Yesterday, I went outside thinking I would figure out what I should do. But after walking for a few minutes, I got bored and went into a noodle shop. When I finished the oily noodles that didn’t go well with the hot spices I added, I felt even hungrier, so I bought a bag of chips and ate while walking.
And then I thought: to hell with it. I could keep going, keep eating and eating and eating, trying to satisfy this greed. But I wasn’t even that hungry. So I went into a thrift store instead and picked out two shirts and a sweater.

There was a tall girl with short blonde hair trying on a beige jacket. She asked her friend if it looked good on her. I bet anything would look good on her. And she knew it, too. I felt like I was an extra in a movie and all the spotlight was on her, as most stories are. But funny enough, in reality, I am the protagonist of this story.

That’s when I realized I need to plan things before I leave the house. I should at least know where I’m heading; otherwise I feel too lost. Like I have no place to go. This sense of not belonging is dreadful. I must start pretending I know. 

I came home early and started reading a novel by Agota Kristof. It’s really good. She writes the reality without embellishing it. Now I want to read her biography. After reading her, I don't feel like I need to paste a smile on my face. I can feel whatever I feel. And todayI want to feel miserable. It is exhausting, always having to seem happy.

I took my sleeping pills and waited for the drowsiness to approach. That's when I got a call from the boy I thought I cut out of my life. I didn’t understand. Did I forget to delete my account? No, I didn’t. So how was he calling me? Too curious to ignore, I picked up the call.

“Hey.” He says. 

“I couldn’t log into my account.” I answer. 

“Huh? Then how did you answer my call?”

“Don’t know. I received a notice” A parallel universe, the distortion of space-time. 

“Weird. Guess it's a program glitch.” The boy said.  Worm hole. 

He was drunk, as always, still seemed curious about me, carefully asking questions, trying not to disappoint himself. He asked me questions like "What kind of clothes do you wear?", "Are you as crazy as you sound, or are you making this all up?" And of course, because he was drunk he asked me sexual questions, which I answered quite bluntly. 

"I wear clothes that aren't very femine. I don't take good care of myself."

"In reality? I think I am crazier. I don't know, but I don't show it too much, people would judge me."  

"That's good." He says, "Because I want someone who could surprise me everyday." 

I'm sure he would be very surprised, but not in the way he thinks. What am I like? I am an outcast. I fail to be the protagonist of the story. I am disinterested in most human beings. I don’t even care to become an artist. I like people who suffer, suffer for the right reason, like Agota Kristof. But not Sartre, he doesn't interest me.  Unlike the women in TVs I do not take care of myself, barely wash my face. I use most of my energy to imagine. That's my excuse. Perhaps I am just lazy.   

Well, the book that I closed suddenly found me, and now I am able to read it again. Along with another one, a story whose life seems to be progressing in a way he might like; he found a girl that he likes, but how will it end? I feel a horrible boredom waiting for him already, and I think he senses it too. But there is no escape.