Well, here I am, alive for another stupid fucking day.

Spent all day playing video games or sleeping, like usual. God damn there has to be something better than this.

And there is. I know it. There is a whole huge wonderful world out there, just outside the bars of my cell. I can see it so well from here. And I see so much of it from my lonely garret on the mountainside.

I know the people down there better than they know themselves and know things about their world and how it works they couldn’t even reach by guessing.

Fat lot of good it does me. I am like someone who is an expert in a very obscure fandom, only less relatable.

Because just what kind of a critter am I, anyhow?

Others ask who they are. I ask what I am. The questions seem similar but are actually worlds apart. Most people do not question their essential humanity.

But my connection with my fellow humans has always been tenuous at best. When that bastard raped me when I was four years old, he almost killed my ability to connect with others entirely as I retreated far too deep within my little mind for any of the sunshine of positive human interaction to reach.

And that’s pretty goddamned tragic.

And it turned me into this hyper-intelligent hyper-intellectual who wants to be human like all the other boys but he is fundamentally a robot and nothing is going to change that.

Repair may not be possible. Some of the systems that got damaged that horrible day may never ever come back online no matter how important they are or how badly they are missed or how hard life is without them,

It didn’t take away my ability to feel. Just my ability to be happy or to feel the warmth of other human beings in my mind

You know… little things like that.

And the thing is, I know I am not normal. I know it deep, so deep that it is hard for me to imagine being any other way.

All those times in my life when people have clearly been looking for a specific response from me then ended up confused and disappointed when I didn’t supply it (not for lack of trying) taught me that.

Whatever my fundamental emotional reactions are, they rarely coincide with the typical. I am an atypical person on pretty much every level.

All I share with most of the rest of the human race is 99,9 percent of my DNA and the ability to metabolize chocolate.

And yet, I am not just a robot, I’m an android. In most ways I seem like one of them, at least from afar. That only makes it all the more horrifying to them when I get close and send such unusual and disturbing signals.

I am a long time resident of the Uncanny Valley, The people who khnow and love me have found a way to make peace with that. Either they are Uncanny themselves, or they have found their own way to integrate all my conflicting signals into something like a picture of a real person.

I’d like a good long look at that picture. Would be nice to finally meet the guy.

And I know this is all crazy talk to the people outside my head (and that’s most of you). I seem as real as anyone else to them, and all my talk of wanting to be a real little boy so I can ginally grow up and join the human race must seem quite strange to them.

All I can say is that it makes perfect sense to me. Thank you for listening.

And the fact that it makes sense to me is further proof of what an odd little android I am. “Normal” (read : boring) people do not ask themselves what they are or talk about feeling like they are not real people.

After all, if I was real, I would feel my emotional reflected back at me by others and thus confirm my very existance.

But I don’t. Instead I try over and over again to make that connection and get some kind of idea of who I really am, only to have it crash and fail over and over and over again.

So eventually I just stopped trying. To hell with it. Human software and I are just not compatible. They are running a totally different OS.

Theirs is standard. Mine is custom. I have had to replace a lot of my broken wiring with whatever seemed to make sense at the time and as a result, I am quite strange.

I guess that’s part of what makes me a writer. I want to connect with people but the usual ways do not work for me, so I need a way to communicate that is intellectual and conscious enough for me to be able to use all these brains of mine to bodge together some kinds of interface.

It doesn’t work super good but it is all I got.

Part of the problem is that my self-isolating tendencies (fueled by social anxiety) make it very hard for me to put my words in front of audiences. To expose these words of mine to the world would be to reveal a very personal and intimate side of myself to strangers who might ruin the whole thing with their judgment and opinions.

So I suppose I write on this here blog for an audience that is 80 percent imaginary and ten percent freinds.

The other ten percent? Aliens.

They don’t think I am weird at all!

So what kind of critter am I? Confusing, I assume.

At least as Fruvous, I have a persona to hide behind. One I have perfected over the years so that it fits me extremely well and lets me get away from myself in a way that still lets me express myself.

Like I have said many times before, Fruvous is an idealized version of me. He is me without all my mental problems and thus he can express the gregariousness, charm, silliness, and vampy lust that lies locked behind the glass of my mental illness.

And I sometimes wonder what would happen if I couldn’t be him any more.

It might force me to develop real world social skills.

Then again, it might make me kill myself.

Better not rsik it,

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.