With Moderate Success

“He clearly likes you, so go on lame dates and eat each other’s hearts out until the day you die.”

“I don’t want to, and I like him so much. It’s so pathetic to like someone this much. And if he tells me he likes me I will either die or kill him in the process.”

“What is the great tragedy here? Enlighten me.”

“I’m a mystery. That’s how I’ve always been to people. And it’s great because they get to play out all these possibilities about me that are crazier and much more fun to think about than who I actually am. But at what cost? I enjoy making people guess so much that it has become my greatest fear to have them figure out the real me; that I’m such a terrific bore it makes me want to blow my brains out on a daily basis; that an eventful day for me sometimes involves getting just the right amount of milk on my tea; and that I will never be not writing not because I love it so much, but because if I’m not writing, I won’t know who I am, and that terrifies the fuck out of me. So I’m not really a mystery at all. I’m just a really sad excuse of a person who somehow manages her own madness with moderate success.”

“Wow. You are one fucked up girl.”

“I know. Try living inside my head. You will kill yourself in an hour. And see, he doesn’t even need to do anything with or to me. That’s always been my problem, I fall in love with words far too often and too much. Those who say actions speak louder than words have never read poetry. And he’s a fucking poet, if anything. He tells me to have a great day and I convulse in painful delight, and it’s annoying, because I will spend my day trying to live up to that exact greatness that he wished upon my day. So imagine what I’ll be if he tells me he likes me.”

“So, no dates then.”

“No. No dates. No anything.”


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