"I'd advise you not to do that so close to your face."
He says it like I'm an idiot, like I'm trying to get the cat to maul me. I'm just being absentminded, both in my playing get-the-feathery-thing with the kitten and in my thousandth explication of my general malaise.
I tell him I want to write, but I don't have anything to say. He tells me to start small, writing essays. He says that's all Locke and Franklin were doing, "and we know their names."
We watch some television, I drink his beer, I pet the cat until it falls asleep, purring on my stomach. I think, but it goes nowhere. I suppose I should feel lucky that at least I have this, but I can't help feeling like a failure as a person. I have a list of accomplishments that are supposed to help me combat this, but it's like a list of great qualities in a guy you have no chemistry with.
I don't know how to end this, but that's okay; he told me to start small.
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