Pachinko is currently stashed in a dark corner of her pushed-against-the-wall mattress, tapping away on her IPad furiously. She's writing fanfic of that wonderful series that went sparks off your brain as an ingenious idea, and when you found out time travel has already been done a hundred times over, you still liked and held on to it so dearly you decided to make a recap of your favorite novel and twist it here and there (between the sailing ships). For what you're passionate to actually materialize out into books existed on bestsellers case, so just reading those would save you from wasting hours gnawing on the end of your pencil.

Her lines poured out like streams of wet dreamt ecstasy, sloppy written but satisfyingly thick as chocolate chunks. Her five and four fingers (accessorized by sharp outgrown nails) flew across the touch keyboard, sharks pounding on its prey. She sat there, bended down on the tablet for two hours straight with her black glasses slipping constantly off the edge of her nose and ears. If Pachinko is to stand up right now she would have broken her back, or at least neck crooked. She pushes her glasses on again, feeling those oily cheeks. Shucks. Disgusting swelling marks from zits popping in her previous toilet lock up started to sting, crap. Nevertheless she stayed in awkward, uncomfortable positions of tensing, paralyzing torso muscles. Pachinko could not feel her feet; they've fallen asleep. They've grown numb of reality. The soft glowing digital blue reflecting off her smiling face was the only lighting in the black bedroom.

This girl is ten. But Pachinko came in touch with her perverted self, reach the inner sweating, horribly gross person homing down her stomach long ago, at the young age of four. And she liked it. To put it bluntly, Pachinko's like a grape which spoiled itself inedible, rotten, for it refuses to go down in anybody's throat. A nerd. A perv. A combination of Kuroki Tomoko and Nakamura Sawa.

I, her brother, am so pissed she's still online at 2AM. Sleep for god sake.