The Dream
Concave posted on 11 Jun 2025Alas, there are less than 10 days left till RSI! Humbug is vibrating. He is ready to hump. I am Concave, disciple of Desmos, and today, I must rant.
So, there’s this girl.
Every time her little circular pfp pops up on a reel, my fingers freeze mid-scroll and I watch the reel FULLY because I know she has the best taste. However, I soon felt something else stopped hard in its tracks. I sit down fast. Textbook over lap. Gotta keep it PG in the land of AP scores. She’s infected me with brain rot so severe, it might as well be love. Honestly, at this point I don’t know whether I’m rotting or blooming. Probably both. Schrödinger’s simp. Every time I see her pixelated little pfp down there in the corner of the screen, I lock in.
Every reel where I see her small circular pfp down on the phone, my focus immediately shifts to those small pixels. The reel loops over 100 times while I stare. I stare so hard that my jaw drops. And unfortunately, so do my pants. This pmo so much because the sheer amount of time that my jaw stays in the dropped position has caused my jawline to move backwards and downwards, immediately redacting 2 years of hard mewing and gooning.
Anyways, Last night, she showed up in my dreams again. It was past curfew at RSI. You know the vibe—MIT campus half-asleep, the Charles River glimmering like some AI-generated nightscape. We snuck out like Pyramus and Thisbe, but hornier and with worse alibis. Walked across the Harvard Bridge. Hand in hand. Her palm was cold, her rings clinked against mine. We stopped right in the middle to look at the Boston skyline.
The “PRUDENTIAL” sign was lit like prophecy—clean serif font glowing 52 stories high. I imagined what it’d be like if my third arm could be that tall. Then stopped imagining, because that’s dangerous for public safety.
But let me stop being prudential.
Next thing I know, she leans her head on my shoulder. Romantic, right? Except she’s taller than me, so her head bends too far and she falls over. Oof. Suddenly I’m staring down at the top of her head, thinking of her giving me head. I help her up, and we turn to face the Hancock Tower. The lights reflecting off the glass—purple, red, green—looked like the city was casting spells. A chill ran down my spine… and, uh, to the third arm again. Then I woke up.
Boston. The city of dreams. May my gooned-out, mewed-down, Prudential-inflected dreams come true.
Categories: #shitpost