(no subject)
[The door to a certain Allen's room is ajar, unbeknownst to him, and from inside you can hear some quiet cursing and a sink running. If you poke your head inside, you'll find the room is in quite the state of disarray: sheets torn off the bed, books knocked off the desk, the floor lamp smashed, papers strewn across the ground, drinking glasses shattered, even a few holes punched in the drywall, etc. A tennis ball sized Timcanpy is curled up on a torn pillow at the foot of the bed, staring at you.]
[If you choose to look, Allen himself is in the small adjoining bathroom off to the side, standing at the sink, still a little ruddy-faced, though certainly not because he was crying or anything. Right now he's attempting to wrap his slightly bloodied right hand in gauze, a strip held between clenched teeth. He's doing a sloppy but passable job of it, considering he only has the one hand.]
[It's just been one of those days. ...Weeks. Months, really (three, to be exact.) Still, feel free to bother him.]
[If you choose to look, Allen himself is in the small adjoining bathroom off to the side, standing at the sink, still a little ruddy-faced, though certainly not because he was crying or anything. Right now he's attempting to wrap his slightly bloodied right hand in gauze, a strip held between clenched teeth. He's doing a sloppy but passable job of it, considering he only has the one hand.]
[It's just been one of those days. ...Weeks. Months, really (three, to be exact.) Still, feel free to bother him.]