There is an idea of a Philip Burnell, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can send me a tip and see me jerking off and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are in no way comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my need for sweaty man jpgs goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably in Connecticut) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the terrible gameplay and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: I need that money. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is being bad at games something you are? Or is it something you do? My gout pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing.
