I have carefully created an empty life, devoid of deep connections. I float from one hedonistic experience to the next, drugged and sexed to general contentment, but when the sharp pain of loneliness strikes spontaneously like some terrible toothache, I realize there is no one for me to turn to, that I am alone and miserable.
I do this to myself. I’m a charming man, easy to fall for but just barely, fleetingly. It becomes clear to women that I am dangerous. I am too critical of everything and everyone, myself included. The future will only bring pain, my compulsions slowly wearing down your insecurities.
My friendships are as shallow as my sexual interests. My social life is a collection of cobbled together advertisements, consumerist experiences that end in 30 seconds. Every plan I make is dashed, each summer full of cancelled reunions. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a meaningful conversation.