Dostoyevsky "Notes from Underground" Imitation

                Question: who is he? Answer: a fake—he is a complete fake. He puts on a smile and gives you a wave when inside he knows what he is about to do. He reels you in, making you believe he understands you and needs you. And it just bugs me. It bugs me a lot. What gives him the right to control my emotions that way? He should have no influence over how I feel—no one should determine how I feel. I am my own person. Only I decide how I feel. But no—somehow, in the strangest way, I’ve allowed him in. It’s almost as if I willingly gave him my heart and told him to abuse it. What a fool I am. I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it in his eye—those same eyes that I thought saw me for who I wanted to be; those same evil eyes that make me smile because, although I hate those eyes, I love them too.

                Maybe he didn’t mean it. I mean, maybe he regrets it all and really does need me. Maybe I need to help him. I am good at helping others!  No—that isn’t true. How could that be true? We all know I can’t even help myself. What a fool I am! I’m a fool, just like him—the fool with the beautifully evil eyes.

                I don’t even know why I try and explain myself—it’s impossible to record my thoughts in ink. Something as petty as ink could never capture the vast emotions whirling throughout my mind. Ink is dumb anyways—all it does is spill and stain things. It’s almost as if he is ink—going around staining perfectly clean slates. That’s why pencils are better than pens-they don’t have ink. I should have been writing all of this in a pencil. Why? Because pencils have erasers.

The more I write with this pen, the angrier I become. Why did I even start writing? It’s a waste of my time, it’s a waste of your time. You must be a fool to sit here reading such a tragic attempt at expression. I pity you. That makes three of us—three fools, that is. You, me and him.  However, I’m now realizing that I must be the biggest dupe of them all for assuming there actually is a reader. Why am I to flatter myself by presuming someone, anyone, would read what I’m writing? In fact, I can guarantee there is no reader. I am writing this all to myself and will be the only person pathetic enough to sit here absorbing all these empty words. It’s sad when even I don’t wish to hear my own thoughts—they are hopeless. But they are in pen.  No getting rid of them now.

There are a lot of things you can’t get rid of in life. Why is that? Let’s get rid of criticism, judgment and hate. Let’s get rid of sushi, curfews and the human appendix—it’s not like we need that anyway. Why can’t I get rid of him? I start rambling on about this and that, but no matter what I do, my thoughts always return to him. He is like my appendix—just there. In that case, I wish my appendix would burst.  No, no—I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. No, he is my friend.

I am just confused. I’m confused why I’m confused. I want to be happy, but I want to be bitter; I want to say hurtful things, but I want to make people laugh; I want a hug, but I don’t want you to touch me. I want to sing, but I don’t think I can. I want to believe everything I’m told, but I don’t want to be gullible. I don’t want to be gullible, because you are. You are because you’ve believed everything I have said which really I have sat here days thinking of what to say next. It’s all a fable—lies and deceit. I am anything but a fool. I know exactly what I want and I know how to get it. I didn’t ever want him in the first place; I knew what he was doing and I just played along. I love sushi and I’m glad I have my appendix. The only words I meant are these: “I pity you.” But by “you” do I mean you, or me? Am I speaking to myself? I’m confused. This is all real. What do I lie and say it is not? Because. Because “I am a sick [woman]...” The worst part: I don’t know the teeniest bit about my sickness. Even worse, I don’t know how to get help.