Sitting around on the floor the useless woman feeds on paper- reams and reams of it all stacked in piles, trying to fill up her life, her soul, with things to do, pictures to remember. She goes on a journey of wonderful fantastical proportions, from defeating great monsters to slashing out in glory at the robot Kings, and then she feels useless, useless.
But she sits all day doing nothing, feeling useless, so she’s trying to fill up it all, her whole life, all the blankness in her life, with something other than nothing, other than nothing, other than useless, so she does things, one after the other, haphazard, zig zagging, over the top, under the edges pulled right, barely over, all things, like art, writing, drawing, reading, and dredging out how useless she feels to anyone who’ll listen. All the time. Oh she’s the useless woman. The useless woman.