The Right Write Rite

Maybe if I could sleep, I'd get what you meant by "I love you". But as it is, things are just too complicated now. You'd understand if you were me. But you're not, so I guess I'll have to explain it.

Y'know, things used to be different. I wasn't always like this. I never used to sell myself like I do now. I wasn't always a whore.

You don't have to sugar-coat it, I know what I fucking am. Every single day I'm surrounded by people using idiotic, elaborate euphemisms when all they mean is "prostitute". But you know what? I don't care. Really. I could not give less of a fuck. That was why I started this whole business, wasn't it?

They say I'm not motivated, but I am. I'm very motivated to do nothing at all.

I wish I cared about people. I've never quite figured out how anyone can possibly care about anyone else. I only care about people to the extent that I care what they think of me. Occasionally, I feel bad about this and try to compensate by doing something for someone else. I figure this probably isn't that healthy, but I do it anyway.

That's how I ended up doing what I do now. "Modelling". That's what they call it. I'm a name and a face that's all they know of me, that's all anyone knows of me and that is the way I like it. I don't have to do anything. I just have to stare expressionlessly out of the pages and look hot enough that some pathetic old geezer would want to buy the magazine and jerk off to me.

And you, you fell for that. You fell into lust through an airbrushed, glossy image in a magazine. Have you any idea how degrading that is for me?

The first time we met, you bought me a coffee and I drank it, and I don't even like coffee. You talked to me about books and I pretended I liked Bukowski just because you did, even though I've always thought he was an asshole and only pretentious hipster-types were into his stuff. And then you asked me out and I said yes.

How does that even work? You don't deserve me. I could have any other guy if I wanted. You have the worst temper, you laugh at your own godawful jokes and you have really messy hair and when it comes to literature, you think you're such a fucking connoisseur but you've never read a single Shakesperian sonnet.

But I said yes. And when you kissed me on the doorstep I kissed back. And I never said no to any of your dinners. And now you have said you love me, I can't stop thinking about it.

Am I crazy, or is it just one of those things?