It’s like being cellmates, except neither of you has to deficate in a bucket now and then while the other lies on a bunk silently facing the wall
Every day, the same person, merping on and on about the same 3 or 4 subjects… through their mouth, which, not so long ago was a delicate, beautiful thing you enjoyed kissing but now is just a sort of underwhelming content delivery system.
“Oh you had a day at work did you? Oh yeah, oh no that does sound miserable, tell me about it, tell me all about it, tell me all about your life, in detail, for ever.”
On and on burbles their mushcave talking about stuff that happened to them, and things they consider important, sharing their feelings, while you just point your face in their direction, and hope that your expression doesn’t portray your aching isolation and your raging need to just open your own mouth and shout, “OH FOR GODS SAKE JUST SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
…and all the while, the emotional rocket fuel that propelled you into this situation in the first place was expended long ago, and now there’s no momentum left, so what do you do? Well, you sit there, anesthetising yourselves, together, watching more television.
Staring at the same machine that helped you into this mess. The machine that threw pretty folk at you until your own self worth was shat through a bin bag, the machine that said true love meant grand gestures and rampant sex, and hammered home the false idea of the perfect soulmate, which only the flawed human partner with their toenails and earwax simply doesn’t seem to be anymore…
Television - the machine that wiped it’s arse on your valentine.