Because clearly I don't sleep.

I feel like deeply reflecting on past relationships. Let us listen to Drake. Okay, so the past couple of sexual encounters of mine have confirmed something about myself that I am slowly coming to fear. It's like when you find a dead body on the pavement and you keep prodding the body asking the person "Are you dead?" Knowing that it's already dead, it's long gone, but you still ask, because you don't really want to face the fact that it is dead. So these past sexual encounters, the first was utterly horrendous, so nonchalance was to be expected, but the depth of it still amazes me. I mean. It's one thing saying "I don't care". But to actually not care is a harrowing ordeal indeed. Because you don't care with such ease, it's like breathing. You fuck. You're done. No call back, no 'I wonder how he is'. Nothing. The whole ordeal is just so robotic, it's something you pride yourself on to be sure, but then you start to ask yourself...

How long will this last?

Not because you fear that you'll regress, and turn into some blubbering female, no, because you are terrified of the opposite. That you'll be this cold and apathetic for the rest. of. your. life. You can't possibly fathom that happening. Surely someone will come light the fire, bring the cadaver back to life. etc. etc.

But in the back of your mind there's this idea, this small seed planted in the deepest and most fertile ground of your subconscious. That grows over time, and starts dropping fruits of fact in your daily thought process. Facts so obvious, and so true and undeniable. But you close your eyes to it, and continue on, fuck again, this time you enjoy it a great deal more. The next day comes as does the apathy. Neither parties makes any move to further communication, and the action bring such peace to you, no baggage, it's brilliance. But only feeds the monster within. What if I do spend the rest of my life not caring? What if thousands of eternal hopeful's come and go? And I remain, content with myself? But would that be so bad? Eternal lovers, a deep warm family, and continuous freedom.

I say this and then the image of that cadaver on the street comes back to me, and I peer over it, and I prod. "Are you okay? Are you alive?"

By who's standard do I fashion my actions? Do I continue to wait for one of these boys to spark a fire of interest? Just continue? Go on? In essence what else could I do? I'm merely speculating at this point. The coldness of my nature worries me tis all. I see such warmth and pain around me, I sometimes wonder how and why I so easily escape it.

But as always. It is what it is.

But as your heart grows colder, the soft glow of romance all but disappears, so when they say "You intrigue me" You scoff instead of smile. When they say "It was like we were making love" You raise an eyebrow and think "Your sex life must be an utter bore" You discern the truth too easily, and everyone knows how swiftly truth can murder any sense of affection available. So now all the compliments, the possible foundation for lasting attachment are met with skepticism and annoyance. What is even the point? When everything just sounds so painfully ugly? As your generation falls deeper into decadent madness, as general intelligence wanes into nonexistence, less and less of them are worth it.

Pretty faces do nothing for you unless they're buried in between your legs.

I don't hurt for any of you. At times I want to. Just to remember what it felt like. To see why so many of my counterparts invest in it so. But I simply can't. There are no hard feelings. There are no feelings are all.

My vagina ate them.

My life is ruled by my brain. I think that's what it is. I'm not very emotional, I'm all thought, hardly any heart when it comes to sex. Or anything really. I'm all computation, no emotion.

Ice cold.

Well.

Here's hoping someone will change that when the time is right. After all. What else can you do?