Here's a wild idea to stop half the town pitying you, since that apparently sends you into an apopleptic rage that no human is going to understand: don't tell people your sad life story. Don't even hint at it. We're programmed to care and show it, and it's kind of shitty from our POV to throw that back in our face.
Now, c'mon. It's through here.
[ In the office, dusty and dirty as it is, he pulls forward a desk of drawers to reveal a hole kicked through the brickwork, big enough for Jason on all fours and certainly for Karkat. To prove it isn't a trap, he crawls through to the other side where a space a little bigger than a sizeable storage closet is hidden; a small wooden box contains three wafer bars and two packets of chips, all wrapped in sealed plastic bags. Rolled up on a dry floor of torn-out pages from books and cardboard boxes are a couple of blankets and deflated pillows. A torch sits atop the meagre pile.
The missing handle from the old desk-of-drawers has been attached to its rear panel, allowing it to be dragged back into place to complete the illusion of a secret den. ]
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Now, c'mon. It's through here.
[ In the office, dusty and dirty as it is, he pulls forward a desk of drawers to reveal a hole kicked through the brickwork, big enough for Jason on all fours and certainly for Karkat. To prove it isn't a trap, he crawls through to the other side where a space a little bigger than a sizeable storage closet is hidden; a small wooden box contains three wafer bars and two packets of chips, all wrapped in sealed plastic bags. Rolled up on a dry floor of torn-out pages from books and cardboard boxes are a couple of blankets and deflated pillows. A torch sits atop the meagre pile.
The missing handle from the old desk-of-drawers has been attached to its rear panel, allowing it to be dragged back into place to complete the illusion of a secret den. ]