people talk about their �types.� he�s not my type. he�s not tall enough, or he isn�t the captain of any sports team, or he has too quirky a sense of humor. i don�t have a type. types are too presumptuous. limiting myself to people who have the qualities i�m most attracted to would mean that i somehow think i deserve someone who has those qualities, and i don�t.

so one day i like someone. i don�t own him. cattiness is presumptuous, too. so i�m madly in infatuation and i haven�t felt like this is years and ohmygodiwanthim but he isn�t mine. so someone else is interested too. good for her. she has good taste. so he wants her too. good for them. they�ll make each other happy. they�re good people. they deserve to be happy. i�ll just� go find someone who isn�t the type i don�t have that I can go fuck, with hollow heart and mechanical mouth, saying words i don�t mean, sucking dick as though i wanted to, as the gears spin round and round, thoughtlessly, without conscious design or impetus. or i�ll sit here and write pointless prose with too many commas and obscure, half-logical metaphors, eating ice cream i can�t afford in terms of money or body weight, alone at last and hating it.

this, my friends, is opposite of apathy. furious desire for nothing in particular. my fingers crawl with it, but it seeps into nothing; the world outside my skin is no different for it. not even when my fingers crawl across this keyboard is it fully freed from the confines of my nervous system; it�s just synapse after synapse of nothing. and nothing doesn�t become something just because you�re trying to write about it.