Fuck my life

He’s steering his gray Porsche with one hand and puts his other hand in my lap. 

Is this ok? Do you like it when I touch you? Am I making you uncomfortable?

Of course not, I assure him. I really like it. It’s comforting. 

I try to keep down my nausea. He is the most disgusting, depressing person I have ever eaten dinner with. I would rather saw my own legs off with a dull instrument than fuck this ogre. His ex-wife must have had Down’s Syndrome to have married someone so simultaneously boring and repulsive. 

I will see you again soon, I hope? 

I stare into his dark, sad eyes. Sure thing. 

I hide in the lobby of an apartment building (that I don’t live in) for twenty minutes. The doorman looks at me warily. 


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