There is something eerily superficial about these women with alien eyes wide apart in their faces. Of course not when they are underage. And ‘sweetheart’. It sounds strange. So many things feel removed now. Before they were happy to be objects that I need not have worried about. And now there’s a necessity to engage. To watch what’s going on outside my head and decide whether or not I like it. I’m not sure. Like and dislike seem incorrect. Where do they stem from? Why did someone decide to discriminate? Why must I choose or involve myself, or at least my head? My body does the involving by itself. Useful, that. But I suppose false, also. Ah, false, old friend, come back and row with me. I am so tired of extreme intensity masquerading as the dreaded word to end all words. I can feel the souls around me plotting to drop another bomb, to lift my slightly bruised bone marrow and force it into another gap in the rock. The paranoia is unhealthy but the result even more so. I’d love to, really I would. But never again. I seem to have an uncanny ability to make holes in my clothes these days, with my fingers. As usual, they seem to know what they are doing. Perhaps I will try to occupy my own body instead. Open it up, lend it some time and give it a pat on the back for getting a B grade in general, I’d say. Of course that’s a failure at school. But of late I have overeaten.