Little Weirds

by Jenny Slate

So now there is not even anyone to dream about, and what an odd feeling. I don’t have the strength to put together the features of a fantasy face. I am heartbroken over no one, over having nobody to wish for, nobody to hope for. I am heartbroken, usually, over someone. Now I am heartbroken over no one.

I’m beginning to suspect that I swallowed a rollercoaster and it is lodged between my heart and my stuff.

I am told that I should try to date online. My reaction to this is that I want to walk away so forcefully that I don’t even pause to open the door, I just go through the wall. I will never ever go into the internet to look for anything that I feel that I really need, except for turtlenecks and sheets and candles, and even then I will do that in a very small circle of places that I know have exactly what I want.

All I want to do is disappear deeply into my own thing and you can decide whether or not to join but I’m pretty much going to enter my own vortex.