A story about nothing.

This is not at all anything worth reading. Hell, I don’t know why I bother writing it. I don’t have anything to say and we both know that you got better things to do. I have no pieces of advice to give, no wisdom to share and I’d bet money on the fact that you probably could care less. What do you say we just be honest with each other. You would rather choke long and hard before reading some bitter diatribe by me of all people and I’d rather suck eggs before sharing such writing with someone like you.

Lets just say that I got some thoughts, and sometimes they make me feel one way, and other times another, and sometimes, they don’t do a fucking thing for me. You can read that, get inspired, and walk away feeling like hell-muthafuckin-yea. Tell your friends about it, obsess to them about it, drive them crazy until they run out and read what I wrote just so they can prove you wrong, but instead they become consumed. Then they will want to debate you over how life affirming it is, and together you can start discovering hidden subtext that isn’t really there. Debate points about what happened on 22, and how it so connects to the end of chapter 13.

The transformation in subtext and meaning will just draw you in everywhere you go. Eventually you will run into someone at the coffee shop, or internet café, which come to think of it, are usually the same place. Either way, you will meet someone and they will share your neurosis for this subject. Together you can form debates, re-enactments and even Tupperware parties that all share the same preoccupation for my writing.

Meanwhile I’ll be laying in a pool of my own substance abuse, faded all day and into the night, before all the guests arrive. Every part getting bigger and better than the last.
Totally unorganized, downright incoherent, and yet for some reason, completely omnipotent. The agents and lawyers will demand more and I wont even remember what I wrote. When I finally get around to rereading my work it will make laugh, immediately causing me to begin work on a follow-up. I will work night and day, with a real ax to grind, thinking that what I do is going to be so profound, and so cerebral yet emotional.

The publics’ anticipation will build to such an insane level that it will make the Iphone look like a K-mart blue light special. But Steve jobs would never admit that because he is a complete fucking megalomaniac.

Finally I will release my follow-up, and the critics will completely pan it, calling it “my failure”.  But not so fast, I will gain a cult following, who will keep it alive and carry the torch till the times finally catch up with me. People will read it more than the bible, mothers will leave their kids in the car while they pick up another copy because someone stole it. It will be a tsunami of rusty nails, infecting everything it touches. Conspiracies will swarm: was I homophobic, communist, charlatan, or Yatzee enthusiast? I will go on a book signing tour, read my work at Carnagie hall, yet maintain street cred by turning down all corporate sponsorship. One day at a book signing we will meet, and get along so well that we decide to go for dinner.

You will expect a well-spoken, earnest intellectual but instead I’ll complain that the waiter took too long to approach the table and that the Perrier was room temperature. I wont make eye contact, will talk with my mouth full and you cringe at the fact that I don’t seem to shut up. The alcohol will make me belligerent, as I return from the bathroom boasting about how I wrote my name on the wall in my own feces. You will storm out and I will not even remember your name.

You will go home, burn my books, head back to church, and try your best to not think about all the time you wasted on me.

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~ by thmjklmstrymn on August 18, 2011.

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