I could love you from afar, and never get what I want. Or I could never love at all, and fuck all the time, which I guess has become more fulfilling. Rather than facing the failure of chasing something that I’ll never have, because I know I don’t deserve it, because I am not whole. I’d rather face the pain of chronic, rapid fire loneliness, with ensuing bits of sexual contact with empty nobodies whose faces melt into the background of my mind while I lie there and moan dutifully. I’d rather love no one forever than sit through life waiting for the moment when you lift this curtain of rejection. I’d rather reject everyone else. I’d rather inflict pain than receive pain. I’d rather be the culprit than the victim, and, with you, I will always be the victim. Of rejection. And, like I said, I’d much rather be the culprit, so I guess I should go through the methodical motions of forgetting, and read some new books on hurting on other people.