Should we name the elephant?

The cursor is mocking me and miserly whispering insults. “Who do you think you are? You aren’t me, you don’t know anything! You aren’t even real!” Internalizing a conversation with your cursor is extremely cathartic, but you already knew that, after all you do it too. It keeps re-appearing and disappearing, reminding me that it’s still there but not for me. Should I even type anything? Should I even address you? Probably not, but I will anyway because I know you wont and then I won’t have anything to be upset about.

The elephant has taken his seat at our table for two. He has all his faculties together; completely composed. As he skims the menu, we’ll sit in animosity and share gazes of contempt. Although, I probably hate you more than you hate me. Then again I don’t really hate you it’s just something I like to believe. You play with your food to avoid another prolonged stare and I fume with anger because you will not participate in this childish conduct. The elephant peers over his menu, still awaiting to be introduced. We refuse to acknowledge his existence because in doing so we’ll be confirming a truth we rather not accept. Contrary to our treatment of him he proceeds to order his meal. Curiously enough his words are inaudible and I don’t know what he has ordered. It matters not what order he’s placed because we are not going to acknowledge him, remember? Now it seems we are all waiting for something. You break the silence and tell me I’m acting like a bitch.

“How dare you call me a bitch! Don’t you know what you’ve done?” You reply to my over reaction. “I did not call you a bitch, I said you were acting like one. And what have I done exactly? We’re dining.” I become even more disturbed and unsettled. Then I turn to the elephant for reassurance that my behavior is completely acceptable, but he barely looks me in the eye and cleans his monocle. I find this peculiar because he doesn’t have any pockets for this monocle, just a collar that one would see on a clown. I turn my attention back to you, except this time I am not fuming with anger or hatred, I just want to cry. It is then that you realize why I am upset and the elephant begins to excuse himself from the table. Now we don’t have to name him.

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