As a child, when my parents were mad at me, I liked to imagine dying horribly in some tragic car crash, probably with some drunk driver who would get like 8 months of probation because I lived in Wisconsin. in my mind, my parents would weep with the regret that their last words to me were in anger. the rosy glasses of mourning would finally reveal to them that I was their perfect baby daughter all along and any anger towards me was wholly unjustified. I think, in part, this is because I subconsciously see myself as some sort of inhuman, evil entity, and I fear that everybody will be mad at me forever. In this case, a tragic and beautiful death may be the only redemption for my soul, and, perhaps more importantly, the image that I imagine others have of me. I have always felt not quite as human as the people around me seem to be. There has always been a gnawing emptiness in my chest cavity, behind my ribcage, where the full realization of a human in society should be. Where I should feel an innate understanding of my gender there is an emptiness that I fill with scraps I like, collected over time. Where I should feel an innate ability to communicate with my community, there is a wide pit which I have filled with video tapes of other children's conversations at recess. I think that other people around me can sense this emptiness, this ominous void, if not consciously then instinctually. I am uncanny, I am not quite right, I am not quite human. They laugh with me and say I have "a touch of the 'tism" to make me feel better, but I think they know as well as I do. In my soul there is a lurking oblivion that obscures some eldritch monster. And if I venture too far into the essence of my being, if I wade through that oblivion until time crumbles into dust and I lose my sense of direction, I'll find it. And I will gaze upon it, and I will go insane.
