Chapter Text
Your name is Dave Strider and for some odd reason, you feel strangely effeminate. Which is completely preposterous, of course, because you're the manliest guy ever. But, you know, ironically manly. After some deliberation, you decide that you are not being effeminate, you are just so ironically manly, that you're becoming ironically feminine. No big deal, you set records for irony everyday. Nothing really spurred you becoming so incredibly ironic, you were just born that way. No, nothing at all. Definitely not the fact that Jade brought you roses the other day, or the time that she carried your books for you and walked you to your class. That would be stupid and totally not ironic, and you are neither stupid nor not ironic.
You notice that you've been walking a bit more girly these past couple days, and Jade has been walking with a lot more swag than usual. No big deal, you're just being your regular ironic self, and she obviously grabbed a fucking pen and took notes on how to be a swag master. She won't be a master, of course, but she might get pretty close. You two have been talking recently, and it's been a lot of fun, and oh God you are not blushing and giggling like and idiot stop that stop that right now. You're ironic, but not that ironic. And you don't have a school girl crush right now. You may be breaking records in irony, but that level can only be achieved by someone like your bro.
To continue your ironic exploits, you but a sewing kit from a nearby store and proceed to teach yourself how to make one of those squiddle things. You definitely do not plan on giving it to someone, you just think they're kinda way more cute than smuppets, and you are just being ironic. That's really all there is to say on the matter. You don't plan on giving the squiddle thing to anyone, because you are not a girl. You are a man. A manly man. An ironically manly man that's so ironic he's almost like a girl. That is you.
You manage to stab yourself a zillion times--oh gog you did not just say zillion--even though the fucking label says that it's for ages six and up. The end product seems somewhat reminiscent of Charles Dutton, but that's okay. It's not like you planned to give it to someone, right?
Right.
You definitely don't have butterflies in your stomach, and if you did they would be ironic butterflies and would stop fluttering right about now. And they wouldn't be butterflies fluttering because you're thinking of someone. No, no. They're fluttering because you just found some apple juice and it's like motherfucking Christmas up in here. Definitely not because a certain someone just messaged you.