A distinctive metallic taste in my mouth.

I don’t know whether to be enraged or defeated. Twenty-five years of rejection, another thirty, and then death? A variety of shitty consolation prizes? For every it wouldn’t work, for every I’m not ready, for every you’re a friend, for every sorry I just don’t think so, for every embarrassed shrug I want to throw a punch. Any 17 year old kid in town is ahead of me. I watch generations of friends age past me into stable happy lives and I burn. I’ve always been ugly and gawky and weird and now I’m old on top of it. Go ahead and twist that sneer of distaste into a concerned and friendly supportive smile. I am not fooled, even if you are. Go stick some pretty, well-adjusted boy between your legs if you want but don’t ask me for an avuncular smile; they’re all gone.

I always knew I was Nick Carraway, but I never expected to be Caliban.

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