How could I fucking do that? How? I'm numb. I'm like a wall of ice. I'm shattered, I'm hard, I'm slick glass and I'm either broken or whole and unfeeling. How could I do that? Fucking A!

I did it again. I asked someone out and he didn't like me. Because they never do, because that's the way it goes. This is not out of self pity. This is fact -- scientific evidence observed from experience. Of course I can't expect you to sympathize, my audience -- to you I'm that eccentric guy who writes, in my delirium, antiquated prose worth nothing more than ridicule. I myself am an object of curiosity and ridicule -- worth a wise-crack comment on the board sometimes, sent anonymously, occassionally hurtful but more often just obscure enough so that I'm not in on the joke. And what is the joke?

My life! My life is the joke! The fact that I have asked out at least three or four people this semester, all in my bumbling, graceless, awkward way, and all of them have rejected me. Just like the girls. I'm not attractive at all. Maybe physically, I'm worth a fuck. At least more than most people. Well the hell if that doesn't change. Someday I'll be old and fat and ugly, and then I'll have nothing except my brain. My fat, voluptuous, fucking brain. My brain is overweight -- I need to go on a mental diet. All this lounging, reading, I didn't know I wasn't making my brain fit at all, I've been gorging it. I hate myself! I hate myself! I hate myself!

Why do I ask out people that don't like me? Because NO ONE, NO ONE, fucking ever no one asks me out. And you know why? Because I'm completely unattractive. I'm an object worthy only of pity (and an occasional fuck -- unsatisfying because I never have sex with anyone...I'm then in that case one of those pretty boys who just looks beautiful and is a bad fuck). I'm that man you see in the movie who has the curiously obtuse face, very angular, granite-like features, and he's a complete jerk through the movie. Then, suddenly, he has this moment of truth with the young and attractive hero who's on his way up in the world. And the young attractive hero extracts from him feelings of pain and worthlessness. The audience zooms into his stony face and we see a tear trickling down his cheek, a tear as lonely and singular on the roughness of his face as he is sitting perched on this rock we call Earth. And then we feel for him. We pity him. Now mind, we don't particularly like him. We still don't want to hold his hand or become apart of his life in any significant way. In effect, we've murdered him, because he's surrendured his cold facade but he is unwilling to join the whole world; his worldview simply has been exposed for what it is -- something insignificant and obsolete.

"Why don't you come into the world of the living?" "Because I don't want to be weak like you!" And I don't. I want to write my great prose and poetry and be a fucking immortal and leave you all in the dust. This is the truth: I hate you all because all of you hate me. Because none of you will have me. Because none of you will want me. Because I'm like that Victorian kid looking in the window at the sweet-shop, and it's cold and no one will let him in. Or you know when someone is socially awkward or you see a beggar and you feel sorry for him but you don't want to particularly sacrifice what you've got going to help him? Well that's me too.

If I could only reach out and touch someone...in whatever fucking way you well please. But I can't. I'm here alone in my little glass tower. All alone.

And don't worry. I'm not fucking going anywhere.

And if you're going to say, "I really pity you for the way you see things," then save your breath. I'm doing enough pitying for the both of us. Although it's strange. I feel right now kind've in that state of shock -- you know, when you feel as if you hardly even exist and you're surprised that your life isn't a dream.