Let me tell you the saddest story I know. There’s this girl sitting in her room, which has altogether too much blue in it and she doesn’t even like the color blue all that much. But she’s sitting there alone in her apartment, with a splinter in her finger from a fucking shish kebab she ate yesterday, just sitting there romanticizing suicide or death or something because that’s just what she does when she can’t think of any more ways to distract herself. Sometimes she sits in empty parking lots with people she used to know and they talk, talk about how there’s nothing to do, talk about boring things, talk talk talk to distract themselves from death with fake laughter and fake compliments and fake plans for next weekend. She writes the wrong date on her papers all the time and hates crossing streets and her walls still have nothing on them and probably never will because this girl, she doesn’t bother with borderline memories, particularly not the flat, digitally-edited kind, the kind that says “look at me, look at these people, see I’m not alone”. That’s the thing. She is dreadfully dreadfully alone, but she only fantasizes about death, probably won’t know what to do once she comes face to face with it. Maybe Death will want to talk or something, and that would be a disaster, a horrible disaster, because she never quite knows how to introduce herself. What to say, what to say? How to not sound too distant and aloof, yet not uncomfortably intimate? Oh she wouldn’t want to make a bad impression, what if Death finds her boring? She’d have to live forever, and that’d just be an unimaginable tragedy, because she can’t stand blue and she can’t stand splinters and she can’t stand alone anymore.
