Thought I should share some cuts, excerpts that don’t make the mustard or whatever:
I’m a faker, you see. Everything about me is a lie. Every story is embellished, every opinion is someone else’s simply modified. I’m a fraud who is desperately trying to be something real. I’m a person to whom self-esteem is optional. I can pretend. It’s all I ever do. The amazing thing is that in my fabrication of literally everything I do, say and am, I’ve begun to believe my own constructs of reality. I’m pretending, yes, but I sort of stopped realizing it.
I apologize for writing to you as if you were a complete idiot. I really am, no sarcasm. I’m an emotional arsonist, I set fires to distract and deflect from my own emotional shortcomings. In this case, I’m setting fire to you. What’s really going on is that I’m begging you to read my story. I’m afraid if you don’t read it, I will disappear into oblivion and leave nothing there for the ages. I’m afraid if this isn’t printed, no one will ever know about me or the person I pretend to be. I’m afraid that my life is meaningless.
It feels like it is. But that might just be a chemical imbalance. Tomorrow I might be feeling different. It’s hard to pick out your outfits in advance. It’s hard to know whether you’ll be going to the party or applying by the deadline. Everything changes so rapidly inside my head. I’m like the ending chapters of American Pyscho, without the flesh eating and decapitation, the title character becoming, being ever more unhinged.
Everyday I wonder whether today is going to be the day that I just collapse into myself like a dying star.