Seahorse Becomes Grapefruit Moon

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Naruki Kukita is a Japanese artist living in New York City

 

It’s the guy.

The one from about a month ago. The one with the seahorse tattoo and the word “Brooklyn,” in the New York Times font – on his left shoulder blade. He’s Asian, or Pacific Islander I’d say. Actually, I wouldn’t say that. I won’t. I won’t mention his ethnicity until he does. Wait, will I? Will I seem like a ‘color blind’ white asshole if we go out for a few dates and I don’t ask him about his ethnicity? Whatever, I’ll gauge it later. I can mention being white on the second date self-effacingly, and see what information he offers.  I’ll say I’m Icelandic and we’re good at stoicism and have a high happiness index. Nope. Won’t say anything like that. Stooge.

Holy shit, he’s smiling! Jeez! I’m being charming. This is awesome.  He’s never going to put a shirt on for the entirety of this conversation is he? Oh man. Now I’m bringing up work schedules. And work. Fuck. He’s a writer. Of course he is. Beautiful. The tattoos say he has some sort of sense of humor.  Of course, a writer. What else would he be? Oh fuck he works for Showtime. Of course he does. I’m also a writer, I say. OH NO my arm is propped up on the side of this bank of lockers! Jesus, I look like a villain in a John Hughes movie hitting on a timid girl. Come on, correct yourself… Open up the body. Breathe. What is he saying? What am I saying? Did I just say I even love being in traffic sometimes? What an idiot. Whatever. I’m trying. It’s obvious I’m trying.

Smile. He’s being nice. His body language is open. Now I’m casually saying how I’ve learned, since the election, to just look at the news for 15 minutes a day, and turn the radio off in the car, so I can be alone with my thoughts, and focus on serenity. What a fucking asshole! Focus on serenity. I mean, it’s true, but good lord I sound like a used wet wipe. Awful.

He’s. So. Fucking. Cute.

If someone ever approached me like this, would I go on a date with them??

Whatever. I’ve been waiting to chat him up again for almost a month. I’m asking him out, or I never will. Okay –

“Well, I’ll let you go. I just need to know when you’re taking me out for a drink.” Wow. Idiot! You should offer to take him out! Really hitting it out of the park today, fool. Still, maybe he caught the irony that I’m doing something cutely inappropriate, like offering to let him take me out for a drink. I’m not even a drinker anymore. Whatever. I’ll pay and it will seem adorkable in retrospect. I’ll find a way to make this memory of me asking him out seem charming.

Great.  I bump into the towel cart, and the small brown man pushing a load of wet towels back to the laundry. I make deep eye contact and mouth the word “sorry” to him. Some of the brown men who tend the towels and squeegee the floors, some of them I never look at. The ones that seem cocky or mean, like they’d say misogynist jokes if they were alone with you, and expect you to laugh along. Also, sometimes those jokes are funny and I laugh along, and feel bad later. Also, sometimes I forget to feel bad entirely. It depends on my day.

But this middle-aged man of the towels is sweet and kind, so I always look at him and say hello. Eye contact. Mutual respect. Los Angeles runs on small framed brown people taking away the dirty towels, stocking the shelves in the grocery stores, cutting the grass. It’s easy to forget to look at them. It’s also condescending and stupid to look at them on purpose. If I really cared about them I’d hand them cash. I guess I only care about myself. I guess that’s okay? That’s okay. I help people for a living. That’s fine. I’m fine. Am I fine? Yes.

Oh SHIT. It occurs to me in this weird, lingering moment –  I’m making dumb, deep eye contact with the middle aged brown man I like, while hitting on a young grapefruit skinned man I like much more. Right in front of both of them. I’m certain this is foolish behavior. I’m a fool.

Oh, shit, though. The seahorse guy is handing me his phone! Yes. He says he’ll text me. I enter my number, and text “Hi, dummy,” to myself.  Yeah. That’s charming, isn’t it? Ugh.

Well it’s done. I say goodbye and go work out.

I don’t get a text.

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Fuck me in the fucking face. I put the wrong number in. Asshole. Idiot. Now it will be, what, another month before I see him again? I trudge through the rest of my workout. I become inundated with sweat. I’m walking up the eternal stair treadmill, watching my sweat on the endless up-the-down-escalator turn from droplets to rivulets, now a trough of sweat. I walk back to the locker room. The kind faced small brown man who does the towels is there. He looks at me. He opens his mouth as if to say something. I hold eye contact with him. He says nothing. I touch him on the arm. It’s too much. Now it’s weird. Okay fine, bye.

I start to feel better in the shower. The seahorse guy told me his name, and the name of the last show he worked on. I can find him on IMDB and message him somewhere.  He has Twitter, I’m sure. Facebook. I’ll send a message. I’ll say something charming.

