The Chosen One

The letter that this person right here, the one whose every word you are drinking up right now, the letter she uses more often than any other is "i". The reason for this is partly, she writes her name a million times a day, and that letter appears three times in her first and last name. Mostly though, it's because she writes about nothing else in this world but herself. As if her own brain is so fascinating that not only does she live in it but she forces you to submerged in it and only it anytime you read something she wrote. She's pretty pretentious. She wrote once that if she could write poetry, she'd write one titled "Ode to Me" because she's the most important person there is. That's what she thought anyway. Then some little smart person will come along and show her how very wrong she is.

Don't know what she thinks about something? Don't worry, she'll tell you. It doesn't matter if you care or not. She doesn't care about that. All she cares is that it gets out there, anything she thinks about. Why does she want you to know what she thinks anyway? It's silly in a way because you don't care. Not really. She probably knows that you don't care, but she keeps on doing it. She's shot down so many times that it's a wonder that she hasn't given up yet. It's probably her idiocy. It's definitely not her ignorance. She knows that no one cares. What scares her sometimes is that perhaps no one will ever care.

We all need to band together and comfort her. Tell her that there WILL be someone. There absolutely has to be someone. Big old world, all those people, there has to be at least one that will care. What would convince her more than anything else is if you actually become one that cares. It's sad, everyone will agree, that even though she's so old for imaginary friends… she comforts herself with them. They care. Unfortunately though, no matter how hard she pretends to believe in them and to love them, they're just manifestations of her imagination. They're not real. She's not crazy; she knows they're not real. It's just that she doesn't really have anyone else. But despite the refinement that months at a time of the same imaginary people can give them, she knows that really, they're just extensions of herself. She's so sick of herself. She wants someone else out there to understand her. She's tired of sitting there in her mind, lonely, sad, exhausted.

It doesn't count as not using the word "I" if all I do is write in third person. I know that. I'm not freaking stupid. Jeez. I tried, although not very hard. Here's a better attempt. I'm going to write about paper clips…

There is this short story by O'Henry in which that crazy little man wrote about the conversation between bills in a wallet. There was a twenty, a ten, and a one. They were talking about their respective adventures. The problem there is with giving inanimate objects life is that sometimes, one's mind runs away. If you said a liver could talk, then what if you cut a piece of the liver off? Can that piece talk? And a glass of water, if the whole thing can talk and has life, does every single drop also have those qualities? This idea has always bothered me, and that's why I'm more comfortable reading and writing about animals or humans that can talk and move rather than inanimate objects. It's just harder for me to write seriously about stupid little office supplies or something. It would be difficult to write the life story of a paper clip, for example.