I don't even think there is a "real me" to speak of. You'll never find some secret core of me that I'm hiding. I mean, I hide everything. But what's underneath it isn't a person. I don't have a personality you can trace with logic, any mannerisms you can imitate. Sometimes I even think that if you were to try and touch me your hand would go right through. I mean, metaphorically that is what happens. Because there's nothing to hang on to. No emotions to move, no love to test. I don't know how to make that clear to you. I'm not truly capable of loving anyone, and I don't care enough to be selfish. I just go through the motions of being human. I'm supposed to care about how I look, about work, friends, partying – so I do it. I get up, I go to work, I get drunk – and it's all empty. Meaningless. I'm yet to find something that makes me feel like there isn't a layer of fog between me and everything else. Except for maybe drinking, but only because it makes sense to feel disconnected, you're supposed to.

I guess you kind of get used to it. [...] No, it's not sad. It's all I've known. So just stop your analyzing and your questions- you'll never find anything worth caring about, or knowing. Go find yourself some neurotic child of divorce and help them. They need it. I don't need your fucking insight, thanks.