Then I see it. There, in the cubby.

The showers are chrome and sleek, with doors of semi-opaque frosted glass. Always immaculate – always pristine in here. Tight marble tiles on the floor. Ceramic actually, but they’re made to emulate marble. Smooth tiles on the walls. A cubby hole for your goggles, or suit, or cell phone, or soap. In the cubby, I see it. A gum wad.

I’ve seen gum wads left in the cubby before. People somehow frequently decide they’re done with their gum in the shower, and can’t be bothered to hold the mealy, flavorless offense in their mouth even five minutes to shower. Or, maybe they’re brushing? Even so, though, they have to make the decision to leave the gum in the cubby, and I always feel a small outrage for the towel people when I see careless gum in the shower. You’re so pampered you can’t even pick your gum back up and throw it out? Gross.

But this isn’t errant, wayward gum. This gum is jammed into the back corner of the cubby. Someone smashed it in with their thumb. Someone wanted to humiliate the towel guys? Or, maybe they hate the towel guy I like with the kind eyes? Maybe they just want to know someone has to work to dig their gum out of the cubby where they lodged it? Maybe it’s pure sadism. Sadistic person at the expensive gym? Probably common. I think about a comedy set I heard last week about how some people who go to my gym shit next to the toilets, just because they can. I feel deflated. Defeated. Sullen, even. I’m not going to pick the gum out, that’s absurd. The gym membership is embarrassingly expensive. It’s a car payment.

But, on my way out of the stall I see a discarded tooth brush on the shower room floor. I grab it and take it back to the stall. I poke at the gum.

It springs open.

It has suddenly become a frizzy spider web egg sack. Spiders – glossy rust colored spiders emerge from the gum wad. Hundreds, thousands. They pour out of the angry wad and radiate up around and down. In twenty seconds the stall is mostly covered with them. Hundreds of thousands of spiders now, pouring into the shower room. It reminds me of movies, when a ship springs a leak. There are so many of them. I back out, naked, into the locker room. I drop the toothbrush. Millions of spiders now. They’re engulfing everything. Counter tops, mirrors. People running in horror, but as soon as the first spider bites they are paralyzed. Frozen in place. Like a kid’s game of freeze tag. It’s coming too fast now.  I grab the kind faced brown towel man and look into his eyes. It’s time to run. He holds me fast. His eyes say, stop. You know this is pointless. It’s happening. It’s all ending right now. That’s not gum, or a spider egg sack in there – and this is the End of Things. Call it God, or a pinprick into a worm hole. But you know what this is. You know we are all ending right now.

I suddenly stop struggling. Instinctively I know he is right. Some reptile part of my brain activates enough to tell me there is no hope left.  The world has given way to something different. Something much more simple and primal.  I lock forearms with the kind faced brown man. His eyes are dark inkwells, with a deep azure ring around them. An optical illusion.

“You wear contacts, don’t you?” He nods. It’s barely perceivable, but he nods.

I only feel the first bite. Soon we two are as one. Covered in an increasingly infinite coating of spiders. I think, we must look like a gnarled rust colored tree. Withering. They’re eating our bodies. Our faces. His foreskin. My eye. We feel nothing. We dissolve into a writhing reddish orange goo. At some point, things go dark. There is nothing, but it’s still something. Just an awareness of nothing is something. It must be.

The seahorse guy is on top of the parking garage. He sees the dirty orange red tide start to seep up Vine and spread out into Argyle. They’re coming up to the roof. He takes his clothes off. He smiles and looks down. It is a sad, resigned smile. He rises into the sky, naked, with a seahorse on his left arm and the word “Brooklyn” stamped on his left shoulder blade. He rises more. Higher and higher he goes, up, up into the stratosphere. Beyond. But, slowly, while the ruddy stain spreads up the coast like a gunshot wound. It’s happening so fast now. Nobody is even afraid. The seahorse man curls himself up into a ball. He swells huge. Bigger than huge, and rises even further up into the nothingness.

Later that night the world takes on a black, reddish glisten. The spiders are everywhere. There is nothing else. No land mass. No oceans. Just an unctuous throbbing mass. Two moons hang in the sky bathing the writhing spiders in different colored lights. Trillions. More. So many. A whole world full of other dimension spiders.

One of the moons is stark, white and pock marked. It looks made of cheese. The bigger one is warmer. Golden.

The seahorse has become a faint whisper on the surface of a grapefruit moon. Brooklyn has vanished completely.

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-3

MonDATE: Bisexuals and the Right to Privacy, Part Two

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Him: You’re being extremely unfair!

Me: I’m sorry about that. Did you see August Osage County? What did you think?

Him: Seriously, are you Bisexual?

