So

I'm trying to do this writing thing with a bit more sincerity, honesty, and consistency. That being said, whenever I sit down to write some neo-shit babbling, I have no clue where it's headed, for what reason, with no regard for topic, thought, intelligence or coherence. After having displayed a piece of writing to a dear friend last night, I got my first helping of actual criticism, more helpful and insightful than I really expected from such a curt and frank discussion. What follows here is a hypothetical and hyper-fictionalized version of that conversation, taken to the extremes of stupidity, obscenity and utter shit. I believe that this conversation, as short as it is, displays what my brain sounds like in my head. With that in mind, I guess I'm kind of fucked up. This is a "short story" that has no story and is simply two people conversing. The dialog should be read as quickly as possible, mostly being shouted. I would recommend any readers to find a dark room, away from children, and with plenty of room to yell. I stand here surprised and amazed that I produced such psycho fucking banter but I guess I should be more offended than anything. I am giving myself a "WTF" for the semester.


“This makes no sense! Absolutely no fucking sense! I have not a goddamn clue what the fuck you’re talking about here! There’s no plot, there are no characters and, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve accepted the fact that you wrote this shit either A) to prove your fucking diction to me or B) blatantly display that you scored in the 97th percentile on your SATs. Where is the direction of this piece? No plot, no structure; purely verbal masturbation. Consider me offended.”

“I prefer the term ‘golden-shower-plot development'. Dead-weight lit. Shitty weed.”

“See! That’s exactly what I’m talking about. How the fuck am I supposed to categorize your writing if you allow these obtuse descriptions to go unreferenced and unexplained?! With shit like this, you’re leading your readers into the dark. Look! Look here! A fine example: you cannot throw in the words “slings”, “arrows”, “outrageous”, and “fortune” connected by a series of hyphens with punctuation, articles, and conjunctions dropped, and not expect me to know that you’ve ripped off fucking Shakespeare! What is this fraudist horseshit, you neo-Trotskyite??”

“Sir, you asked me to come up with a thought piece on the cohesion of the human experience. Now, I’ve been studying here for seven semesters. I asked thirteen people, and I played a few rounds of pool before I could figure out what that means. This piece is me throwing a dart at a dictionary on a wall in a house watching Indiana Jones and every word that is touched by the steel of the dart is a word that I pissed onto this paper to satisfy the god awful metaphysics that were involved to produce such a stupid topic! If you read this on a literary level, it’s roughly equivalent in stature to the assignment assigned. Epistemologically speaking, this four-page diatribe on the cohesion of human experience is an art installation of more or less literary “fraudist horseshit”, to use your own words. This is a big, big fuck you! Give me a god damn A.”

Professor Blomthal gingerly tore up my paper, called me “an egregious wordy fuck”, failed me and destroyed two hours of opium-hazed incoherence. That was the day when, seven semesters in, I changed my major from English to management.