This is the closest I get to writing about something normal. But still treat it as fiction yah?

~~~ Enjoy (or not)

Everyday you come to the same place I do.  And every day I read your words.  But lately it seems like you are trying to say something.  Something which you hide behind good humour.  Are you the only one who finds it funny?

It's these little hints that draw me to you.  I want to know if you are like me?  Perhaps we have something in common.  But despite all these codes, these barely cloaked meanings, I am still undecided.  Reluctant to ask you for the truth.  Reluctant to be told it was something imagined.  Reluctant to be told that I am a weirdo.  Reluctant for anyone else to find out. 

But still, why would someone joke like that?

I wonder if you have ever seen the pink flesh beneath your skin.  If you smell of blood.  Does the smell make you sick to your stomach?  If you really have tried that with the lemon juice.  If you really do use that brand of razor blades you mentioned.

But I'll never find out.

I'll never ask.

It would be inappropriate in this polite society to be so presumptuous.  And you are older than me, so I can offer you no comfort.  I have nothing more than the ramblings of a bratty teenager to hand.  I have no wisdom or insight to lend you.  I know that meeting others only serves as a reminder of how completely different and alone we all are.  How we can never help each other.

But it passes.

You are 'normal' again.

And I couldn't pick you out of the crowd if I tried.