PLT pyjamas haul

Konsider is everything wrong with the world.

I really am going away now. I’m tired of trying to defend myself and her. The prettiest girl in my world. You win Konsider. But you lost. The tumbleweeds are rolling by on the breeze. You lost. When you come? When the loneliness truly sets in. I want you to know. You lost.

Yep, I definitely think it's time my creepy behaviour was stopped one way or another. I've selfishly hijacked the comments for long enough. Maybe some of the regulars will band together. The members could let Brooke know what I am doing. They could flood the comment section on members' videos. If enough people complain about me, then she might decide to remove me.

Preciosa

She sits by the window in the cabin, one hand resting on a pile of crumpled papers, each holding a poem he’s written her. The lines are strange and clunky, About sunshine, demons and clouds. All manner of childish things. She reads them and sighs. It’s clear he means well, but the words make her skin crawl.

What if she sent him away from the cabin, told him to take his notebook and find another place to be the embarrassing poet? She could have the cabin to herself, fill it with men who know how to listen without forcing clumsy stanzas into the silence. Men who would cook breakfast without reading their own verses about the eggs and the bacon. She pictures the cabin alive with laughter and vibrant intelligence. With voices of men who don’t feel the need to turn everything into a line of verse. The idea makes her smile.

She leans back, looking out over the lake. It’s tempting, this vision of a cabin free from forced rhymes and awkward metaphors. She imagines telling him to go find another blonde to serenade with his odd words, leaving her alone by the lake. That fabled lake. Something that actually has depth.

I know there’s a tiny puzzle here. Spent ages waiting for the right one, drinking myself toward the foggy edge. Same as the rest of us. Then she drifted into my side view. Head up, eyes angled down. Just a bit hesitant. No reason at all. She woke up today with bacon and eggs on her cheek. Tiny smudge of doubt. Like a leaf on a glass lake. Can’t shake it. Like a dent on a shiny canoe. Forget it, I tell her. Only thing that matters is she’s safe in this creaky cabin. My job is to pour the drinks. The reminders by the lake.

I’d say I’m rather decent at it.

I know I have a problem. Waited all my life for the right one. Drinking myself in to an early grave. We all do it. But she walked slowly into my peripheral vision. Head held high. Eyes turned down. Still a little bit unsure of herself. No reason. She awoke this morning with a friend upon her face. Self conscious. A blemish upon perfection. She can’t let it go. A scratch on a Ferrari. Leave it alone. The only thing that matters is she is safe and sound. My job is to remind her.

I like to think I’m pretty good at it.

You are beautiful Brooke.

I fastened myself into a jacket that’s perfectly straight. Holds up my elbows. My spine keeps its secrets. I check the lake breeze by licking an eyelash. Wondering where it’s rolling. Feels like ice will come. Maybe a splash of warmth too—dropped on my head years ago. The girls are topsy-turvy, wild like trout in a bucket. The sun’s peeking over the cabin roof. The moon stands awkwardly behind it. Absolute stillness. This cabin? Total wreck. Accepted. But Brooke? She’s cozy, snug in a sweater thick as syrup. Darling, really. Let her stay here with me. In a jacket of perfectly straightness. I’ll promise her a story, maybe three.

I put my straight jacket on. Holds up my back. My spine beholden to myself. Check the weather by licking one finger. See which way the wind blows. Going to be a cold day. Something warmed me up just a little bit. Dropped on my head as a child. These girls have gone wild. The sun was just cresting the horizon. The moon waiting in the background. No sound. This place is a shit show. Accepted. However. Brooke looks real nice. Wearing a heavy sweater. So cute. Put her here with me. In a straight jacket. I promise I will tell a story.

Analytics. Numbers. The equation. You lost. What is the cost? Nothing to her. She rides the broom. The little which way is going forward? The witch. I don’t think so. I know in my heart that she is unique and special. Let me know when she dresses in nothing but body paint. Shouldn’t be long now. Sell her soul. It doesn’t mean anything. Shake the gravity that encompasses the room. Let the dogs lie. Lye. Let sleeping dogs lie. This is easy. A quiet fell across the chasm. The divide. Let her decide when to take off her clothes. You win guys. But you lost.

