how is that? “what?” you’ve no chance of meeting a celebrity—why do you think you’ll meet me? i’m virtually a celebrity. “I don’t think that.” Glad you’re out of reach, honestly. my papers will never be read; i have to jump through too many hoops. That was intoned for Alex.
Mr. Speaker: greetings. i’ll stick with my comeuppance. I was dead to her, basically. That precludes, then, that she’s dead to me—i can only hope to communicate with her spirit, which, in my head, is probably a superposition of Alex and some other woman that produces a whole new vector space. that was sad
“It is sad—i don’t know who i’m doing this for.” We can be friends if you want. It’s up to you. i didn’t have any friends, and she had a distinctive voice that i’d been using to talk to a person in the future, so i agreed. but that seemed too good to be true, too. I needed some kind of affirming status to even be her friend. But enough people liked my paintings and my poetry that it wouldn’t be too off beat to say that, in the spirit world, at least, we could be equals.
if that’s what you want. Maybe I was misinterpreting her statement that she’d stick with her comeuppance. She might’ve meant the emotional feedback she was going to get whenever a breakup proved inevitable. That would be a comeuppance. I think it’s more likely that her boyfriend was the ground—essentially, then, the realist, the guy that keeps her grounded—somebody that she needed.
but what about my needs? (But me asking about my needs when I was well provided for was like a white, blond haired, blue eyed woman demanding that white, blond haired, blue eyed woman be celebrated. She was sick and tired, that is, of nobody celebrating her—despite her diminished intelligence and her racist attitude. Real white, blond haired, blue eyed woman are rare—and, because of that, they were already celebrated. They were everybody’s type already—now this woman wanted to push out the competition—which were exceedingly beautiful to some, unlike this particular woman who was tooting her own horn).
“Do what you want,” I said. I always knew he’d cheat. Maybe I’d been coming at this all wrong: maybe her live-in lover wanted someone that paid more attention to him, despite Alex’s status. A guy can dream. But this is exactly what I’m talking about. This woman and I are dead to each other—we exist in a spirit world (as friends) precisely because of that. If we knew each other, she’d transform into something else—such as AOC—which would’ve been great, don’t get me wrong, but I was longing to or for or from a physical relationship. Why did everything have to exist in my head—unless my risperidone wasn’t working as well as it used to—I considered that as a possibility, but, even if Alex were dead to me, I was as happiest as I’d ever been.
When you start out (at anything) you think you’ll be noticed by other people—when, in reality, you’re a drop in the ocean; you realize, soon enough (no matter how you try to argue with yourself) that if you’re going to continue, you must do it in such a way that recognition can be hoped for—but never expected. Maybe you can expect a little, over time, but nothing like what you imagine when you’re starting out on something.
Rejection? You want to talk about rejection? But I didn’t mean rejection so much as I meant getting real. Real people don’t waste their time on something unattainable. They find someone else, or, if they’re like me, they have self-respect, and they look after themselves, both physically and mentally. “You say you’ve waited tables before,” AOC said.
i can’t put up with this shit for another three and a half years. (Me). ”Don’t discredit me!” (AOC). So who was me? If by me she meant everything that i vetoed (about myself) then yes: AOC was saying, don’t discredit this woman, me. But AOC might’ve also meant: Don’t discredit Alex. I had no intention of doing that—but I was still a little angry that I was in this situation—permanently separated (physically) from the most important (viable) women in my life.