Knowing I will remain alone the rest of my life, giving up any last hope…

I don’t want to be that person.

I really don’t.

But there is only me left here, left to fend for myself, sitting in a cafe by myself, not interested in talking to anyone else because I’d have to turn on the chameleon, the people pleaser, suppress the contrarian until the conversation was over.

My dear, dear friend, I am broken for life, incapable of letting you in, trapped in a pretend marriage that both makes me want to kill myself and keeps me from doing so.

I have wanted you in every way that this brutish male body is prone to do but only know how to treat you as my genderless equal.

I’m pretty sure you don’t read this blog so you don’t even know I’m writing and thinking about you.

That’s okay.

I’m not sure you really exist.

At the beginning of summer I gave up any hope of escape from my marriage; rather, I decided to let my wife’s heterosexual, monogamous subculture beat me down one last time — it always won in the past, it might as well win now, too.

I’m borderline hopeless.

I think I have given up hope of living 400 more years, dying on Mars after pioneering multiple outposts and colonies there with you.

It’s not worth the effort to pretend anymore.

I am permanently despondent, food tasteless, politics uninteresting, state-of-the-art development lost in translation, stuck in a kind of retirement home limbo, waiting to die.

Boo hoo. Woe is me. Lol

Time to stare truly mindlessly into the void…virtual suicide.