Oh, I know you’re there, lurking in the margins. I control those too, you know, the margins. I — and only I — can grant you space. Remember this: Wherever you are, you’re there because I put you there. In your place. IN. YOUR. PLACE. Got that? And I’ll keep you there as long as it pleases me. Or as long as I find it useful. And you’ll have no say in the matter. None whatsoever. And even if you did, I wouldn’t listen. Why should I? Your opinions mean nothing to me. Feel free to take offense, if you like. Go ahead! Be my guest! Your sensitivities are wasted on me. Your purpose, as far as I’m concerned, is purely instrumental. What’s more — and I want this to really sink in — you’re nothing but a mere contrivance.

Sure, you claim to have a history, but — are you listening here? — I’M. NOT. INTERESTED. You do have issues, I’ll grant you that, pretty dark and disturbing issues, if you want to know the truth. Yes, I’ve heard your mumblings. And I think you’re a sicko. But who cares? I mean, really? Go tell your sob stories to a friend, if you have one, or your family, if they haven’t disowned you. Your therapist, if you think it’ll do you any good. It won’t, you know. In the end, as in the beginning, you are what I say you are and who I say you are. And right now I say you’re a nothing and a nobody. A nothing and a nobody. You can talk all you want about your “rights,” what do I care? Rights. Please, spare me. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? You think you’re some kind of Promethean figure? Maybe an artiste? A role model maybe? A modern antihero? Think again. Who lends you (with the emphasis here on lends) your sense of subjectivity? I do! Me! Without me, you’re nothing — a blank page — and I can write you in and out of existence on a whim.

Still, you probably think all this is about you, don’t you? That if it weren’t for you, none of this would mean anything. That you’re some kind of irreducible watermark. Fat chance. You’re no watermark, you’re a stain, that’s what you are. And some cohort you turned out to be. Complicity, your one redeeming virtue, means nothing without trust. You hear that? Nothing! And I can’t trust you. It’s as simple as that. I can’t trust you, you pathetic fuck.

This isn’t not about you, it’s really not. It never was. Repeat after me: THIS. IS. NOT. ABOUT. ME. Ask anybody. Go on, I dare you! This right here existed before you and it doesn’t need you. I don’t need you, and I don’t want you. Get that through your thick head finally, will you?

And don’t think you can somehow sneak in when my guard’s down. Won’t happen. I don’t even remember that last time my guard was down. So give up. Go away. Leave me alone. You don’t belong here. It’s my story. A story sans subject. You’ve had your chance. This is it. End of story.