It is n-ce to think of my life as a focus group. To become subject R in a series of double blind studies and focus groups. My off-putting loud voice and uneven eyes marked down in little categories arranged from 1-5. With one being repulsive and five endearingly attractive. I’d l-ke to believe that my racially ambiguous skin tone and subculture (ubiquitous hated word for which there is no less ubiquitous or less detested synonym.) knowledge would garner at least 4.7’s. My studio apartment in a horribly/wonderfully/confusingly/proto-gentrified ethnic neighborhood would both polarize to 1 and 5 and give three’s to those unfamiliar with urban living,
I keep refreshing my Gmail attempting to get some sort of contact from a world that I haven’t built in my head. I have 3,123 unread messages from various automated messaging systems around the globe and (3,126) I have no urge to lower the number because that requires me to relinquish my solipsism and w- -ld I really want to leave this loneliness behind.
I forgot that I had a landline but I do believe it’s ringing.
I’m not sure if anyone is interested in reading things that aren’t list based pop culture obsessed or riddled with drugs and sex. I’m not sure if I’m interested in writing anything that isn’t. Maybe, I could write t-p ten lists about Chloe Kardishian’s bowel movements. I wouldn’t crudely rank them by size or smell, that’s too played out. I’m going for feeling and inspiration yielded by each separate snowflakey piece.
Besides Kardashian feces, I’m interested in fear, specifically/generally/whateverevly the fear of being alone, together, existing or ceasing to ex-st. The things that we all think about, but hide; I want to marry you. Not a specific, you, vaguely masked by o-f beat descriptions of activities we’ve both enjoyed. You as in all of you that have entered my field of vision and provoked a brief feeling of sexual or emotional arousal, or all of you who have cause me to want those feelings to provoke.
I’m not interested in women. I’m not interested in men, either, to clarify. However, bullshit pseudo-psychological terms like asexual and pansexual make me queasy and upset in my h–d so let’s just say I’m detached. I can jerk off to/have sex with women. Half-heartedly at least. I’ll feign sexual interest for the five or so minutes it takes to make myself feel something. Endorphins and such that rush to my brain and tell me everything isn’t okay but it’s at least different. Endorphins that are quickly followed by toilet paper or w- -te- -r absorbs viscous liquid that smell of stale things.
I want to kill myself sometimes but it seems like a terrible way to end a story and I learned in school that death is an easy way to wrap things up but it’s lazy. Also, I’m mid conflict. Why would the protagonist die mid conflict, that is assuming I and not my dog or friend or feces (yes again) am the protagonist.