Im always very hyper. It’s Sunday. It’s 11am. My foot is bouncing up and down. I’m wearing respectable, flat Mary Janes. The church pew I’m sitting on is punishingly stiff. It’ll give me good posture for the rest of my life.

The hymn that’s playing reminds me of the last funeral I went to. Its Trinity Hymnal, #357, and ends with the lyric, “Severed only till he come.” Whenever someone dies my Dad says, “Severed only till he come.” He typically smiles when he says it.

The funeral was for a friend, but not a close friend. It was for Jojo, the girl who wore a velour tracksuit and a pair of purple converse every day of eighth grade. By ninth grade, she had grown a very faint mustache, and had started hanging out with self-proclaimed bronie and anime nerds, the kind of bottom-tier people I didn’t have the stomach to associate with. I faintly remember the one or two conversations I had with her, but all my memories of Jojo sort of dissolved into a blurry mess. So, it was weird when, at the funeral, her mom approached and hugged me tightly, with almost inappropriate enthusiasm.

She said, “You’re the friend who wants to be a writer, right?”

And I was like, yeah.

And she was like, “So are you going to write about Jojo?”

And I was like, “Probably.”

Jojo’s mom’s hair was drugstore dye pack metallic red. I rather liked it. She had the same dimples as Jojo, except they looked heavily worn, almost abused, from a life of too much smiling.

She said, “Jojo used to write.”

“Like, fanfictions or something?” I asked, recalling how much of a nerd she was.

“I read her diary after she died.”

“Was she good?”

“Of course she was good. She’s an angel.”

“I mean the writing.”

“Well, I think it was great.”

“What did she write about?”

Jojo’s mom smiled sadly, depressing her dimple.

“Well, she wrote a lot about you.”

“She did?” I made an expression like I was confused, flattered, and disgusted all at once. “What did she say about me?”

“Well, from what I can tell, she seemed to be in love with you.”

I was pretty positive that I would write about Jojo at some point. I was also positive that at other points in my life, various friends and acquaintances would die, and my immediate, irrepressible reaction would be that’s something to write about. Additionally, I am positive that Jojo was neither the first or the last person to confess their love for me.

When I left the funeral, Jojo’s grandfather said, “Thank you for coming.”

Since I heard Thank you, I said, “You’re welcome.”

Immediately, I realized that this was possibly the most inappropriate thing to say at a funeral. I should’ve said “Sorry for your loss,” because you’re welcome almost sounds like I’m wishing another death upon their family. I made an indelible mental note never to say you’re welcome at a funeral.

That night, I realized that I was uncomfortably comfortable with funerals, even ones for fourteen year old girls who died in freak accidents. That realization made me realize that there was no one on this earth I had any attachment to. It was a liberating epiphany. I thought, I’m not afraid to lose, so I’ll never experience loss, so I’ll never know how to be “Sorry for your loss.” And, so long as I stay attachment-less, I will come off as otherworldly. I’m an angel.

The Til He Comes hymn ends. I’m still insanely hyper. I’m not on speed, I’m just incredibly young. I’m fifteen and three quarters. I’m still in the pew. It’s still Sunday.

The day has finally come. I’ve become brutally attached to someone. Well, it’s virtual attachment, but possibly real attachment as well. It’s all pretty complicated because it happened online.

No one, not even my parents, knows that I’m in love. If I had friends, I would gush to them about it, but I don’t, so when the lovesick gushing comes out, I just get really spacey and smile into the abyss, like a retard.

My foot is forever bouncing up and down very fast.

“Stop,” my mom demands. She’s glaring at my unexposed knee, but no amount of glare is going to stop the infinite kicking or slow me down.

I take great delight in the fact that my mother doesn’t know about my internet lover. He’s not even a real boy. He’s an adult, a real man. I only know him by his Twitter handle, Diskkusting. I like the word on my lips, in spite of its meaning.

I don’t even know what Diskkusting looks like, and that’s how I know it’s love, pure love. He may actually be a woman, a girl, or an eighty-year-old. He could be anyone, and I wouldn’t care. I know, it’s ridiculous to love him, especially considering that my only visual reference for him is his twitter avi, which is an angry-looking cartoon frog holding up a wine glass.

I don’t remember when I first followed Diskkusting, or when he followed me back, or when he first direct messaged me, or when he first asked me for pictures of my right elbow.

I will never touch Diskkusting. I send him pictures of my arms, fingers, neck, and the blisters on my ankle. He says those are the parts of girls that really matter, contrary to popular belief. He doesn’t like tits or ass, he says they’re disgusting.

For the rest of church service, I keep glancing down at my phone covertly, checking his texts.

Diskkusting: Have you seen the movie Claire’s Knee?”

Me: No

Diskkusting: It’s a french film from the early 70s. All my friends think I’m pretentious for liking it. It’s about an older guy who’s infatuated with a young girl’s knee. He doesn’t love the girl, just the knee.

Me: That’s twisted.

Diskkusting: I think it’s beautiful.

Me: We should watch it together when we get to the IRL.

Sometimes, I wonder if Diskkusting loves me or just my right elbow, which he described as, “blocky, boyish, cute.” He says the elbow is enough to make him cum. I think severed only til he come.

Me: We have to get together IRL.

Diskkusting: If any of these fantasies were realized they would suck so fucking bad.

Me: (╯︵╰,)

Diskkusting: I’m sorry to say, but I’m shorter than you.

Me: Doesn’t matter!
Idc!

Diskkusting: We’re both very sheltered people.
I don’t even have a driver’s license.
I couldn’t make it to the airport.
You can’t even escape your parents.

Me: I can fly to you!
I can run away!

Diskkusting: Don’t do it.
Trust me, I will disappoint you in every way possible.

Like God, Diskkusting is always with me, but never really there. He says I’m cute, I’m “so cute, it hurts,” but we can never meet in the irl, the afterlife of the url.

He says that I’m the most perverted girl he’s ever encountered online, despite my religious upbringing and purity, because, “No other girl would write gushy love texts to an anonymous person. It’s pretty twisted.”

My knee bobs up and down. My right elbow is resting on the side of the pew. My future is hurtling towards me.