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.

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February 20, Year 20

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