Dead Inside

by Chandler Morrison

Tell me, at what age do people stop being so bothersome to you?” “They don’t,” I’d said.

for whatever reason, I am somewhat invested in her opinion of me. Yuck.

Society defines what’s good and what’s bad, and society doesn’t know the difference between its own anal-beaded asshole and its dick-sucking mouth. Fuck being a good person. I’m not a good person because I don’t give people enough time or acknowledgment to allow them to define me, one way or another. Labels fucking suck. Good people fucking suck.

I’m supposed to explain to her that neither of us needs to be a good person, or any kind of person. We just need to be who we are.

The living are dangerous. They inflict pain. They’re so fueled by greed, a lust for useless material shit, a smoldering desire to fit in . . . and they’ll hurt and betray and destroy whomever they must in order to get anywhere close to all of it.