MAURICE GRINCH CAN BE HORNY TOO

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MAURICE'S ANIMOSITY TOWARDS ALARM CLOCKS is justified by him stabbing his with a bread knife lying unprecatiously beside him on the bed, after he dozed off to wonderland scarfing loafs of nutella-ed sandwiches.

The clock let out a shrill cry like bloating its last breath before farting that final breath. An uncanny tide of pleasure bathes Maurice into reality.

He feels so heavy from the bundles he consumed but sooner or later, he has to giddy up on his feet and get ready for school. Charles will roll in soon enough with all his intrusiveness.

Licking his dry mouth, he lifts himself till he is sitting upright on his bed. Barely caring about anything than to get the fuck out of this prison called a house, he breathes his palm on his face. He cringes, making a face, it's eww enough to brush but heaven knows his body won't touch water, not until someone remarks on him reeking like a sweaty butt. Oh yeah, nobody -- dares -- talks to him in school anyways.

He insolently glances at his reading table while scratching his butt and looking for his toothbrush under his bed, all at the same time. It's littered like a frustrated author's worktable. However, these squeezed paper balls are garnished with undried crusts of yesterday's Pornhub byproducts. A cute geisha ball is stuffed in a pretty roughed up fleshlight and Maurice smacks the heel of his palm on his forehead, cursing himself for leaving the vibrator dildo on.

No wonder, he ate that much last night. He can swear he released gallons. There, his school bag stands too, scolding his grades -- which are impressive already.

He eventually finds what he's looking for and drags himself to his bathroom. The spotless whiteness of it reflects the mirror image of his own mind, he smiles at this while squirting the Colgate on his brush.

The sound of the bristles against teeth bounces off the walls, playing a note of harmony that sets his mind wandering into random thoughts.

His reflection on the sheeny mirror flashes a Justin Bieber smile and winks. Maurice frowns and replies with a middle finger.

But he must admit, he is pretty handsome. Fuck, he's too beautiful. His turquoise eyes seem to be nourishing a green shade more everyday and his skin is smooth and milky as alabaster. His obsidian waves are naturally in a frill and his facial angles and contours are way too sleek to be average.

He can look much better. Yes he can, if he actually gives a skunk's asshole about his appearance. Past experiences will always continue to anathematize that part of his life.

After throwing on a pair of musty Abercrombie sweats, Maurice is about to get off the bed -- the second time -- when the door creaks open and Charles sets the room in flames of morning person cheer.

Maurice, vampiric to this type of light is far concerned about it but almost skids on air and towards his reading table, dragging his bag over his post-masturbation workpile.

Charles exhales. "Don't you just feel the beatitude in this Monday morning air?"

"Oh yeah. Really savoring it," comments Maurice, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for anywhere to hide his babies.

"This place is like a microwave in here. Do better, Reece. Do better."

His room is a large, barren space with his reading table islanding of it all. No cloth dump hills. No trunks by the walls. Even the bin is miles away; beside the door.

"How do you live like this anyway?" Charles almost ballets to the window and rips open the curtains. His hands are resting on his hips while he absorbs free solar vitamin D. "And you didn't come for this morning jog."

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