This is the rough draft of the first chapter of a new project I’m working on. It’s a transgressive work, the type of stuff you’d see from Chuck Palahniuk or Brett Easton Ellis. It’s pretty dark and vulgar, but I think for the style it’s shaping up pretty well. Thoughts?
You don’t want to read about me.
Seriously, I’m not worth your time.
You’re still fucking reading? What’s wrong with you? Are you one of those types who has to leave a handprint on the wall because you don’t trust the wet paint sign? Or is it just a rebellious streak? Have you been diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder?
It’s bullshit. A made up term to explain why people are fucked up. And we’re all fucked up, let me tell you. Spend some time researching your personality quirks on the internet and you’ll come up with a myriad of disastrous issues.
Are you obsessive compulsive? Maybe you have ADD? ADHD? Social anxiety issues? Ergophobia? List more things about yourself – don’t worry you won’t be alone! You’re fucked up too, just like the rest of us, and we can you a nice little label, some happy fun time pills and most importantly and excuse for being so shitty.
Revel in it. Say your problem loud and proud.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not discounting disorders entirely. We are all legitimately fucked up. Maybe I’m just saying the titles, categories, and treatments are all misnomers. Maybe I’m saying they’re a fancy way of fucked up people telling other fucked up people how to live and feel in order to make themselves feel a little less fucked up themselves.
Or maybe I’m not.
Who fucking cares?
Are you seriously still reading?
I knew a guy once, Billy let’s call him, who went off to Iraq fresh out of high school. Billy was pretty fucked up before he went to Iraq, a borderline alcoholic with penchant for fighting any motherfucker who looked at him the wrong way. Billy had issues, but his issues combined with his miserably low high school GPA made him a perfect candidate to become one of Uncle Sam’s boys.
Three weeks into deployment an RPG struck Billy’s Humvee as he stood alongside of it. He probably would have become meat pudding if it hadn’t been for his best friend in the unit, a poor son of a bitch named Joe Murphy who happened to be standing between Billy and the Humvee when the rocket struck.
“So she lifts up the burka and she’s packing a dong!” Those were his final words. Kind of sad, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you wish your last words were more flattering, and not the punch line to a joke about a goat-herder’s unfortunate run in with a transsexual Sunni?
I don’t know, who the fuck am I to judge?
What was left of Joe coated Billy, I’m talking melting flash latching onto his skin, chunks of gore forcing themselves into his mouth, and eviscerated organs clinging onto his body like they were apart of some grotesque ensemble. Joe was a fine friend but a pretty poor meat-shield, and plenty of the shrapnel ripped through his body and lodged itself into Billy.
I remember the party his family threw for him when he returned. I attended not because I was particularly fond of Billy; I just wanted to feel a sense of belonging. You know, the type of feeling that you get when tell someone you donated to charity, or ran a 5k to support cancer research.
You just do it so everyone thinks you’re a good person.
Everyone includes you.
Halfway through the evening someone popped a balloon and Billy shit himself, put his hands over his ears, started screaming at the top of his lungs and ran until he tripped and fell face first into his welcome back cake, destroying it as he fell to the floor, face coated in vanilla frosting and pants soaked through with feces.
The last I heard Billy addicted to pain killers, had a constant twitch, was unemployed, and was blowing dudes for pills in an alley in Tacoma, Washington.
Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. Does it matter? He’s fucked up, you’re fucked up, I’m fucked up.
And you’re still reading.
There was a kid once. An imaginative, bright little boy who had the misfortune of being born into a low income family. Maybe his creativity came from his mother, a failed artist turned pot dealer who was more concerned with completing high school level pieces of art than she ever was with taking care of a son. Or maybe it was from his father, who so inventively named the belt he beat his son with “Mr. Slack” for reasons unknown.
“You’ve been a bad, bad boy!” Mr. Slack would say in a voice eerily similar to that of Mickey Mouse. “Mr. Slack is comin’ for ya!” His father said this in a silly way, as if they were playing some type of make believe game.
The beatings that followed were all too real.
But honestly, the boy probably got his creative and unique perspective on the world from watching his parent’s fuck. His first memories of this were from when he was four or five, but he thought that the experience went further back than that. His parent’s had the odd habit of stripping down and boning right in front of him, literally dropping whatever they were doing to go at it.
“Oh let him watch! He’ll learn early!” His obese father cackled as he thrust his short, stubby cock into the eagerly awaiting mouth of his wife. The boy was always startled by how his mother stared directly into his eyes the entire time, as if she was taunting him.
Or enticing him.
Maybe his parents caused his social anxiety and sexual dysfunction issues, but they were only exacerbated when he wasted four years of his life dating a stuck-up, cold-blooded cunt who left him during his most difficult time.
I fucking hate you, Kelly.
I love you, Kelly.
You don’t want to read about that boy. It will only make you a worse person. The baggage he’s carrying, well it’s just too much. Why don’t you go buy one of those commercial novels? You know, one of those feel good stories with the predictable arc where, despite the central conflict and the tension that arises with love interest, everything gets resolved and everyone lives happily ever after.
This is your final warning.
Maybe you’re just as fucked up as I am.