What do I stand to win? Nothing. When I am gone what are you left with? Nothing. Steal my name. Plagerize. Ruin the only words here that held some meaning. Some beauty. Remove me. Be doing me a favour. You will always be alone. Let that sink in. Incapable. Just once. Don’t steal my words. Say something nice. Incapable. You will always be alone.

I'm not sure if I should tell people that I only have one account. I might decide to say that my only account is the one with the badge. Or, I might be honest. Who knows. It's hard to make decisions.

I see her. She is a vision of beauty. I am the only one who takes the time to write poems. The other people here do nothing. They write nothing. The more they complain, the more I will write. The sun shines down. Brooke is the sunshine. She lights up the dark.

Brooke will never ban me from her channel. I am the most important person here. I am also the smartest. I write her poetry. Other people do not. So, try to get me banned. I dare you all.

Yes, it's Jason again. I have multiple accounts. I will keep posting on here.

One hand in my back pocket. Constantly checking for my wallet. Make certain what little money I have left is still there. It means nothing. Destitute. Fumbling around. The rain is impending. That’s fine. I know I have my keys. I can hear them jingling in my front pocket. I remembered my umbrella. The forecast calls for rain. But where did I leave my wallet? She has it. Little demon. Dangling the keys to her kingdom right in front of me. Right in my face. I just need to find my wallet.

It doesn’t matter to him how she’s changed. Large or lazy, drinking or eating too much, she’s still the same to him. If she wants bacon and eggs, he’ll cook it. If she wants steak for breakfast, he’s on it. She could lounge by the cabin all day, and he’d bring her every dish she could dream of, her personal chef and waiter, happy to serve. For him, this is what love looks like—filling her plate, keeping her glass full, making her life just a little easier.

He watches her laugh and drink, finding humour in everything, and he loves it. Her cleverness, her way of shrugging off the world’s expectations, it’s all part of her charm. He knows people think she’s changed, but to him, she’s the same girl he first admired. She may eat and drink more than ever, but that just means he gets to be there for her, making sure she has everything she could want. She’s his queen, the cabin their castle, and he’ll be her loyal servant, bringing her breakfast in bed if that’s what she wants.

Sometimes, he thinks about the future, about where this all might lead. But he doesn’t worry. They’re in this together, just the two of them against the world, hidden away by the lake. She laughs, he serves, and for now, that’s enough. Whatever comes, he’ll stand by her side, apron on, frying pan in hand, ready to make her world as perfect as he can.

The smart guys stay away. Find another one. You lost. Prove me wrong. I see the end game. Cards set out on the table. The game. If you are reading my words? You lost.

Money has always seemed like an odd joke to her. People send her money for no reason, hoping for a slice of her time or her attention, and she accepts it with a half-smile and a shrug. She spends it all, sometimes on lavish feasts, other times on trinkets or whatever whim catches her. It’s easy, it flows in like the gentle ripples on the lake. She has little to give in return, but that doesn’t really matter to her. Money, in her world, is just paper that people hand over without thinking twice.

The funny part is, she doesn’t even care if the money’s there or gone. It’s as if it doesn’t belong to her in the first place. She’s fine spending every last penny on things that make no sense—books she doesn’t read, strange hats she never wears, entire shelves of snacks she never even opens. The whole thing feels surreal to her, like she’s living in someone else’s dream, with someone else’s money. If the world sends it her way, fine. If it stops, well, maybe she’ll find something else to do.

Yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, a little worry creeps in now and then. What happens when it’s all gone? If there’s no more to spend, no one left to pay her just for existing? She laughs it off most days, shakes her head as if to say she’ll figure it out when the time comes. But sometimes, just for a moment, she stares out over the lake, wondering if maybe, just maybe, she should have cared a little more.

