The 15th of August 1987 – Jacksonville, Florida

(found taped to the door of an abandoned warehouse)

Get the fuck away from me Kleinen,

I don’t want to hear your voice. I don’t want to see your face. I just want you to get the fuck away from me, Kleinen.

Why does this happen? This happens every single time. Alone I feel free. With you, with almost anyone, I’m just Play-Doh, stuffed into a little cookie-cutter, easy to see and identify, easy to digest and understand. That’s what our world is. That’s what it’s there for. That’s why we have society and stereotypes and biases. We don’t want to deal with people. We don’t want to have to deal with people – actual people – every minute and every day. That’s too complex. We want to deal with things. We want everything and everything to become just a thing. Just things.

A person, like an actual living, breathing, thinking person, tries to take his mask off, she tries to reveal herself and be honest and sincere for once – just for once – and the only way we know how to deal with him is shout and scream “put your mask on!” So it becomes a responsibility, another social duty to create an image that other people will understand and stick to it. Don’t muddle the world with honesty or individuality. We aren’t complex and multi-dimensional. You don’t want me to be capable of change, Kleinen. You just want a thing, to handle, grow bored with and then toss aside.

Of course, you don’t like me anyway Kleinen. You don’t like me when I have my mask on, when I’m dancing along to the organ grinder in my little vest and fez. And you don’t like me when I’m me, when I show my soul to the world by curling into a fetal ball and rocking back and forth with tears streaming down my face. You don’t like me when I turn myself into one of those things, two dimensional, flat and easy to handle. You just don’t like me, it seems.

So how did this happen in the first place?

Here’s the thing Kleinen, I’m tired of you, and I’m tired of me when I’m around you. And I’d rather you run from the real me than run from a fake one. Of course, I’d rather you not run at all, because “can’t we work this out?” But it’s inevitable. Get the fuck away from me, Kleinen.

So get the fuck away from me.

Get your stuff out of my apartment and then get the fuck away from me.



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