I’ve got it all worked out in my head that I am going to write a short story. And when I write this short story, it’s going to take all of humanity, like a zip file I’ve had implanted in my brain, and it’s going to upload the entirety of its contents into yours and when that happens, everything is going to make sense. Every weird, subconscious nonsensical self deprecating strange and silly little thing that you do will make sense to me because I’ll remember that I, am you.
I have so many titles for my short story that I can’t decide what to call it. Maybe I’ll call it, Sometimes I Snort Things Because I Like the Burning Feeling In My Nose and I’m Not Sure If This Means I’m Depressed. Maybe I’ll form a title around the way I sometimes grab the fat on my stomach and squeeze it into a donut shape, thinking about the noises that fat makes when it slaps together in my head to make the situation even more disgusting. Sometimes it doesn’t disgust me. Sometimes I watch the mirror in nothing but fascination. Maybe I’ll call my story: I’ve Had An Eating Disorder Most Of My Life and Clinically I’m Not Fat But My Eyes Tell Me Otherwise. Maybe I only said that because I didn’t want you to think that I’m fat, because my words might not reach your ears in the same way, if you thought that.
Maybe I’ll call my story, You Keep Fucking Me Over and I Keep Coming Back, and I’m Not Sure if That Makes Me Mother Theresa or Just Another Idiot.
Sometimes I take pictures of myself laying with my head on the pillow, eyes closed. Then I look at those pictures and think of all the people whose bed I’ve ever shared, who woke up early or stayed up late and saw me looking that way. Then I wonder what those people felt, if they felt anything, when they watched me sleeping. Mostly I just think to myself that my cheek looks kind of squashed when I sleep like that.
I’ve taken pictures of myself when I’m crying, too. I wonder if it makes my tears less genuine, as soon as the lense comes out. Maybe that would be a good title for my story: How Fucked Up Am I If Almost Every Time I Cry, Halfway Through I Start Taking Pictures Because I Wonder If I’m One Of Those People Who Looks Pretty When They’re Crying? And I sit there with the camera trying to cry more prettily (I hate the word ‘prettily’ and resent it for being grammatically correct in this sentence).
Maybe I should call my story: I Just Snorted A Bizarre Assortment of Three Different Drugs and Now I Feel A Bit Jittery, But I’ve Quit Smoking Cigarettes and I’m Trying To Quit You So Now All I Have Left Is This Laptop.
The grass is dead here. It never used to be.
Who am I kidding, I’ll never write a story.