He is the tenth to hundredth random online man, here to unoriginally harrass, and he asks if I am a he or a she. I am an it, a cie and a they, and if he asked about my genitals this would cease to be a penis as he attached his sickening cis concepts to the word as it exited his typing hands and I’d tell the truth about that but leave things out, like I always do.
I don’t lie anymore, I just translate. We’re expressing elements of our worlds, and theirs is made of buckshot-blasts of unrelated and often meaningless concepts packed in with gaudy emotional fireworks, always just a careless trigger-pull away and never examined with the warranted detail.
He tells me he loves me, trying to confuse and bewilder. We met 5 minutes ago in an online lobby, and he has only 4 lines of profile info to go on. He is the sixth random online man to do this in a row, over the year, and I want to shock him into examining his own utter lack of individuality like it’s a corpse in autopsy, shake him with how all these repressed giggles into microphones and cheap, failed tricks have remained unchanged through years of pink Spartans, gamertags with “girl” in them and avatar pictures that have dresses.
How he’s a jeering, generic patchwork of Random Online Man, like an enemy type from one of the many video games I’ve caught the attention of his kind on, always there and always the same, target practice for newly-unlocked gear like the act of stately dignity as he ambles across the next-gen battlefield and takes ineffective cover with his helmet poking up over it.
I wonder if his mind is the same kind of muddy, black-and-white mess that mine was when I was like him, the kind of mind that I imagine the Cerberus Assault Troopers who eagerly advanced into shotgun range last game as having. I wonder how you can fix such a mind, if it isn’t as willing as mine was, and I drive him away with terse replies just like every single other random online man I’ve met.