The.

    Schmitt was a piece of garbage and I hated him. Between his narcissism, self-righteous political ideologies, and severe delusions of grandeur, he graced every conversation with his affectation of cismale oppression, whining about current events and throwing my queer self under the bus in the process. He carried about him an air of false superiority, carefully hiding the diminutive size of his genitals with a collection of anime swords and hookah flavors. In short, he was a massive cuntstick.

    Normally I didn't associate with Schmitt, but since his stupid ass rammed my truck, essentially destroying his Camaro, I haven't been able to get him off my back. Literally, this dickweasel got piss drunk, tried to park behind me, and slammed on the gas. 50 MPH of Schmitt, all up in my pickup. Somehow he managed to get a lawyer on his side, and threatened to sue if his entire front end wasn't rebuilt. Insurance wouldn't touch the situation. His lawyer is a dumb twat. He's never going to see a dime.

    However, being the massive shitlord that he is, he still manages to invite himself over every couple of days so he can ask about the money. I keep telling him the money isn't there, but he's that special combination of stupid and hardheaded that makes it especially frustrating to tell him no. Honestly if I won the lottery tomorrow I wouldn't even spend it on myself. I'd spend it to get rid of Schmitt, buy him another shitty 90s-model Camaro in which he can get drunk and high and roll off into the sunset, laughing maniacally and driving small animals off the road.

    However, aside from his glaring faults, like how he constantly misgenders me or how he kind of smells like gerbils, Schmitt could probably be a good guy. Once he gets over himself, realizes that there are people dying in situations unrelated to "misandry", and has something to look forward to in life other than Bronycon or whatever the fuck he's into, he could possibly maybe have a chance at being a cool dude. An annoying dude, nonetheless, but maybe one of the dudes you go out with to get a beer, say, once a month. Perhaps, one day, Schmitt will grow up and develop a beautiful personality. He will radiate. He will sparkle. He will be everything a straight white man really is, and not just how they're badly represented by teenage boys on the internet.

    Nah man I'm just kidding, he'll always be a prick.

    I looked out the window as he left, walking back to his side of the duplex. His stupid silver rental sat beside my dinged-up truck in the driveway. His stupid hand patted the stupid car as his stupid legs carried him by it. Stupid. It's been a month. Buy something else already.

        I turned away and went to the kitchen. I took out a ceramic bowl and plopped a square of ramen in the middle, ran some water over it, and threw it in the nuker. Four beeps, 1:30, and the noise of microwaves bouncing around my plastic meal began.

    Knock, knock knock knock, knock knock.

    Fucking Christ. Schmitt and his annoying ass knock again. Annoying ass Schmitt. 

    "Hi again."

    "Heyyyyyysorry one more thing," dragged Schmitt, leaning on the doorframe, armpit hair blowing nobly in the breeze. God forbid mine does that. "I, uh, I can hear your dog at night. Either that or, ha, you make weird sex noises! Ha!"

    "I see."

    "So yeah, you could take care of that I guess, and that'd be cool."

    "Schmitt I don't have a fucking dog."

    He paused, a concerned look growing on his face at the same rate his tiny dick probably grew when he browsed for hentai. "That's..." He pursed his lips like a girl in the 2000s. "Are you sure?"

    "Well I dunno, son, I may have to check again."

    "I really wish you weren't so damn rude..."

    "I really wish you weren't trying to sue me over something I should have sued you for."

    "Well I thought I could take care of it without the insurance companies..."

    "You are literally stupid."

    "You don't have to be like that."

    "K."

    I stood there waiting for him to do or say something but he just sort of shuffled his feet like a penguin with a neurological disorder. Fucking pathetic.

    "Is that it, Schmitt?"

    "Yes, Olivia."

    "You have a good night, Shit."

    "Excuse me?"

    "I said, Have a good night, Schmitt."

    He muttered and walked away as I chained and bolted my door. I went back to the kitchen, pulled my microwaved dinner out of its warming vessel and sprinkled chicken seasoning on it.

    It tasted like hatred and bullshit.

    Three AM and all I hear is dickwad going to town on a blowup doll. Or something. The rhythmic banging and simultaneous schlock schlick schlocking and occasional loud moan, coupled with Schmitt's tfw>no gf demeanor, led me to believe this was the case anyway. I dunno, maybe it was a small animal trapped in the wall, dying or something. Maybe it was a ghost.

    I went back to sleep, but still dreamt of Schmitt's ugly face scrunched in pleasure as he fucked a Crackhead Charlie love doll in its plastic anus.

    I woke up, feeling disgusting. That felt like six hours of Schmitt x Charlie Sheen porn. It was probably only thirty seconds or so though, much like Schmitt's time required to reach climax.

    I waddled into the bathroom, still feeling gross, really having to pee, needing to brush my teeth, wanting to bleach my mind's eye. I looked in the mirror. My pupils were huge and I looked like an addict. Ew.

