[ WP ] The only , and deranged , live man on the planet does n't know that he lives among mannequins . Start with the line , `` They do n't usually answer back to what I say . ''

They do n't usually answer back to what I say. But it does n't bother me that they do n't talk to me. I have never enjoyed talking -- the entire medium has made me nervous since my youth. 
 
 But there is something lingering about the way they turn me on. They all smell like solid, stoic perfection. I feel as though they mock me as soon as I turn away. And whisper secrets about me to their friends. Sometimes I wan na stick my fingers in their eye sockets and smash them around like broken marbles. I think I just need a friend, and all these people seem to be against me. 
 
 When I woke up this morning I saw that same, smug girl that always stands by the Chevron. And that was it. I had to talk to her. My hands dripped with a moist nervousness I could not fathom. The closer I got, the more perfect she appeared. 
 
 I looked her in her eyes and stuck my fingers in them. It was n't my original plan. They did n't break and smash like marbles as I'd hoped. In fact, they rejected me, ripping skin from my fingertips. Leaving me alone, once again. 
 
 I probably wo n't try and talk to anyone again for awhile.
