The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Lonely Chocolate Cake Slice

The Mayo Clinic website describes Schizoid Personality Disorder as "an uncommon condition in which people avoid social activities and consistently shy away from interaction with others. They also have a limited range of emotional expression."

"If you have schizoid personality disorder," the website says, "you may be seen as a loner or dismissive of others, and you may lack the desire or skill to form close personal relationships. Because you don't tend to show emotion, you may appear as though you don't care about others or what's going on around you."

Some of the symptoms of this personality disorder include, but are not limited to:

-Prefer being alone and choose to do activities alone.

-Don't want or enjoy close relationships.

-Feel little if any desire for sexual relationships.

-Feel like you can't experience pleasure.

-Have difficulty expressing emotions and reacting appropriately to situations.

-May seem humorless, indifferent or emotionally cold to others.

-May appear to lack motivation and goals.

-Don't react to praise or critical remarks from others.

It is a difficult, scarring disorder that some of us have to deal with every day, and that has branded me and many others in ways that will require extensive therapy to even function properly. 

And some sick fuck watched us one day and say: that's hot as hell. 

Ever since not being able to give a fuck, or convey said fuck giving, has become the new hot, since we seem to be attracted to sociopaths, we "bad boys" have been hunted down for sport. Which is why we of all people are more susceptible to plot. 

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, has chosen us, the only ones who are unable to give a fuck, to fall in love with. As we don't love it back, the universe treats us like a passive-aggressive toxic ex-partner, posting things on social media like "nobody has loyalty anymore shm" and the like. Only, the universe chooses to knock us down, put us in harm's way, or make us blackout.

Seriously, this is the second time I blackout this week. That's brain-damage amounts. But the universe is not done with me. No sir, it ain't. Otherwise, this would've been the climax of the story, and I would've been forced to learn an important lesson about life and true love and shit. 

I just wanna graduate, man. 

What I'm trying to say is, stop fetishizing mental disorders. Depressed people aren't sexy. They need milk and Jesus, and help. Mostly help. 

Now, why am I saying this? Cuz I feel someone sitting on my bed, which I assume by the smell and texture that is from the infirmary. I've been awake for twenty minutes, but I've yet to open my eyes. Nobody who is willing to wait next to a sleeping bad boy for more than twenty minutes straight is up to some plot shenanigans, misguided love, or both. And I'm too scared to find out which. 

Maybe, just maybe, if I stay completely still, and don't move at all, I can last until the end of the day.

That is, until the unmistakable smell of chocolate and liqueur punched my nose like a playful kitten who can't measure its strength. Or at least it pretends it doesn't. Crafty kittens, making us lower our guard. 

Of course, Hayden is the one next to me. He must've felt bad for, you know, slaughtering me and my crew, and dooming me to a year of rashes. I hear the distinct noise of a plate with the approximate mass of a slice of cake — a Black Forest cake, if my nose is not mistaken — being placed right next to me on that flimsy plastic shelf/nightstand thing next to hospital beds. You know the one.