"Long time no see, my man."
Togna lets YW know that he sits directly behind him and that he's been watching him chill on the internet all day instead of working.
"Nah, I was on vacation last week, isn't that funny? I just started, but I'm already thinking about taking another one."
YW's subconscious suggests that Togna may be someone's son or else a close family relative or friend, and the id is having a hard time arguing against it.
"Surprisingly, my best poops come when I'm most hungover. Like, feeling really achey, head pounding, hot, and then the biggest, easiest-to-pass log. Every other time it's a little mo messy. Messier. You know?"Togna's breathy rancid in the fat musky scentse that's salty and is smelled from underneath a beard. It lines his see-thru plastic dixie cup and YW can catches a whiff it from where he's standing. His subconscious flashes vomit chunks on flannel shirts, lengthy flaxen hair, or again said beard. His id is doing the talking. He's actually just stumbling words into unfinished sentences whose loopy delivery is making the end of winded paragraphs ahear (or appear, not sure if funny enough #fuckitjustleaveitin) indecipherable. Not really saying much. A conversation enabler.
"Yeah, I've noticed that too, and I'm not even that old, it's all starting to come apart, and you never have time to think about that when you're young and feeling good and obsessively bummed about everything."YW looks at the thick thumb prints on the plastic cup. The heater is on and there are drops of sweat on Togna's forheard, and he's wearing a snug purple sweater.
"Well, life is just prepping you emotionally for the oncoming suffering you will experience until your eventual death, and I find comfort in that, because I wasn't before I was born, and I never will be again."
