Brian Wecht Gothic - for @mthmcn
Your PhD hangs on your bedroom wall. You don’t remember attending university or anything about it. All you know is that you’ve always had that PhD. Perhaps you were born with it.
Everything is theoretical. It’s not just the concepts that are intangible, but the things in your living room and the floor beneath your feet. You don’t know what’s real. You can’t feel your fingers. You’re floating.
You always wear a mask. You don’t remember what your face looks like anymore. No one seems to remember what your face looks like, either. You keep the mask on. You’re afraid to see what’s underneath.
Your tweets get thousands of likes. You laugh to yourself while you write them and boast to your colleges about how funny you are. They look at you with blank expressions. They tell you there’s never been a twitter page. What is twitter, even? Your computer monitor is black when you turn back to it.
You’re the best you know at old arcade games. You’ve been playing for three days. Your hands are cramped and swollen. Your eyes are bloodshot. You keep playing.
You’re forty-one and your body aches. You joke that you muse be getting old. Your birthday comes and goes. You’re still forty-one. How long have you been forty-one?