February 20, Year 20

I am disappearing, at 107 pounds. It was a task to get attention before, but now, it is near impossible. If I get tap dancing shoes, and create enough noise to stir the demons into a trance, someone might glance in my direction. But no, in truth, I loathe the idea of having to entertain someone, so that they will stay by my side. I have run out of things to say, and am not on the search for new material that might liven up my conversation. But really, oh really, I loathe the idea of anyone existing but me.

What have I done with my life and why have I done it? I haven’t the time to figure that out. I have time, to be sure, just not for a subject matter that will only further depress me, and aren’t I far enough in, to find myself lost?

I telephoned Robert again. And, again, he refused my call, so that I was directed to his voicemail. It seems I have a more significant relationship with a cold device, than I ever did with him. Like every other time I have allowed for sentimentalism to get the best of me, I feel a disappointment with myself, that is becoming difficult to wholly forgive. While this isn’t the greatest crime ever committed, it is an injury against dignity, that damaged its shape long ago. I think that I miss the person who was my best friend, but it is more accurate to describe him, as my greatest enemy. He was constant company, who left me with unfulfilled desires.

February 20, Year 20

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