{i originally wrote this about 3 years ago. its a reader's digest version of a much sadder essay. I know i should stay true to form, and not betray the "craft" by holding back but i am weary of being too personal- exposing too much of my private self. I'm sorry, but I left in all the good stuff. i promise. Besides, i gots me a classy fella who's made a respectable woman out of me, and i cant just display my intimates for all to see, that would be very unbecoming of a lady. Not to mention disrespectful to my gentleman friend. Enjoy.}
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I tried to make the fact that I did not leave my apartment for the greater part of nine days for more than an hour at a time; with human contact ranging from little to none, a little more digestible by going out and trying to be a part of society. What a disaster. I don’t know why I still try. I thought I was lonely, but the strangeness of that place, last night, today, those people, this world, leaves me dizzy and more self-loathing and narcissistic than ever.
Never a feeling more enveloping than failure existed.
I have given up on working people over to liking me. It is much easier getting them to hate me in those limited first impression fleeting moments. It is less effort on my part and more genuinely emotional on theirs. Their disdain for me is much more passionate than any warm fuzzy feelings of lukewarm (like) they could ever possibly muster up in a million lifetimes of first impressions.
It was always at the mercy of dissolving, like a tablet of Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water. Fizzy fizzing, fading, till the bubbles all but cease to surface. And all that is left is a glass of flat acrid water with a thick film of residue where substance once was.
***
“…and I always thought cats were for losers that lived in apartments…”- Homer
