Dead Inside

by Chandler Morrison

I hate dealing with women. They can’t be up front about anything. Amend that. I hate dealing with people. They can’t be up front about anything. Please don’t confuse my misanthropy for misogyny.

Not right, though? That sounds about right. By conventional definitions of the word, at least, and convention has always irked me just enough to shy away from it whenever possible. You can’t put a label on me. You wouldn’t want to.

There is no greater tragedy than beauty needlessly wasted.

People rarely attempt to engage me. Maybe it’s because everyone is busy, but it’s probably because of my general demeanor, which in the past and present has been described as “unapproachable” and “creepy”.

And even with your fucked-up face—especially with your fucked-up face—you’ll still be beautiful to me.”

We are who we are, just as anyone else is. How we got that way isn’t anyone’s business, least of all our own.

I’ve noticed

I could report him, but that would require more fucks than I have to give.

I have now bound myself to this woman,

and there’s something thrilling about the reckless danger of it all.

“Nothing you know to be true, is true. Society has brainwashed you. Don’t be like the rest. Fuck the rest.”