So, you’ve followed me on Quora. Alright, you snake. You want answers, and you think I have them. Or you have questions, and you think I have those, too. Honestly, I don’t know how Quora works, and I don’t know why you have decided to follow me at this juncture, as I haven’t logged into this obscure web entity since the Arab Spring. But here we are. You want to know which restaurants serve half-decent spicy tuna rolls, and you need my help. Don’t think I don’t smell your desperation.
My eyes move over your questions. Why do keyboard shortcuts increase productivity? Is it morally wrong to pee in the sink? Why is it a turn-on when men own obese cats? Hollow queries, all of them. None answered. You wait, like a dog. The universe’s indifference consumes you. You burn in the moonlight.
I lie awake, wondering why you’ve done this to me, to us. Why you’ve exacted this sinister turn upon our relationship, turned me from an acquaintance into a cow, sucking my bloated udders for shreds of minutiae you could just as easily obtain from Google.com, or anywhere else, really. You suck me for all I have. You suck me dry.
You’ve always known of my intelligence. When we were young, you’d pass me in town, glancing over your shoulder as I walked by. You glimpsed my notebooks, my drawings, my models of airplanes and elegant machinery — my hundred pages of raw, glistening knowledge. You grasped, impishly. I saw all.
And now, Quora. What vague quintessence of dust? What burgundy banner for your ignorance? What hobgoblin for your vacuous soul? A failed Platonic dialogue in which Socrates asks, “Is it morally wrong to pee in the sink?” and no one answers.
I send no compliments to your mother. I will never answer your questions on Quora, no matter how many burgundy and be-serifed emails I receive. There will be no Quora for us. You will die, a corpse grasping for replies to desperate and poorly worded inquiries about spicy tuna rolls, and I will live, a vast storeroom of knowledge in my heart. I can see straight down into the dark center of you, and what I see is nothing, and no one — a field of dead question marks that Time himself has neglected.
Go, and never come back. Take your slimy, rotting sack of questions and scatter them across the ocean. Watch them sink, and cry, cry for days. Ask God for forgiveness, and wait for an answer.