Nobody Wants To Read This II

If a woman needs about 9 months to grow a baby, I’m gonna need an abortion soon. Laugh real low. [Redacted.] But, in regards to my genesis story, I’m a security guard to a lowkey mobile home community, I’d say. My name is Wellington and I am influenced by Critical Theory type literary criticism, and my overall narration is a paternal "death of the author" sorta thang. An author’s intentions and background should hold no special relation to interpreting the value of the work, no? I am half black, half white, equally. Half gay, half straight, nonetheless. I might use racial slurs and sexist jokes. Not volunteering to self-identify my true sexaul orientation, race and ethnicity here. I decline to do that on job applications as well.

I was ableist yesterday by saying I’d rather have autism than aspergers, in the chapter "Sacrifices…" Like I’m not trying to piss off people. People like to piss off themselves. If I were black and gay and autistic would that make it any better? If I were a trans womxn? Virtue signaling. LGBTQIACDEFHJKMNOPRSUVWXYZ! Marketing. Morality police. Social justice prissypoos. I am a condescending misanthrope; an unapologetic one, at that. I’ll take an hour to write some seething, self-congratulatory comeback. I think there is a difference in social masks: like how you act genuinely around others, versus impersonally through other mediums. I realized this when I’d have people I met (while being a rideshare driver) tell me, "You seem like such a nice guy. God bless." And sure, I was formal, polite and well-mannered, but it was an act of survival. I don’t want people to think badly of me, so I put on a front to survive. The first law of social skills. Everyone is in on it, unless you really have a deep disregard for others. If only you knew how bad things really are, right?

Let me just have the freedom to be ruined here. Because I have so much "rebel wannabe writer" material to comb through. My first attempt at writing a novella 9 years ago, for instance. It's so wack and broken I can't even. I was trying to lay out the synopsis to it, and so it goes.

...well, Mabel, married, in that plot, if I remember correctly, was taking care of their daughter (who had a bad habit of peeing herself in protest whenever she didn't get her way). And one day Mabel, the wife, cheated on her husband with the elementary school principal because their daughter Persephone stabbed a kid in the hand with a pencil and had to be set up with the school counselor—and for some reason the principal took notice of Mabel's behind and seized an opportunity to spin private details of what Persephone said about her father Marl (a name intentionally used to sound incompentant) being a poor father, which wasn't true. Marl became successful by opening a vegan café with his inheritance money, and that's how he attracted Mabel in the first place, etc. But anyway, yeah... Mabel ends up giving the principal fellatio and didn't know he was recording it; the principal uploaded it to PornHub and one of Marl's employees said he saw the video pop up on the recommended feed and recognized immediately it had to be Mabel, no coincidence: so of course Mabel didn't know of it but Marl did, then. And then Marl takes a gun out from his safe and consequently stalks the principal, and shoots the principal in the mouth, and it turns into some subjective psychodrama that Mabel wasn't even real and Marl was actually insane the whole time, etc, etc.

Don’t ask why one of the employees actually reached out to Marl. That’s one of those things that could have been fleshed out more, I suppose. In a Stephen King sense I did find my life shaping out as an inversion of what I wrote. I’d not be as exaggerated as this Marl character who had some dumbass insecurities. That was all related to ordinary "dude in his 20s" type frustrations, paranoia, spite, and disenchantment—from getting dealt a bad smile with women. Eventually I did outgrow that, and can look back on it with droll amusement. All those growing pains didn’t exactly put me on the most financially secure path, if you would call trading shitcoins much better. At least now I’m not worried about securing love. I do look back on my past insanity—and don’t see myself all that much different, still. Like I said, I’d start to notice these transgressed coincidences from my writings shape into people and places I’d move onto. I’d go on a date with this subtle goth latina woman — way more subtle for my own handling — thinking to myself how she looks like the woman I had in mind when creating that Mabel character. I knew it was delusional, but it was a comfort food sort of delusion. I’d seduce myself more with thoughts like, "Here is your chance to get Mabel and make things right in the actual universe" (and not the fictitious disasters Mabel became lost to). Of course that didn’t turn out well. She was dealing with her own realities, and the reality I wanted wasn’t even something malicious or anything. Just a simple girlfriend I could be a goof around & fuck. So I don’t take it personally she didn’t find my manifest appearance to her own reality all that persuasive. I was also poor and low on the social hierarchy. Still am, shit. Things did get mildly passive-aggressive, but there was some interpersonal misinterpretation one day where it had been concluded that I was only a friend and my goofiness the whole time really made her uncomfortable. Don’t blame her. I don’t think the whole friend dynamic is genuinely possible with a potential love interest. Not unless you have both moved on. In that case she had the lead. I was a loser without a backup or exit plan of any sort. If you are single and get rejected, you need a rebound.

The rebound concept I feel has a stigma to it, like it's morally wrong. But when you think about it, it's a healthier response to rejection instead of sulking and waiting for another chance. I learned this after that whole debacle with her. It took me a while to internalize that because I went off to write another novella, which ended up just as significantly bad as the first novella, except marginally better in certain respects. After another huge introspective disappointment with myself, I gave up on writing for a reasonable amount of time. All things considered. Occasionally I'd try to surrender to spontaneity and write for the sake of nonjudgmental expression. Perhaps to be left forgotten about until I get the manic confidence to recycle all those stupid ideas into something new again. And so it goes.

I ended up much later finding myself accidentally making NFT art and selling it. I alluded to this one woman again in the metadata of one particular NFT I made.

This piece is titled "Some Time Ago". Following a timelapse of a young woman abstracted through an antique television screen, she is an artifact from the past. Standing on some downtown street at night, wearing a thin choker collar; but now her eyes are embossed over, to camouflage herself away from future pedestrians.

I like how so much past hootenanny is reduced to that little blip there. Refinement is life: life is refinement. Tomb is life; Life is Tomb… All is well. Let’s move on. I’m sure someone out there will hate me for drawing from these past experiences and transgressing it into art. Grow up. One day I’ll be dead. You’ll be dead. And so goes it.

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