In the quiet cabin by the lake, she begins to realise that maybe, just maybe, she needs someone to join her. Not just any person, of course—someone clever enough to match her brilliance, a man who sees through the world’s nonsense and gets her big ideas. The two of them could rule from this little cabin, the whole lake their kingdom, the endless woods their territory. Together, they’d be unstoppable, weaving schemes by the fire and building their empire on the shores of the lake.

Most people, though, wouldn’t understand her vision, not the way she’d need them to. She laughs at the thought of those who show up, starry-eyed, thinking they can match her wit. No, it would take someone truly sharp, someone who sees through her jokes, who gets that there’s something more profound beneath her laid-back attitude and endless breakfast plates. He’d see past the bacon and eggs and spot the genius planning her next move, right there by the water’s edge.

Until he comes along, though, she waits. She studies the lake, imagines the possibilities. Some days, she even speaks her plans aloud, as if he’s already there to listen, invisible but hanging on every word. And who knows? Maybe one day he’ll appear, stepping out of the mist with a grin, ready to sit by her side, to plot and dream and conquer whatever lies beyond that cabin in the woods.

The best outfit Brooke Marsden ever wore was the one where she felt safe and secure. Cuddly and warm. So soft. So happy. The light in her eyes still there. Not extinguished. She gets one chance at this. Money isn’t everything. She gets out on the dance floor. Shaking her money maker. But there is a part of her that remembers Christmas morning. Friends and family. Good food. Warmth. I only have words. She doesn’t need to hear them. Just a friendly reminder. She is the most beautiful girl who ever existed. A really good person.

We all know that Brooke doesn't really pay too much attention to the comments here. If she did, people like me, Jason, would be banned by now. But maybe if the members keep asking to ban me on the members videos' comment sections, then she might get the message. Imagine a world with no more Jason in these comments? I think we can all hope that happens one day. So, let Brooke know and let's get rid of me! :)

Maybe I should write something to Brooke so she knows why I’ve deleted all the comments from my account with the blue badge?
Brooke, on every video I constantly bombard the comment section with my pretentious drivel. I do this even although most other people do not want me to do this.
Because I am Jason, I feel I deserve to post anything I like. Other people have respect and decency towards others. But I don’t mind badmouthing anyone who’s opinion differs from mine. I will shout them down. Bully them. Because I am more important than anyone else here.
When someone teaches me a lesson and makes it hard for me to do this, I will feel sorry for myself. A nice, decent person would apologise and stop with the drivel in future. But, I’m guessing I am incapable of that. I’ve deleted the things I posted earlier on my blue badge account, because once again, that guy called Konsider highlighted how ridiculous I am.
But, I just want you to notice me, Brooke. Doesn’t matter if I constantly sound like a creepy letch. So, I bet I will continue to think I am in the right, and everyone else is wrong.

Wait, I see that my main account has deleted all its previous comments from today. Maybe I am finally getting it? I'm understanding that nobody wants my drivel here? Regardless of blue badge status? Don't worry though, Ive got the story ready to go if need be :)

I hope everyone doesn't mind, but I'm preparing a five-part story about me and Brooke. I am thinking of calling it 'Jason and Brooke, the story'. Don't worry, it will be my usual style. That is, pretentious drivel with no real meaning. I will post it in five separate comments. It is so highbrow that it might be hard for mere mortals to understand. But, who cares if people are not as smart as I am. So, stay tuned.

Yep, that's all that matters. I have a blue badge. Doesn't matter if Konsider can emulate and parody every single thing I say. He does it effortlessly. And in a way that is truly impressive. His content is engaging, and genuinely well-written. There's real humour there too. Yet, I have the blue badge. Nobody else notices. They just see the pretentious poetic drivel. They know this is 'Jason'. But, I have my blue badge. That's what matters. And that's another reason I really don't get what is going on. I impress nobody. Least of all Brooke Marsden. But, I have my badge.

Blue badge Konsider. You are not me. No matter how hard you try. You are not me. I have that little blue badge next to my name.

