DRIFTING

They tell me I'm supposed to be unique on here. I'm supposed to have this special voice. A writer's voice. The fuck does that even mean?

I'm not unique. I'm not abnormal. I'm not a fucking abnormality. I'm the average modern millennial fucktard.

I am alone. Self-imposed, self-imprisoned... in my own head. It's fucked up there, in my rat race corn maze.

Last week, I walked into a Lover's for the first time in my life, and I was startled by what I found - it was a department store not dissimilar to an Old Navy, but instead of khaki shorts and polo shirts, there were sex toys and lingerie. The store's employees, to be sure, must have seen plenty of people like me - 26 year old virgins - before. They were almost immune to me.

I bought a fake vagina - and it makes me feel good, but it's only made of rubber. It's just a tube of cyberskin with a fake vagina in it. I know it's rubber, and this fact somehow makes the experience less than entirely satisfying. It's always an empty high, because at the end of it, I have no one to share it with.

With a real human female, the experience would be more time consuming, and I'd have to spend several hours on foreplay before I ever got to the climax, but the climax - I'm assuming, as I've only ever been allowed to do the foreplay bit so far, would be better. So much better - not that I'd last any longer, but It would be a shared experience. Someone else - a real life human female - would be just as sweaty and salty and happy and ashamed as me.

Unfortunately, you can't have sex without emotions. I don't like those emotions.

"You're going to have a family one day," my female coworker, with a family of her own, says to me.

"No," I say.

"Yup. You are," she says, while ripping an old piece of aluminum foil off an hotel pan.

"Not a fucking chance," I say.

"Why?" she asks.

"I'm opposed to it. I'm set against it," I reply, dropping a bag of chicken fritter tenders into a vat of deep frying oil.

She furthered her irritating line of inquiry, and I changed the subject. I didn't give an answer. But you already know the reason, if you happen to be one of the three people in the world who actually read this blog without barfing - not including the IC.

Why? Because I'm immature. Not in the standard interpretation of the word- but in the dangerous definition of it. I make bad decisions, because something in my brain is different than everyone else's. I poorly manage my finances, I usually don't do things that I don't want to do, and I am an exceptionally terribly accountant of my own time management.

These are not the traits of a decent parent. These are not the traits of a decent cohabitant. These are not the traits of the H word.

I shove the drill bit further into my psyche.

The galaxy spins.

The universe unfolds.