    I peeled my retainer from my gross mouth and brushed my teeth. Monotony. Routine. It's my day off and I'm still acting like there's something to accomplish today. I guess I could blog or something. Whatever. I went to the kitchen, ate some day-ago-expired Greek yogurt, sat on the floor, and contemplated my life in small spoonfuls of thinned out microbe culture.

    My shorts had cats on them and matched my tanktop. The cats were riding comets and had crazy eyes. The one on my shirt stretched under the influence of my (very unwanted) breasts, making his eyes even crazier. "I'M ON A COMET," the cat's face read, "AND I'M SOOOO FUCKING HIGH RIGHT NOW."

    The yogurt tasted like ass.

    I opened my phone and checked my email. I had gotten two asks on my blog last night. I run a blog for nonbinary people, and it's insane how big the community is on tumblr. Before you get offensive and jump in my shit, keep in mind I've identified the way I do since puberty, before I even knew how to get onto a computer properly, so whether the 1000-something followers of my blog were all "special snowflakes" experimenting with their gender identities or not, you can rest assured that their fearless leader is, in fact, not.

    Message one was on anon:

"u r shit an ur blog is shit. u should porbably die. fucking tranny"

    Modern art.

    Message two was by @faggotlipsofficial:

"Hi sweetie! I love your blog and everything but um, like, why do you use "they" pronouns? Neutrois people are supposed to use "ze/hir". I know because my friend online is neutrois and zie said your use of the wrong pronouns was offensive."

    Fucking piss, I hate tumblr people.

"@faggotlipsofficial- Thank you for your concern. I'm going to continue using the pronouns I want because I fucking want to. Tell your friend zie's a donkey's anus. kthnx"

    I was not in the mood to be clever or polite. I noodled on my dash for a bit, reblogged a few bullshit posts that would lighten the mood on my page, and closed the app before I could get sucked any further into the void.

    My day job was cooking. It was an efficient three-man team in a small kitchen, feeding the wealthy people of the upper-class island community we lived in. Or at least that was what we told ourselves. In reality we were dysfunctional as hell and fed middle-class white assholes who thought they were the bourgeoisie because they stayed at the Ritz once. The previous week, the owner-chef, Mike, threw a saucepan of sautéed carrots at the wall, and I'm pretty sure there are still burn marks on the waitress from his incident with the misordered salmon. There's a rat named Captain Von Trapp and he lives in the ceiling above the dining room. Our sous chef can only work stoned. The walk-in has a giant cutout of Christopher Walken on it and contains badly-cooled leftovers. Essentially, the kitchen is the product of overgrown teenagers who couldn't feed themselves properly in culinary school.

    Today was a gratefully accepted rest day. I had earned it by loudly saying "cocksucker" and throwing a plate after yet another misorder. I guess that's only an acceptable thing to do if you bought the plates, so I was given a warning and told to take a mental health day. I wasn't complaining.

    Instinctively I went back to the fridge and nibbled on random bullshit. I wasn't hungry, but I wasn't thinking either. This was, of course, the reason the cat on my shirt had crazy eyes, and also why I get called "hey lady" if I wear anything less baggy than Tripp pants, but hey. I eat my feelings. Fuck off.

    I scarfed down about the equivalent of ten brownies straight from the pan before realizing what I was doing. 

    Shameful.

    The pan went back into the fridge, foil sitting on it like it was protecting its thoughts from the omnipotent binge-eater, its creator. It quivered with fear. Yes master, it whispered, you are the ruler of all. Please respect my tinfoil hat and allow my thoughts to be mine and mine alone.

    I don't really hear my brownies, but I imagine that's what they sound like. Pathetic, all too forgiving but still paranoid, fearful beings made of chocolate and my sweat and tears. This is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper. T.S. Eliot was actually referring to brownies the whole time.

    I honestly think that between my eating habits, bad attitude, quick temper, and desire to fade into the void in a bloodless existential suicide, I have some things to work on as a human. They have pills for that and everything, but it seemed like they were only for the spoiled or the desperate. I can barely afford to feed myself and keep gas in the truck. My emotions are secondary and will be taken care of when they decide to take care of me.

    I'm terrible at adulting for this very reason.

    I popped six of the little orange pills from the blister pack stuck on the fridge. It's gross, but I had just eaten twice my daily allowance of calories in two and a half minutes. Plus, they're candy coated, so it hurts less going through, right?

    My mind put a smiley face at the end of my sentences so I could stop acknowledging that laxative abuse doesn't really help me to not absorb calories.

    Breakfast was over. I needed to get dressed so I could never leave the house. Outside there was rain. I glared at it for existing and went back to my spiral of self-loathing and pessimism, thinking about throwing on a T-shirt and jeans but never doing it. I flopped onto the couch. This was where I would stay for the next three hours, not asleep, not dreaming, but denying my existence itself. Nobody could prove I was here. Nobody could prove I was alive. Nobody could prove I hadn't already drowned myself in a cocktail of pills and vodka reduced to my own vomit. I gazed into the abyss, and the abyss was too busy plucking its eyebrows to gaze back.