I’ve taken up all sorts of hobbies, sports, and activities. I know how to
sew, and how to change the oil in my car. I can recite pi to the first
hundred digits, and I can’t tell you how many foot races I’ve run. This may
make it sound like I like to learn new things, but nothing could be further
from the truth. My parents made me do all this stuff, and it’s probably not
for the reason you assume. They didn’t actually care whether I enjoyed any
particular endeavor, and it had nothing to do with what they would do in my
shoes. They weren’t trying to live vicariously through me. They just wanted
me to have something, and they hated the idea that I would go through life
with no interests whatsoever. I know they had good reasons to do what they
did, but it just wasn’t me. I don’t have to be occupied with anything at
all, in fact. I’m perfectly content sitting in a chair, staring at the wall
for hours until it’s time to go to bed. I don’t think there’s a word for my
condition. Therapists and psychiatrists have just called me depressed. Not
true. I just don’t feel the need to spend my time doing things. I can’t
explain it. Still, like I said, I’ve tried a whole bunch of stuff because I
was told I had to. It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I started to realize
that they were wrong, but also that they were sort of right. I need to eat,
and stay out of the elements. I don’t need much, and it doesn’t have to be
fancy, but I still have an instinct for survival, and in this world, if you
don’t have a way to make money, you don’t survive. So I used the skills I
picked up on the speech and debate team to get a job in data entry. It
wasn’t glamorous, but it was a living.
I’m not saying that everyone who does the work that I once did is a drone,
but it certainly played to my strengths, and it was the best that I could
come up with. I didn’t have to think too hard, or interact with people too
much. My boss and co-workers were mostly happy to leave me alone as long as
I met my quotas. I wish I had been born later, because then I would have
worked from home, and been even more isolated and content. One day, this new
guy joined the team, and was reportedly immediately smitten with me.
According to others, I’m quite attractive, or rather I would be if I put a
little effort into it. My inability to give a crap evidently turned most
people off, but he could see past it. He wanted to know more about me, and
he seemed to find it quite frustrating that I wasn’t giving him anything. I
responded with the shortest sentences possible if necessary to get him off
my back, and with nothing if I thought I could get away with it. This may
sound like a love story, but it’s not. The guy was just the way I ended up
with my new life. He told his own therapist about me, and that dude was
crazy fascinated by my condition. Like I said, I had spoken to others about
my feelings—or lack thereof—but he was the first one who appeared to be all
in on truly believing me. He wanted to study me, and since he promised to
not be too invasive, I let him. All he asked me to do was answer his
questions, and he would trust their accuracy with no doubt. He published his
findings anonymously, and piqued the interests of even more people. One in
particular was a wealthy woman who said she had experienced irritating
people who felt entitled to answers from her. She reached out, and I agreed
to let the researcher provide her with my contact information. Wanting to
free me from all the disturbances and distractions, she set me up with a
cabin in the woods, and a lifetime supply of food and other necessities. I
die today having lived an unfull, but very satisfying, unstimulated life.
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