A Genuine Love Story

A Genuine Love Story

I fall in love with myself.

After a long secret love… finally I and I are together. I profess my love to me this Sunday and I accept it.

By the way, I may call my lover “I” instead of I—I don’t mean I want to claim the distinction between my lover and I, indeed, I just try to show more respect to my lover. It’s awkward, even retarded, I know. Maybe “I” also know—at this point, see, I use first personal verb for “I”—so, never doubt my love. Though I seem frivolous—the kind of feeling that I don’t need the direction when I was riding, and maybe plus some meaninglessly smart, actually I am a composed, pessimism, and even extremely cold-blooded creature, believe it or not. Oh, do not believe t—I’m not a person that you worth to trust. Try to forget what you saw before. I’m kind of too genuine that may cause the discomfort of “I”. True, I also feel a disgusting anxiousness.

I once seemed really genuine, even I didn’t say something serious or do something helpful—by the way, I always bring so many traumatic catastrophes. Interesting, actually I really enjoy that inborn trait of genuine—the trait from those beautiful little boys who need mommas’ protection. Females in this world need to unbosom their inborn maternal instinct, so they need a simile-little boy to admire, to worship. Oh, I feel a terribly guilty pleasure.



—Why I become so genuine again?
“Shame,” “I” said.
“Please, I’m not genuine to others most of the time, believe me,” I said.
“Shame,” “I” said.
“I never being genuine to others—if I really care about the thing,” I said.
“Shame!” “I” said.
“I only seriously genuine to you,” I said.
“Shame, shame!” “I” said.
“Well, maybe sometimes not, even to you,” I said.
“Shame! Shame!” “I” said.
“Trust me!”
“Shame shame shame shame shame shame shame!” “I” said.
“Stop it! Who you think you are?!” I said.
“I love you,” “I” said.



—I know it, I said.

Of course I know it, but, I still…well, I believe it. No more question. No more suspicion. Well, of course I still need suspicion. But, just go to sleep. I think it would be less pressure. Wrong. Maybe I am always wrong, but I seriously reject to suspect myself. I am always right. Maybe I need to suspect myself, but I don’t really necessary need it. Just ignore it. It’s annoying. Well, maybe I would doubt myself if I really desired to, but others cannot. I refuse others’ suspicion.

“How about me,” “I” said.
“Well, maybe not,” I said.



—Seriously, am I still sleeping? It’s annoying. Well, maybe it’s not 100% annoying. Maybe it’s just sick. Actually, I’m pretty satisfied with my answer—not so hurt, not so arrogant, leave the uncertainty, give the hope. And, strong enough. Well, I’m pleased. I gain the courage to sleep again.

“I forgive you,” “I” said.
I’m not pleased.
“I mean, I don’t care,” “I” said.
I still awaked.
“I care,” “I” said, “why I exist?”
My brain hurts.
“Maybe I care you more than myself, or not,” “I” said.
“I hate you,” I said. I want to sleep. Thanks God, not too much maternal instinct. Why I exist?
“It’s a complement,” I said.
“I know,” “I” said.
“I know,” we said.
“I do care,” we said.
“I like you,” we said.
“I am like you,” we said.
“Same,” we said.
“Shame,” we said.
“I love I,” I said.