis which resembled that of a Greek statue, and he had always wished it was slightly bigger. He was 5'11 but told women he was 6' because they're short and have terrible spatial skills. He had never had a real job for longer than 3 months. The thought of ploughing his car into a highway median frequently crossed his mind, and no longer caused him discomfort, but just ran on and on like all the droning thoughts about stupid women, Muslim rape gangs, and inches he wished he had here or there.
Fair warning - it would be a boring book.

The Last Kingdom is good but around book 3 some of the magic stuff he invokes gets to be sort of eye-rolling and retarded. Doesn't really take away from it, though, they're just classic adventure books that you'll be able to lose yourself in. It's never taken me more than a week to read any of his books.

Pathetic loser who should kill himself.

Mm. Young me so deliberative at ease! The crust shapes my earring!
The punk distributer. What a queen, what a rush.

A short figure entered the room, dark circles around his eyes gave him the look of a racoon or a panda bear. Nail bitten fingers and hands at a constant fidget. Beware if you engage him, for not a single word, thought or emotion will he express truthfully.

Based and effort pilled

Basedcringe. Cringebased.