AN:So, I did a thing. A thing I'm not sure of why of publishing.
But hey, nothing bad over that. Maybe I'll even continue it . . . eh.
If anyone ever stumbles upon this, tell me your opinions, and if you want more. Because I'm right on the edge of doing any fanfiction at all.
-Porcy

Update: You know what, after thinking about this story, I think I'll continue it. I'm sorry for giving low expectations and bad premonitions towards this, I've decided to challenge myself since I've never done any "chapter" stories before. This will be fun, will it? I think so. It'd be fun for you if you enjoy it and it'd be fun for me while writing it.
Again, sorry for sounding so bitter towards this, I'm not really bitter, I just really don't feel comfortable writing fanfiction for some reason . . . it's nothing against anything, because in actuality I like reading fanfiction. ^^ But I just wouldn't see me being good at it.
But, let this be a challenge, enjoy this chapter if you so please. -Porcy

The bedroom of a man whose pockets are never empty was thrashed and disfigured of organization. The floor was covered with short-sleeved shirts and spotted baggy pants, not so much of a variety of clothes, but enough for this man to live. The man gazed at his wall as he laid lazily upon his unkempt but heavenly soft bed. His mind was blank, and he looked at each painting of his wall one at a time.

Gamzee Makara was the kind of person that seemed to be more of a cloud than an actual person. He was free of life decisions and tragedies of bankruptcy over his envious wealth; taken care of his silhouette of a father that was always in a different state as if he wanted to avoid his son at all costs. He indicated that his son was far from being able to give the world's face a permanent greeting and gave him more and more of his riches to survive. Gamzee, although a clueless teenager at heart, didn't need this amount of help since he was already a rich man of his career as a worker of a music store. But yet he'd always accept his father's help of a sloppy snatch of actually hearing from his dad. He was lonely in his vast mansion; but kept content as a fluffy cloud.

His gaze at his paintings was still held. He also had a knack of painting, and he'd always paint when he was going through his episodes of explosive wonders and tearful bouts of rage. He was an emotional character as a teenager, and it never seemed to subside even as a young adult. And to make the injury bleed more he was a drug addict as well.

He started with taking a couple blunts a day to cool his nerves as a seventeen year old over problems with school and with his dad and his relationship. Slowly savoring the horrid bitterness of the smoke and for the weight of the mellowness to bear down. Over the occasional smoke, he was happy as can be; made some new friends around town and most of all, he wasn't sad or angry.

Whenever he couldn't get his joints, he could always feel his mind slipping down to some sort of an abyss, where he couldn't feel anything. No rage, no elation. Perhaps over the years of taking marijuana it mellowed down his system completely and perhaps permanently. Which was a great thing for Gamzee, except he missed the feeling of just - feeling. When he was eighteen the composure laid down, and he decided to quit until he felt lonely again. The loneliness settled in almost immediately; he would sit down on the couch one day and like a scorpion's sting: nothing could feel right. It would strike and his subconscious would complain to him: Just, maybe, to get rid of this, I could take another joint. He, in omniscient control of this craving, rejected every time. It wasn't an addiction of any sorts, it was just an occasional urge to escape being him at any moment.

The first painting he caught an eye upon was a depiction of a clown. Its grey face paint dripping down upon its lopsided chin and its clothes casual and lackluster. Hell, that was him in the picture. It was his very first painting to be exact, and it looked mediocre at best. The guidelines didn't seem to be fitting of Gamzee's face and his face just seemed warped and contorted over the overuse of the grey and white paint. But hey, practice makes perfect, right? And he definitely got better over the years.

Except the quality of the painting didn't bother him as much as to why he did it. During the time of the painting's creation, he had joined a group of random people they call 'Subjugglators' that liked to paint their faces with face paint and were rich as hell. They were dominant and cocky over this, and took hits of drugs every chance they could get because they just could. Gamzee relished of being in the group as a teenager, and he decided to brainstorm of what his face paint would look like. He had a knack as an artist too, and he never tried painting before. And thus, with face paint decided and lush over the high holders of the group, he thought he'd be top dog of everything.

Yet, as a clueless teenager, he was wrong.

This was a time when he started doing marijuana, of being in an underground cult, society seemed to be miles away. His dad was miles away. The world seemed to be miles away. He was an outcast upon nowhere's face. He was angry and kept being so in school too. And the only way to be connected to people and possible make friends was to be the happiest person he could be.

And hell, did it work for him for so long.

Life, at this moment, is steady and working for Gamzee Makara. Except at moments like this. These moments seem to be eternity. Maybe it could be? He didn't know as he lit and pressed in his lips into the new fresh joint he had prepared for this moment.

I mean, why the hell not? He kept thinking to himself as the joint was resting on top of his drawer. It wasn't an addiction of any sorts, he thought that too. He just loved being the happiest person to his friends and at the world. He couldn't live without being Gamzee Makara: the mellow, dopey, caring, and most of all, drugged up person he could be.

He could sense and see the vast fog of smoke flourish at his face as he breathed out the puff of smoke. This was his first joint in a while, it wouldn't really hurt at all.

He closed his eyes for a bit and breathed out happily. A content faint smile rested on his face. He could feel the miraculous miracles sprout out into his brain and settle its spot there. He sank his head into his pillow and stared up at the wall.

His gaze stretched and gave an interpretation of his mind's creativity. Shapes of all bright colors appeared and broke apart. He puckered his lips and took another drag.

It was slow for the composure and happiness to come in, but it was worth it for him. He stretched his arms side by side of him and felt happy after a long day.

"Dad, when are you going to stay here?"

"Not in a long while. I'm sorry, Gamzee."

Gamzee starts to stir in his relaxation. In fact, he hadn't seen his dad in a while now . . . probably over contact issues and problems with his business. Maybe that's why he felt so inadequately alone after all. He hadn't been able to go around town for a while, maybe he needed that. But not until he's finished his joint, he most definitely needed that to be Gamzee.

As more and more smokes are taken in, he saw and felt the world's head turn to him and smile like it should always smile in his mind; Hey there long best friend. He heard in the back end of his head.

Hell, good riddance. This was Gamzee Makara. He needed this in his mind.

It wasn't after another ten minutes for him to be done with the smoke. He got up from his bed with an elongating smile forming upon his face, and threw away the remains of the joint.

Now as Gamzee Makara he should visit his happy town of miracles and colors. Like it always should be.