Warning: Foul language, mentions of sexual activity
A/N: I was test driving this web application called Write or Die (http: / / lab. drwicked. com/ writeordie. html). And this is the result. I've always wanted to write a companion piece to the story "Diary of a Spoiled Brat". This is more novel Yuuri than anime Yuuri since we see more of Yuuri's thoughts in the novel.
Diary of a Wimpy King
I think he's insane. He always tells me these fantastical stories about another world. He says he's the king there - the demon king. He's as far away from demonic as they come. Oh, he's not angelic. Far from it. I know, because I'm hidden right below his pornographic magazines.
But demonic? Hahaha. Don't make me laugh.
At any rate, he tells me these stories every night of adventures in this "Demon Kingdom". He says they have flying skeletons and banana boats and demon swords that eat souls and boxes that hold Armageddon. And he's this ultra-powerful being that summons water serpents, causes earthquakes, create golems made of chicken bones and causing other kinds of chaos. Basically he's a bad-ass among bad-asses.
He's such a liar.
How do I know?
Well, this dude is in total denial. Sure he's got porn. But I think it's just for show.
Because in his little fantasy world, he's engaged. To a boy.
That's right. You read that correctly.
Oh but he doesn't want to admit how gay he is. Oh sure he fantasizes about being engaged to a shoujo manga style bishonen (his exact words). But he always follows it with sentences like, "...not that I'm gay." For example, this: "I open my eyes and see a halo of golden hair, as well as a pair of beautifully brilliant green eyes that remind me of the deepest lake. I'd go out with him despite his egotism if I was one of those who had that kind of interest."
Let's see, Mr. Shibuya, you're not interested in those kinds of things? Let's take a look at your fantasy there, Mr. Straight-As-Lombard-Street.
--- First, couldn't you fantasize about being engaged to a blond girl? What happened to that Elizabeth girl you wrote about months ago. How about that sexy ex-queen with the big gazongas, hey she's got that blond hair and green eyes you love so much.
---Second, you fantasize that your very male fiancé sleeps in your bed. In a frilly pink nightie. You're such a pervert. Not that I don't approve. (Hey, what do you expect when you're accompanied by porn day in and day out.)
---Third, you adopt a daughter with him and write pages of how much you guys are such a family and the strength of your bonds despite the short time you've spent together. You might as well write Yuuri von Bielefeld over and over again in me like a lovesick girl. It's so sickly sweet. Please stop. You're giving me a toothache and I don't even have teeth.
---Fourth, you wax poetic on his looks. I mean you spend paragraphs describing how angelic he looks. How he's prettier than any girl. How his eyes remind you of the bottom of a lake. How you're flattered that this really totally gorgeous guy is chasing after you. What kind of straight man would be flattered by being chased by another guy? That's right, the gay kind.
And how many times do you have to write about taking baths with him. I know you like the idea of being naked with a pretty boy. But can we move on? Or do you just like teasing yourself.
Just give it up.
Your Mom knows you're gay. Your brother knows you're gay. They do... because they read me.
Um, yes, you might want to hide your porn elsewhere. I think your brother jacks off to them. And that's just disgusting. Ew. I sleep with these magazines you know.
I'd sigh right about now if I could.
Why couldn't I be purchased by that other guy he was with? The one with glasses with the uniform from the prestigious high school. He seems to be an upstanding citizen. I'm sure he's not a big gay pervert like this "demon king" of suppressed homosexuality. I'm sure he would write something a little more interesting than baseball and blond bishonens.
I mean who in their right mind would make this joker a king anyway?!
Sometimes I just want to shoot myself.