We as Humans

Narcissist.

My head is sporadic and that makes it.....interesting maybe?  I'm smart. Or so I'm told. But I'm not quite sure what that means. I know the square root of -1 is i but I don't understand people or politics or banking. So how can I be smart when I'm quite simply so empty?  I dislike myself so I crave someone else to do it for me. I talk about myself like this in hopes that someone will find it fascinating and like it, even if they don't like me. I'm a narcissist. I talk so people will like how I think and I'll be able to crawl out of the hole I create in my mind to be able to ignore where their eyes trail to along the flesh these meaningless thoughts inhabit. I will not lie about my thoughts and produce strings of conscious that I want someone to knit me importance from because while I accept that I don't matter I don't want to be quiet. I want my words to travel even if they loose credit. Even if they loose me. I want some stranger to recognize some essence of me. So when I'm dead a further meaningless presence will have been effected without having to see me and recognize the way I trip over my feet and the pitch of my voice. I'm so muddled I write it in hopes of straightening it. Or in correction hoping someone does it for me. Or someone tells me it's right. But I won't believe them. Because I am a narcissist and no opinion of me will be good enough to believe unless it's my own. I write about myself with words and phrases and concepts I've stolen and molded into one hollow self. Sometimes I feel these strings are a noose. They will be my ending. But when they do the threads will continue to remain. So I have accepted it in hopes the strings that destroy me will be gold. As gold and pretty and rotten as the word narcissist.

This chapter is a disaster but I started this book as a place for my thoughts. And it will continue to be that even when they're choppy and nonsensical.