Whether or not everyone expects their first heartfelt “I love you,” to come out marking the same feeling in the atmosphere, I found that it grew oddly impossible to on one such as myself. For every time I came close to even falling I was snaked around someone else’s mind, and along with that they would go pale in my proximity and squeak out “I LOVE YOU!” Which if you consider squeaking and loud noise put together, you have some pretty bad nightmares for adolescent boys.

That, seven years ago I got be confident and egotistic, as I had grown quite mature early on and my voice never did have to falter as so. But I’m twenty and heir apparent to a major corporation. My father and his coworkers expect that during college I’ll become frisky and no woman can resist it. Currently I’m maxing out studies in exchange for a no sexual crossing, in which my roommate just shook his head and handed me a sheet of, “If you are banging someone, these are the ways to tell me:” list, in which he followed up with the most extreme cases of where I almost have no time to tell him, or times where a hooker (I assume) is being called up and used. Personally I have seen no signs on the counterpart’s usage of these rules, so I have the sneaking suspicion he’s not getting laid in a dorm room, if at all.

On the subject of my roommate, I happen to believe he is slightly over-ambitious in endeavors. For instance, his gang was trying to humiliate and defile this one man (fortunately I know not why). Well, they aimed high enough to tie him down to a tree and- perhaps I should say some undesirable liquids were coated on his body by morning. My roommate near escaped unscathed, and I imagine if the victim could have identified him as a fouler, he would have been exiled from the school, but he was under the title of only being a spectator. In any case, he was the leader in this distressing memory.

Now you know Marc, my slightly eccentric roommate and my political situation (slightly, or vaguely for the most part), but I can’t go in-depth, as nothing much else has happened between either and myself.

In the way of my love life, it really has been non-existent since the beginning of college. During that time good girls shed skins and booze overdoses rocketed, so I turned suit to drug usage to deplete all other vice temptations. At this moment I don’t know how many people know of my induced state secret, nor do I intend to expose myself to the world as a collapsible man without a needle.

All I can tell you is that I am in elation when I succumb to the toxins. In most cases I am staged blinded, but every other sense enhanced. Time is elongated for work, any seducer frustrated, and my body is pretty fit for a work out when all I eat is bare-minimum health soil.

Which is why in Business Managing class the unexpected went invisible. The class was always my danger, it was my weakness because it held so close in time to when the drugs began to wear off in early morning and I was hung-over and unbalanced for running to the class. Though sometimes I could escape it, and sometimes I couldn’t. What I thought would aid me never did, for with my horrible experiences with women I had gained a sense of intuition and knew when I was being watched. Yet with the heightened amount of needles (I had to proportion the due to make the demands) I imagine my face had lost some spark. I don’t smile anymore; it is true. During Thanksgiving last year I had found something funny and it hurt to laugh. I’m not what I once was.

So I expected the stalking to lighten, the suspicion to not be aroused in some pitiful dependency man. But she shadowed me, morphing in my mold. She was not what I thought or had seen. The woman had beady blue eyes dwarfed in dyed blood red hair, and the day I was hung-over she emerged, grinning like a jackal upon a prey. To not be coy, I must confess I thought she was a lampshade, and proceeded to tell her that.

“And the drugs make you look like a corpse.” She responded, except she sounded manly and deep when I first heard her.

So I took chance to examine her with going through her words in translucence and came upon her body. She was garbed in a huge sweatshirt and sweatpants. I skimmed the anatomy and remarked, “At least I look my gender. In any case, I’d like to know whether or not you’re in drag or a transvestite.”

“Which technically doesn’t matter to you where a certain document is concerned.”

No one can imagine how lurid everything seemed at that point, I was jolted for a moment and in relief I found words, “If you know that much than you’re not bad as a stalker. Too bad stalkers don’t get the best of pay. Or are you a detective?”

“If you’re so clever, I imagine you can use deduction to see through; or perhaps you’re too inebriated? I’d so hate for you to forget this meeting.” Then, flashing another grin, she folded her arms and leaned against a wall.

“Frankly, knowing my habits I would have expected you to see through my state and know my time clock. Don’t you stay by my window spying on the potency of my drugs?”

“You changed your dosage,” she murmured in the faintest of voices.

“Or do you even know how responsive I am to details? I don’t keep a grade average by paying someone!”

“Not in this class. And I don’t spy on you,” the voice was oddly calm, but a squeak seemed to clamor.

Class began, and we diverged paths to different seats. Nearly awake, I held onto my professor’s lecture without looking to where the stranger had lain down a seat. I didn’t want to know. I wouldn’t be affected, even though I was already numb.