I fake too much. I mimic too much. I don’t know who I am.

I laugh too much. Like a dangerous bitch. *belly-cramp*

I cringe too much. I advise too much. I hate my fans.

“Only fools fall for me.” Only lovers lose and die young.

I have had a bitter taste. And I don’t make sense with my tongue.

Be it with being myself, or with philosophical discourses, as I prolong.

I am not a liar. I tell truths of events, but not of who I am.

The circumstances are real in my head, but not of where I belong.

This world, real, is not an idea, it’s what is mine, where I am.

I love the ghost-haunts, the self-taunts. Uh. Damn.

I don’t know what I truly love, what purpose I serve. Just sham.

I wish at stars, talk to them, and put Star Walk 2 to blame.

I wish I touched his face when I could, glad that he came.

I wish I loved like he does, so I’d hurt the same.

But I hurt behind time, I polish my ego, and I play games.

With the thoughts of his going, and that of the fuel, the whim.

I wish people wrote of love, wrote of science, and I wrote his name.

I wish people regretted less, I wish I lived, when I lived with him.

I swear so loud neighbours hear, I shouldn’t. How lame!

I wish I never did, I wish I lived much more and I know I do.

Because I’m twenty-two.

And a fake poet.

In stars.

Liar.

Not born any better.

I scroll through each post, slowly & attentively. I would hate to miss seeing a post my Aunt Claire (whom I haven’t spoken to in 10 years) put up today about her newest homemade jar of pickled green beans, the one she just recently entered into the local county fair. I made sure to like it as soon as I scrolled onto it. I surely didn’t want a reminder later from my mother, telling me to make sure to like her sister’s posts, after all her world revolved around the comments and likes and she quickly reminded me that it would help her feel more loved, especially since she had just recently became widowed after having been married to Herbert for 40 years. She said it was the least I could do. I referred to her as captain and continued to do as told. I really wanted to bash the screen in at times. I could give a crap less about an Aunt I haven’t talked to in a decade or so. But to keep my mom off my back I did it without argument.

I noticed as I continued to like random status updates that some would seem to repeat themselves. I did have quite a following and it seemed as though if one dog died that day another 1,000 followed. Was it coincidence that this happened? It was strange how I noticed this sort of pattern day after day in their social shared activities. On some days I would read about their recent bout with a nasty virus and subsequently another 500 friends would follow close behind leading me to think their surely must be an epidemic and I would be making a mental note to grab some vitamin C and Lysol next time i went to the store. On other days it was break up city and it would be one post after another of marital and relationship break ups to which I made sure to neither like nor dislike. I would plead the fifth on those particular unpleasantries. And then in the event of an election I had decided a long time ago it was of everyones best interest that I disengage from all social platforms, at all cost, so as not to cause a battle that I would be merely reckless to pursue, after all in the long run I realized it wouldn’t be worth losing clients over. Sometimes you have to know when to hold them and know when to fold them. I knew when it was time to play my cards or not and a political rant was not favorable for me or my livelihood.

In the grand scheme of things I must spend hours on end each and every day sorting through an amass of social chatter that I would clearly never quite understand. I honestly didn’t care about half of these people and I would imagine they felt the same. So I sat there and pondered it many times. I questioned my sanity and argued my intellect. I wondered why I chose to spend my time on people I barely knew for the sake of appeasing them on their short self absorbed posts, especially the doctored up selfies. Sometimes I had to look multiple times at the same picture, thinking they had one heck of a good camera or editing software because I knew good and well that my friend hadn’t taken up modeling recently but based on the photo it was evident that they were nothing short of a Rembrandt master piece. Did they truly think they had us fooled? Well I wasn’t a fool. And as quickly as I would question myself about this other place I called home. I would move on to the next social chamber. And any thought of removing myself from this virtual world of chaos would soon leave my mind. I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon and would be an idiot to think otherwise. I was a slave to this other world. One that I lived in more than the earthly world at times. And I always would be bound to it long as it was in existence. I might as well get used to spending my days bouncing back and forth from one social media porthole to another. It was like an obsession or an addiction. I wanted to be freed by I was shackled to it by chains and the only key to unlock myself from this social damnation would be if civilization were to undergo an apocalypse of some sort. Maybe it was coming soon. We could only hope, right? Until that day comes. I will be that girl, doing as she is told. A slave tangled up in a virtual web of unrealistic reality and to her Aunt Claire’s Posts about 4H affairs and candied yams.

He stares at me from across the room, his gaze intense and unwavering. Does he know

how uncomfortable it makes me? How awkward it is to be around him in class or elsewhere on campus? How distracting it is to feel his eyes on me while I’m trying to listen to and process the lecture being delivered? I make eye contact and raise my eyebrows, hoping he will notice my quizzical expression and look away, but he only stares. It is an odd stare, too – not like the kind to which I am (sadly) accustomed, where it feels as if I am being mentally undressed. That kind of stare I could ignore. This one is different and, somehow, worse than obvious sexual objectification. The latter I can chalk up to immaturity and misogyny. This stare seems purposeful, as if he is attempting to decipher every letter and number and order of the two which make up my identity. I look away, confused, annoyed, and unnerved. I sigh deeply and look back, glaring angrily. I expect him to see my frustration, snap out of his apparent trance, and break his stare embarrassingly. He still stares, only now a wolfish grin tugs at the corners of his lips. It is wicked. His eyes twinkle with cruel satisfaction as they meet mine, and immediately, I know the truth.

#nonfiction #flashnonfiction #college #studentwriter #undergraduate #flashmemoir #memoir