Friday night and I'm lonely. In the grand scheme of things, being alone seems slightly preferable to being around people, who make me feel even more self-loathing, insecurity, and dysphoria. I catch a few bars of some Barry Manilow co-dependent love song at the corner store and tap into this well of sadness about not getting what I want from her. That melancholy ache is so familiar, from childhood. Always havin' crushes on girls & not being able to do anything about it.
I used to read Heinrich Böll novels just for the parts where he wrote about clothing and food. A wool sweater. Cutting a sausage with a knife. Drinking coffee with cream. I'm sitting here eating Swiss cheese and strawberries in the dark, and trying to stop thinking about her.