random prose...don't know what this will turn into

My name is Eleanor, but you won’t remember me.
I’ve come to realize this long ago, back in the small town that wore the paper mask of a city, situated neatly between the yawning green cornfields and the lonely city of Des Moines (da-Moyn…let’s not be stupid), plump and black in the middle of the country. I can’t imagine what it would have been like when Kerouac rambled through, and how he happened upon the very spot where his Benzedrine-addled brain must have thought that here, in this imitation city, are the most beautiful girls in the world.
Though a few men and women swept back my bangs and told me I was one of them, I never believed her or anyone else. Even while in therapy when I made my false declarations of self-esteem, everyone knew: I was nothing special.
I realized early on that I was incapable of being loved. I attributed it to being a writer. Of all artists, writers are the least likely to be loved. Artists can draw or paint you a picture. Musicians can write you a song. Writers can tear their heart out and throw it red and gasping at your feet and you won’t understand why.
You’ve forgotten it already. That’s okay.
It’s Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Come see me tonight.