East Avenue

I’m not a freak. Caring is not an advantage, especially in this case. Margaret knows me, I know me. Not normal, maybe, perhaps I was on the borderline of something far worse but I wasn’t there yet and that’s what matters. It’s not my fault that finding imperfections comes second nature to me. She’s upset because no one thinks about her as anything more than a group of atoms with unappealing bone structure. No one goes out of there way for her, or stays up late at night with thoughts of spending time with the perfect girl and her pretty smile. I don’t understand why she wants that so badly. There’s something wrong with me, this conclusion’s been reached before and not just by me. Everything is ugly, everything is repulsive and it’s always hard to breathe and to find the will to move when there’s something uninteresting around. I don’t make sense. I’ve never thought about it in this way, it has become the normalcy for me for so long that everything comes together in the end. Doesn’t everyone worry about their brain being muddied with misinformation about people and places and facts that don’t matter?

Joey would know, he’s not complicated like Margaret is. He’ll be honest. He will be whether he wants to or not, and that’s the best part about us. We lack bullshit.

Caring about someone is a funny thing.