I want to write sh-t but I don’t want to write like sh-t, you know what I mean? You probably don’t or maybe you do and you’re one of the cursed ones, too, like Plath and Hemingway and me, damn it, me! My condolences if you relate. There are infinite affairs I could write about—how my (allegedly) human mind brims, overflows, tsunamis over and I drown in it!— but lately anything with real potential spills out and seeps into the carpet of my bedroom floor. Someone pass the stain remover! Or don’t. Today I turned to Google like other people turn to God and asked the age-old question: WHY AM I SO LONELY? I fed my brain with juicy tender nuggets of half-truths and full-truths and maybe-truths, chewing and swallowing questionable articles and garbage opinion pieces with titles like Only Stupid People Have Lots of Friends and The curse of genius, within which I discovered that Albert Einstein, whose brain has been portioned into forty-six separate pieces and was, at one point, actually preserved in alcohol-filled mason jars by the weird dude who performed his autopsy, (isn’t that kinda dope?) ANYWAY! I’m trailing off… that Einstein said himself: “It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so universally lonely.” I thought, I feel you, man, except I don’t, not entirely, because I am no world-famous theoretical physicist, just a little try-hard poet writhing in the hometown she hates. But the good Lord knows I am universally lonely— so actually, Al, Bertie? You like that better? I changed my mind. I really do f-cking feel you. Back to the heart (or the brain— get it? No?) of the matter: I want to write about my universal, cosmic, extraterrestrial loneliness without turning this page into one fat pity party, the only kind of party I’m capable of throwing. But I can’t. I can’t and you know this because you’re reading this chain of unconsciousness with a level of concern dependent on how much you think you love me. This is my pity party. I’m Einstein’s brain chopped up like a summer vegetable, marinating in potent liquid, peering out of Sylvia’s bell jar. Don’t tap the glass. Or do. Maybe it’ll make me laugh.

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