Or maybe. I'm beginning to see. Just how easy it is. For others to write the same old drivel that I write. Maybe I should take a long, hard think to myself. Maybe the thoughts I am expressing are thoughts that anyone can express. So, why don't they? Really, I should think about that.

I hope people remember, my name is Jason. I am the poet. I write what others cannot. Brooke will notice me.

She’s not just a fan of food; she’s also well acquainted with a variety of drinks, each one stronger than the last. Mornings start with mimosas, afternoons ease into wine, and evenings are a mix of cocktails, each glass sparkling in her hand like a prize. She jokes with anyone who’ll listen, clever lines and playful winks, and for a while, it seems like nothing could be more charming. But the empty bottles are stacking up around the cabin, and her usual shine is beginning to blur.

Her beauty is still there, undeniable, but there’s something different these days. Some say her cheeks are a little fuller, her walk a little slower. Still, she laughs it off, lifting her next glass with a grin, not bothered by the whispers of those who pay to watch her. They stare, hoping for some grand revelation from this brilliant woman, but she’s too busy savouring her drink to give them much thought.

And slowly, those who watch start to wonder where it’s all headed. She, however, couldn’t care less. She drinks, she toasts, she carries on as though her only true companion is her glass. Let the onlookers fret. She’ll live as she likes, with or without them, even if her brilliance fades just a little more with each sip.

Food at the cabin by the lake is practically a shrine to indulgence, and she’s its devoted priestess. Every day is a new feast, and no meal is too big, no food too fancy. Steak, bacon, and eggs are just the warm-up. She’ll throw in fish, heaps of caviar, sometimes enough pasta to cover an entire table. It’s all sizzling, grilled, or pan-fried to her standards—half the time, people can’t tell if she’s a gourmet or just hungry beyond measure.

The locals swear she could have the world if she tried, a true genius, but she’d rather perfect her bacon-crisping technique. People around the lake are drawn to her, fascinated by her charm, her wit, and yes, her towering plates of food. They want to hear her insights, maybe learn from her brilliance, but she’s too busy layering smoked salmon onto buttered toast, as if she’s solving the great mysteries of the culinary arts instead.

And the funny part is, all those people who fund her lavish meals, hoping for a bit of her attention, go unnoticed. She eats and laughs, barely glancing their way, wiping her hands on a napkin like they’re all part of the scenery. For her, the world’s finest foods are the real priority. Anything else? That’s just an afterthought, an extra side dish she didn’t really order.

The girl by the lake is like every season and storm rolled into one. In the morning, she’s sunshine, all bright hair and an easy smile, glowing like she’s radiating warmth into the woods. By midday, she’s a drizzle, thoughtful and quiet, wandering the paths barefoot, lost in her own clever ideas. Then there are the afternoons—when her laughter whips up like the wind, bold and carefree, making everyone feel like they’re standing in the middle of a gale.

When it rains, she almost seems to call it down herself, as if the clouds are just her way of setting a new mood. She walks around the lake under the showers, talking about big plans no one really understands, while raindrops trickle off her golden hair. People watch, entranced, half-believing she controls the weather itself. And if anyone dares to ask what’s going on in her mind, she’ll just shrug, a sudden burst of wind in her laugh, brushing them off like leaves caught in a storm.

But here’s the thing. This girl’s got everyone entranced, yet she barely seems to notice the ones paying for it all. They’re sitting there, transfixed by her endless weather patterns, while she basks in the sun, dodges through the rain, and lets the wind carry her away. It’s as if their admiration is nothing more than background noise to her personal forecast, one that only she understands and nobody else can predict.

I used the weather a lot there. So, it must be meaningful. If you don't think so, you are not very smart.

You win Konsider. Or Jason. Whoever you choose to call yourself. At the end of the day? You lose.

She sits by the cabin, hair catching the lake’s shimmer, a vision of brilliance and questionable decisions. She’s something between a thinker and a mystery, someone who probably solves riddles in her sleep. People say she could change the world if she wanted to. But instead, she chooses bacon and eggs. Lots of it. Every morning, every afternoon if you’re honest. She’ll fry it up until the whole forest smells like breakfast, and honestly, it’s concerning.

