I like to think my neurosis is unique, but it is basic self-flagellation; a constant barrage of whips at my back that talk like me, mimic my inflection with each insult. You’re no good is the simplest essence of these thoughts, but they use colorful and flowery language to flaunt their return each day. This is complicated by my incessant narcissistic paranoia that I am being watched and I am also unlovable and worthless while I am being watched. A spectacle in her aquarium; the siren that dances, the siren that lives in an oblivious state of self-fulfilling torture by maintaining her tiny stage and inviting the men who secretly hate her to watch. This is the human condition, someone once told me on a walk. They weren’t listening. I am sharp.
“I’d rather be dead,” I said.