And somewhere in this fucked-up clump of lobes and sensors clumped under my scalp, I’d like to selfishly hypothesize that when you told my roommate about the girl you liked, it was that you cared for this dismal hollow thing clicking away at a keyboard, but I’d hate to let you meet these oozing thoughts and beating sentiments, sickly contained little things that make me want to vomit with the ideas of romance whenever you ask me those words, damn rhetorical questions, did you finish that paper, and I just internally fume, you don’t understand the sickening process of elimination I’ve gone through to try and scientifically conclude who she is, but every time my roommate shakes her head no I can’t tell you, whatever ounce of soul is left in this glamorous frame slides up my throat, like maybe one of these days, it’ll just spew down the bathroom stall on a bad Friday night and I’ll be entirely hollow at last– a scientifically operating heap of sensors and veins and guts and transmitters.


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