/lit/ - Literature

>>10715088
What you’re doing is kind of fucked up but I think you yourself might just be very sensitive and in need of nurturing. Either that or you’re shallow, and afraid they’ll see how little of you there really is.
I had a roomie in college who did what you do. Very handsome, beautifully built, great voice. All these girls would hang out in our room like cats behind a supermarket. Eventually he would choose one, but never let it get further than holding, so this poor girl would spoon him all night while he supped on her longing with some invisible psychic proboscis. After a while he would switch them out, like spiritual batteries.
He wanted to be a writer, and would to this end spend Friday nights locked into his desk, sucking down rum and Adderall at an astounding rate. In between periods of blinking and staring fixedly at the wall, he would chip away at some unseen manuscript that never made the rounds.
He asked me to rate his prose one time and it turned out he was kind of a shitty writer. I refused to read any more of it because I liked him as a person and didn’t want to think of him in a negative light.
The last time I saw him I was feeding corn chips to a squirrel while a cloud of departing students wafted out of a lecture hall in front of me. He was one of them, but he broke, disappearing into the start of a small forest atop an outcropping of rock. When I looked down I saw I was out of chips, and when I looked back he was gone. The squirrel made an angry chittering noise and then it was gone, too.
I was lying next to a girl from my film lecture some six months later when I wondered aloud what had become of him. She laughed as she told me that he’d left school, to become a Buddhist monk.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I stared at the ceiling fan until my body began calling for a cigarette.