Monthly Archives: November 2011

Because this might already be in the hands of a thief

I wrote the tirade below in a fit of white hot anger that needed direction. It was not intended for publication or even reading, not even by myself. But I did. I read it. And I sort of liked it (FUCKYOU). I gave it to a friend of mine to read as a sort of response to a wonderful piece of writing he placed in the postbox for me. Consequently, his laptop was abandoned (unintentionally) on a subway train, along with my pitiful, soul-bearing diatribe, complete with handwritten personal message at the top of which I can’t recall specific details. It makes me both thrilled and incredibly uncomfortable to have it floating around. So it made sense to me to “publish” this here.

I can say, “There, now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and let everyone know how your impish, stabby-stabby mind works.”

So, here it is in all its unedited (edited) glory. Enjoy. Or don’t enjoy. I don’t care. Fuck you.

If I haven’t already said this, the below is NSFW, NSFK, NSFA.*

And, please, if you find this in the next issue of Found magazine, do refrain from letting me know.

Just start writing, I guess. A blank page is palpable and lonely. Is it really filled with possibilities or simply guilt? Fuck you for thinking I’m weak. I certainly am but I don’t need you to tell me. Jerking off is easy. Why is writing hard? My sperm has a greater chance of creating something than my limp fingers. Just type away nonsensically until something magically appears that’s worth – I can’t believe I am already editing this. You’ll never know the dungeon of words that have been committed to this page and then summarily destroyed by these fingers.

Fuck you. Have I already said that? I just deleted that sentence. It didn’t know where it was going. Rather, it might have known, but I didn’t. It strikes me that Hemingway was racist (in his writings anyway) but it’s so hard to judge people now.

There was a time when I got angry over this. Now it seems like the way to moving on. Have a drink. Chewing an olive like a slab of bark. Fuck you. Have I said that? Before I was going to call you out for judging me but I deleted that sentence. I either need to jerk off or have another martini.

The child is happy with many things. Mostly things that might seem worthless to most indivisuals. I’m keeping that as is, by the way. Fuck you. Indivisuals has a sound to it that is amazing. Analyzing it, breaking it in two, particular seeing, perhaps. Friends in the melee. You can’t possibly be reading this. Not only is it trash but it might make your eyes rebel. Look at that perfectly white wall over there. So interesting. So many possibilities. Palpable and lonely. It calls to you. Get closer. See the cracks, the dirt stains, the shadows.

Narrators need antidepressants. They fill the world with void. Show don’t tell. The poor narrator. Hated from the get-go. Write and write and get nowhere. This page was better when it was blank.

This page was better when it was blank. It was filled with so many possibilities, palpable and lonely. Now it is filled to the brim with bullshit. Fuck you for loving a blank page.

We touched feet you and I. Once. At the beach, at the park, in the twenty-four hours garage. That’s not true.

A list of things I would like to want. Omission. It got off to a bad start so I removed it. If you want a list make one up. Fuck you. I’ve said that.

I just need to make it through this. One page that was blank before and now is filled with bullshit. Black ink shit. Where there was none now there is shit. Three sentences in a row that ended in shit. There is a chance this whole thing can be revised to become a coherent masterpiece. That chance just passed.

Waiter, another martini. Two olives. One for the lady. Two for you. One for me. One for us. I was going to delete that whole thought but I left it as a meta-sentence for you to fucking get angry about. It lacks any coherent melody. Dissonance and tough rhythm.

Make fists. Fingers can’t type with fists. Just close this. Find back the empty page. Return to the void. This waste of time is now wasting YOUR time. I’m really not sorry about it. You chose to pick this up. You chose to continue this far. A wiser person might have stopped quite a while ago. At the first cussing. At the moment when it as apparent that this could continue ad nauseam for a very long time. Periods of time that go on endlessly. That is fucked up, no? It is impossible to comprehend. Go on. Fuck you if you can. I don’t believe you and I will call you a liar to your face. You don’t understand it. You want to pretend you can understand it. Only the dead know. So fuck you.

*Not safe for work, kids, or anyone.