The locals think she’s some kind of legend, this genius by the lake, as if she’ll decode the secrets of the universe any day now. They don’t see the cartons of eggs, the packages of bacon stacking up like they’re going out of style. She says it’s fuel, brain food, essential to her ideas. No one’s sure what these ideas are, but she’s pretty, so people listen, or at least pretend to. It’s as if the lake holds its breath, waiting for her next big move that may or may not involve too much cholesterol.

One evening, she stands at the water’s edge, murmuring about theories of existence between bites of fried egg. Something grand, she hints, something big is coming, and people lean in closer, hoping for a glimpse of brilliance. But then, she pauses, mid-sentence, to wonder aloud if bacon might float if cooked just right. And with that, she wanders off, frying pan in hand, leaving the lake and the onlookers to figure out what any of it really means.

Brooke is. So funny. She is. Very smart. That is. So obvious. From the. Limited vocabulary. She exhibits. On every. Video. She manages. To say. The word. Cute. Many times. This means. She is. A genius. Like me.

Man, I’m getting quite good at this whole ‘pretend to say something meaningful’ thing. Here’s what. I’ve discovered. I need to. Speak in. Short sentences. That seems to work well. Also, I need to mention fire and water and wind, etc. Mrs Wilson, my teacher, told me that’s a great way to start writing poetic things. All good children start that way. I’ve to also mention angels and demons quite a lot. And over-dramatise things too. For example, I need to talk about how vulnerable I am. How my life is on the line. How everything revolves around her. Yep, I really am going to appear clever one of these days. So what if most people laugh at me and find everything I say cringeworthy. They are just not as smart as I am.

love u!

The only thing in life worth doing? Is being that one gay. The one lucky gay. Who holds Dwayne Johnson in his arms.
Edit, Jason has removed the original comment that made this comment funny. Oh well :)

Some weird old dude seems obsessed with you judging by all the comments, be careful

Love you.Thanks 😊

It was time to take a break. Brooke and I sat on the end of the dock. We looked down at the crater that once used to be the lake. Brooke was feeling withdrawal from her constant booze-filled holidays. I offered to be her drinks waiter. Back and forward I went, fetching her drink after drink. Eventually she passed out on the dock. Obviously, I couldn't move her, so I went to sleep in the cabin. Next morning, I discovered that Brooke had wet herself in the night, due to all the drinking she had done. Still, it wasn't too bad. She'd refilled the lake.

I wasn't going to be beaten. I would come up with an activity Brooke and I could do. I tore a plank of wood from the side of the cabin. I'm very strong and manly. I took it to the edge of the dock and nailed it down. Now, we had a diving board. Brooke sprinted along the dock, hitting the board at full speed. She sailed up into the air and then sped downwards towards the lake. Well, I say lake. It's now more of a crater.

It started to get rather windy at the lake. I thought, this is an ideal chance to teach Brooke how to surf. So, I chose my best surfboard. I have three thousand of them. Then, I began to wax. The surfboard, not Brooke. I gave her the board and told her to go out on the lake. I'd join her in a few minutes. I had to quickly write a poem. When I finished, I walked out onto the dock, expecting to see Brooke surfing. But alas, she was just standing there in the shallows. At first I couldn't work out what had happened. But then it became obvious. She'd eaten the surfboard.

I carved a canoe out of a large tree next to the lake. I invited Brooke to try it out. Except, I made a mistake. I chose to invite her just after she'd had lunch. So it ended up not really being a canoe. More of a submarine.

Anyone know what happened to the patreon why didn't she ever post on there

Brooke was at my cabin by the lake. She was out in the rowing boat. I was on the dock, having my bacon and eggs. I heard her call to me. She was asking for some of my bacon. I told her no. The boat was almost sinking already. One more bacon sandwich and the boat would be gone.

Brooke, is there any chance you could look a bit more like Dwayne Johnson? He's my favourite. I really love the way he runs and jumps around. It gives me a strange feeling.