what have I become?

I can tell I’m ill, and most likely running a fever.  The unpleasant feeling you get when your nasal passages do their best to drain down the back of your throat, raw and painful and dry…it’s unmistakable.  Coupled with the headache and the chills, I have great confidence that tomorrow will be utterly miserable.

Virus playing host to a virus.  But I must have something it wants.

Isn’t that how it always is, though?  Or is it just an attempt to claim normalcy?  I don’t know.

What a wonderful caricature of intimacy.

Comparatively, I’m doing quite well.  Well above average.  In the 98th percentile, as usual.  As usual.  As usual.  Everything goes fantastically.  It’s all a competition and I’ll win in the end…endurance no one cares about until it ends.  Ends.  Ends.  Ends.  End transmission.  Letting go is too easy, where’s the challenge?  Teams need challenging goals.  

No matter what I say, no matter, it doesn’t matter.  This isn’t real.  I’m not real here.  I’m just a caricature of myself, an overblown cartoon, a figment of THEIR imagination, and who questions Them?  I don’t mean anything I put here, I’m fake.  I’m a fake.  This is all fake.  Every emotion, every though, an imitation of something I saw somewhere sometime.  Quelquefois.  I could go on forever and you would never understand.  "You don’t get me."  If I see through them, if I know, how can they not?  How can they not notice?  How can they not KNOW?  

I can ignore everything because nothing is real and none of this matters.  I am not real.  I am not real.  I am not real.  I am not real.  I can’t be because real people aren’t this…this…this goddamn fucking fictitious.  Who could believe this?  I’m a walking novel, a work in progress, a cheap novel hidden in a back store room. 

Pretty words written for the masses, no sense, no sense, sense isn’t cents and dollars…