/lit/ - Literature

I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. All I want in life is to be reciprocated by a beautiful woman. Yes, I'm shallow. Yes, I've never once known or felt any sort of affection from anyone. Yes, I'll die alone. To be held in the thoughts and heart of a beautiful woman unlike no other blessed by God. God, Imagine that. To hold her in my egregiously pathetic spindly arms. I'd snap her like a twig from all the years of unresolved tensions and turmoil and feelings of neglect and the bitter batterings endured from a lifetime of duress. An angel in the form of all my sick demented fantasies. The scent of her hair, immaculately kept, the assortment of scented soaps and shampoos painstakingly curated over the better half of a decade of trial and error at the local pharmacy, her eyes trained on my every expression, my every thought, aching to enter the desolation of my inner world, her needing and wanting and unabated by the unremarkable maltreated dog of an outer shell that is the sterile wallpaper of my transient form, my meat and organs half dead half yet alive mistake of nature. God, I'm ugly, but she hasn't yet seemed to find out. Her half blank, half dead, stilted, achingly, borderline retarded, incommunicable expression, the finer features of her face and complexion, the proportions and amounts of the different characteristics and perplexities ebbing and flowing like a serene pool of water or the exoneration of a tortured man, I am freed by her. Her exposed, feeble neck and wanting clavicles, her impeccable sense of style, her very way of being. Her stupid uninsightful pitiable commentary on the painfully unimpressive nothingness of her world, so thoroughly detached from my own in every possible way. Her voice that melts the iron bars, simultaneously crying and singing at the state of my existence, at the delight of my being with someone like her, that I would give her the time of day. She knows she's not all that smart. She knows she's not all that interesting. She knows she's not funny, or strong, or talented, or all that good at holding a conversation. Her every word, her every thought crawls out of a Venusian torrential asylum of hedonic estrogen, and hormones, and late night television, and pop culture references, yet beneath it all she knows there is someone not so different from myself inside herself. We see this in each other. The curvature of her every dimension, vulgar and unrepressed, physically obscene, like bipedal pornography. The mere sight of her after a long day. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care. All I want in life is to be reciprocated by a beautiful woman. Yes, it's not so bad to be alone in this world. Yes, it's not so bad to strengthen the intellect, to make a sport of the mind, to acquire affluence, to attain a degree of competency in a variety of fields commendable and trite, to sail across the world, to conquer the inner demons, and so on. I don't care. Show me your boobs.