/soy/ - Soyjaks

Nukappiaqtaqalauqsimammat taijaujumik "suitiin". Qimirrualaurmat qirniqtarulitainnaqtunilu ilaqaliqtunilu! Isulinninga! Taimaiqattarmata taimaittulimaanut.

Every morning, I sit down with a bowl of cereal. I pour the milk slowly, reverently, watching it swirl between the loops and flakes. And every morning, I tell myself the same thing:

This is Miss Circles.

Because she’s pregnant.

Now, you might be thinking, bro, what the actual hell are you talking about? And I get it. But let me take you on a journey of enlightenment.

Miss Circles teaches math. Or at least, she tries to. Most of the class spends the period testing the limits of human stupidity while she stands at the board, radiating maternal patience. She’s round. In presence, in personality, and—most importantly—in belly. That’s right. She’s with child. Absolutely incubating. The stork hit her house with an orbital strike.

And somewhere along the way, my brain made a connection it should not have made.

Milk = maternal.
Miss Circles = maternal.
Miss Circles = milk.

It was just a passing thought at first. A weird intrusive idea while half-asleep, spoon halfway to my mouth. But the problem is, once your brain latches onto something that stupid, it never lets go. The seed had been planted. And every morning since, I’ve sat down to breakfast and thought, Yep. This milk is Miss Circles.

I don’t want to think this. It’s not like I sit there enjoying the idea. It’s just that I can’t stop. I take a bite, and my brain whispers, Thank you, Miss Circles, for this gift. I try to shut it out, but the more I fight it, the worse it gets.

One time, I made eye contact with her in class while drinking from a milk carton. Nearly choked on the spot. She tilted her head like, are you okay? No, Miss Circles. I am not okay. I am in hell.

It gets worse.

🌙 The Legend of Gapejak and the Fridge at 3 A.M.

It was 3 A.M. and Gapejak was awake. Not because of nightmares — but because his stomach was making noises like a dying walrus.
He whispered to himself, “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge… probably.”

So Gapejak, brave hero of the night, crept through the dark hallway. Every floorboard betrayed him like a snitch in a mafia movie. He froze.
“Mom?”
…No answer.
He continued his stealth mission.

When he reached the kitchen, the fridge loomed before him like a glowing treasure chest from an RPG. He opened it — and the holy light of the midnight snack realm blasted his face.

Inside: one (1) slice of cold pizza. Half a can of soda. And a suspicious Tupperware labeled “DO NOT EAT – MOM.”

Gapejak stared. “She can’t stop me. I’m built different.”
He opened it. Inside was… salad. Just salad. Disgusting. He took the pizza instead.

As he turned to leave, the fridge whispered:

“You have angered the Kitchen Spirits, Gapejak.”

Suddenly, every spoon, fork, and cereal box started vibrating. The microwave beeped by itself. The cat stared in judgment.
But Gapejak, pizza slice in hand, took a mighty bite and declared:

“I fear no appliance.”

The kitchen went silent. The fridge door slowly closed behind him, respecting his power.
He returned to bed victorious, crumbs on his face, and slept like a king.

And that’s why, every night at 3 A.M., the fridge hums softly — whispering his name:
“Gapejak… Gapejak…”

Once upon a time, there was this rascal named Bernd.

Bernd became trans and then killed himself.


The end. fuggen jerdee

>>13923322
slow-burn, character-driven, bone-chilling A24-inspired masterpiece

There was once a BBC. This BBC was the tallest and mightiest of the bunch, with a layer of foreskin as his shield.

Then, cabbilistic jews came and chanted black magic to remove it, but with so many condensed goldbergs at once, it was completely botched.

Now the BBC is an SMC. Small monster cock.

The end.

I have a story to tell…