It started with Wikipedia and Web MD, didn't it? No one else would listen to you; no one else would help you. All you could do was make a new bastardized diagnosis when you realized that it was too early in the morning to be bothered with going to sleep.
You left home after bipolar disorder fell through, after Asperger's was ignored, after schizoid was brushed off. You left home but it didn't make you sad; at least, you were good at pretending that it didn't make you sad. After all, if you really are autistic and sociopathic and fucking insane, you wouldn't go around missing your boyhood home.
What was it like to leave home? It's not the same for everyone. You left home because you were a window in your house. A very clean window, the kind that birds fly into because they just can't tell if it's there or not. Like the glass door that the pretty girl who lived beside you ran into when you two were playing tag. You were six years old and her blood was all over the patio. She never came over again after that.
It made you sad, didn't it? But that was because you weren't sick and fucked up. So you were allowed to be sad up until you discovered Wikipedia and Web MD, because they told you that your brain wasn't capable of experiencing basic human emotions. And if that girl was sixteen instead of six, and if she'd ran into your glass door then, you wouldn't even get up from your computer to see what the noise was. That's the kind of person you turned into.
At least, that's what I'm guessing. You say an awful lot when you're drunk, and you say a lot more when you're sleepy. It's like a puzzle. The edge pieces are so easy to figure out. You're emaciated and your protruding collar bone makes me sick. You're a half-starved little faggot. You're a half-starved little faggot who doesn't even know he's a faggot. And that's my least favorite kind of faggot, honestly. The kind of faggot who leads people on and sits around on his ass and has no idea why his roommate is as horny as hell and back.
I wouldn't let you stay in my house if I wasn't fully aware of how much of a raging queer I actually am. And I don't think you would stay here if you were fully certain that you didn't think about my dick at least eighty percent of the time you spend taking up all of the space on my favorite couch and watching TV shows like the narrator of that really pretentious movie you like--- you just have that stupid, sick, sleepy look on your face, but you never sleep. Or eat. Or talk. Or move. And sometimes I'm convinced you're not breathing until I manage to get off my own lazy ass and touch you. But never too much.
I'm not quite willing to put myself through private moral backlash. No one else in our messed up neighborhood would give two shits if I fucked your brains out, and I think half of them expect that it's happening already. But I'd feel like a creep. Being eighteen doesn't make you an adult. You look like a kid. You doe-eyed, underfed piece of shit. And your voice is so high, too, I don't want to hear that. But, you know.
I guess I find myself thinking about it a lot, regardless of all that.
You always get confused when I bring things like this up; do you honestly think I just sit around and let you bitch and cry for the sake of bitching and crying? You think I don't listen to your little stories? About how some trophy wife found you sniffing around Starbucks and brought you home like you were a lost puppy? And then she held you down on her bed and told you that you were absolutely the most beautiful boy she had ever seen in her entire life, and what was your name? She wanted to know. And how much money did you want? She wanted to know. And you screamed and moaned the whole time.
And that's probably why you hate women so much now. I guess I can't hold that against you.
But I can hold everything else against you. You walk around with such a perfect face and those thighs that are as slender as a girl's and you don't think you're going to unleash all sorts of fucked up perversions and fetishes in just about everyone who sees you? It's your fault. It's your fault for being so goddamn ethereal and otherworldly. You're such a fucking cocksucker and I hate you for it.
When I save up enough money to send you to a shrink, I hope she tears you apart. And maybe she'll hold you down on the sofa and you'll bitch and moan, and then she'll finish taking from you what I have too much decency to take--- and then she'll adjust her skirt and talk about Freud. You'll get a shitload of medication and I hope you take it all at one time.
Because I'm sick of seeing your goddamn perfect face around my house.
Your epitaph will have to mention how you just walked around asking for it all the time. Or maybe it'll mention how you're better off dead because you'd forgotten what food tastes like and you didn't know how to appreciate a good fuck to save your life. Those are the only things in life that mean anything and you just didn't get it, that's what it will say.
Or maybe it'll mention how you're missed by no one. Except maybe that lonely queer whose bed you slept in every night and whose bathroom you jacked off in. Maybe that lonely queer misses you, but let it be known that you two never fucked. All that lonely queer could bring himself to do with you was sit up and read the criteria for being OCD to you, even after you'd gone to sleep. Because that's what you liked.
There are lots of things that your epitaph should say, but I can't think of who'd ever want to read it. No one cares about half-starved little faggots.
Hey wow okay so. Something slightly fucked up like this has been going through my head for a really long time and I have absolutely no idea why. Except for that I love writing twisted characters and weird relationships, and I think this is all as twisted and weird as my brain could get. Uhm. Yeah, gratuitous use of the word "faggot," which I never use irl, but I figured it worked for this. Because it is a truly hateful word. But yeah, just wanted to apologize for making you all have to read that hateful word so many times. Reviews are appreciated. Thanks!