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Who, in their right mind, Kevin, could possibly deny the twentieth century was entirely mine?

The devil's advocate, 1997

I scroll through my Instagram feed. I see: beautiful bodies and smiles. A woman with the "model-next-door" body type winks while eating a dessert typical of some fucking folkloristic place and shows an exciting, but discreet, thigh slit. I drag my finger from right to left. Another photo. Discretion gone. Close-up of her kneeling on the beach, looking up at the camera from below. Glossy skin halfway between suntan lotion and sweat.

I want her. I want to fuck her. No. I want to be her.

In the prefrontal cortex an animal shakes its chains and cries, "None of this is real!"

My hand slithers closer to the crotch of my pants, but I shrug. Next.

A group of friends at a movie theater exit. Normal people, smiles. I know. I know I know I know. One by one, they would all be meager little nobodies like me. But in this post they're all happy. Beaming. Here's the historic couple, here's the best friends forever, here's the odd but lovable sidekick.

I want them. I want to screw them. I want to be them.

I scroll over the beautiful, aerodynamically curved race car, filmed in the narrow streets of a small mountain village on the Swiss border. Cars, you know, are all like women. I don't want to know how much this metal obscenity costs or how much oil it sucks, but hell if I want one.

The creature in the prefrontal cortex withers. I shrug.

A man around forty-two years old, hipster beard, jaunty eye, salt-and-pepper hair, and sculptured abs. Delusional photo description of how it is possible for everyone to reach his full potential.

I want it. I want to fuck him. I want to be him.


This is a translation of a short written for a WRITOBER contest, which was "envy". I hope you liked it!

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