Me: I keep thinking if I hadn’t seen the Broadway play, I might have really liked the movie. I liked it quite a bit, actually, but I might have been blown away if I hadn’t watched the Broadway show twice.

Him: Don’t change the subject! Stop it.

Me: Julia Roberts really blew the doors off the hinges. It’s worth seeing just for that.

Him: I didn’t see it yet, okay?

Me: Okay. No spoilers, then.

Him: I’m asking you a question, and you’re avoiding it.

Me: I don’t see why I owe you the information. It’s just information, after all.

Him: I read your site for years. I’m extremely curious. What happened? It seems like you’ve made a 180, and I don’t know what to make of all of it. It seems…

Me: Don’t trail off. How does it seem?

Him: Hypocritical. It seems hypocritical. Sorry.

(There is a long pause. I sit on a bench at the bus stop.)

Him: You waiting for a bus now?

Me: Only if it’s an express bus to Canada.

Him: What does that mean?

Me: I dunno. It’s about half a joke. I’ll let you know when/if there’s a punch line.

Him: Hey. I’m sorry I called you a hypocrite – just how I see it.

Me: Ha. Then you’re not really sorry! You’re frustrated about quite a few things, and I’d suspect the root of it has very, very little to do with me.

Him: You can’t just… You can’t write about the gay community for years, and talk openly about being a poly-amorous homosexual – you can’t run some sort of online ‘brotherhood of man’ pie cult for the gays, and then just get married to a woman. Just, poof, you’re married and normal again. Just like that.

Me: Can’t I? Why can’t I? Why can’t I marry whomever I want? Isn’t that the underlined point behind the Marriage Equality movement?

Him: Don’t you feel you owe people like me an explanation?

Me: Why?

Him: Because I am one of your readers. Because I’m your audience.

(There is a long pause.)

Me: Well… thank you. I’m flattered you’re reading, that you’re still reading, and that you took the time to contact me. All of these things are incredibly flattering, and part of me agrees with you. A huge part of me thinks I owe it to you to tell you exactly how my sex life is structured, what it means to be LGBTQ in a traditional marriage structure, and send you home with a slice of pie and a warm feeling of hope for tomorrow.

Him: That’s what I’d like, yes.

Me: Then again, I’ve read quite a few books on writing, and while authors agree it is important to have an audience, they seem to also agree that catering things to your audience leads to atrophy in a major way. Bill Cosby said something like, I don’t know what the formula for success is, but I know the formula for failure is trying to please everyone.

Him: Teach me, oh wise one.

Me: I’m not getting paid to teach you, or, for that matter, to tell you how to live your life, or to tell you how I live mine.

Him: Okay, I’ll admit – it’s none of my business.

Me: Thank you.

Him: But I’m CURIOUS.

Me: Yes. You’re curious. That’s exactly right. You expect me to tell you intimate details of my personal life to you, the way I would to my therapist, because you read my site for a while and you feel somehow entitled to missing information. But you’re just an audience member. You’re just tuning in. You don’t know me and you have no real right to my inner physical, emotional, or intellectual life, beyond what I publish on my site, which by the way you read for free – so I owe you even less.

Him: People are going to want to know! You wrote about your sex life for years!

Me: No. Incorrect. I did not.

Him: Yes you DID. You’re being a hypocrite!

Me: Actually, I wrote about awkward dates, urban alienation, and my disappointment in a community full of brilliant, motivated, socially broken people. I almost never mentioned who I was having sex with.

Him: Come off it. You were sleeping with all those boys who made pie with you.

Me: Incorrect. Those were models, or friends, or people who contacted me online who wanted to help. It was very rare I slept with the people on my site.

Him: What?

Me: The “Awkward Dates” happen with people I don’t sleep with. That is the whole point: Here’s how NOT to sleep with me. The irony is, it’s pretty easy to sleep with me, if you’re cute and sweet, but most gay people have no interest in being kind, gentle, or generous of spirit – at least the ones who live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn don’t. They think they don’t have to, and in some sense, they’re correct. Someone will stomach their painfully underdeveloped, spoiled, sour personalities. But that someone isn’t me…

Him: Still seems hypocritical to me.

Me: You’ve now called me a hypocrite three times.

Him: So?

Me: So take a deep breath.

Him: Why?

Me: I’m about to tell you what I think about you.

(Pause. He looks concerned. I take a deep breath and count to ten.)

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

Dan Paul Roberts

http://www.flickr.com/photos/105324876@N08/

(Follow the link for photos: Genifer Michael Studios)

I write music and draw because it’s my creative impulse. I’m almost always making something. If one art form feels too big or stuck in limbo, I’ll try something else out. Different mediums are like different voices of the psyche. Often, my musical urge is the more somber, sentimental side of my expression, while drawing can bring out the sillier, more exaggerated voices within me.

For me, making work is a joyful experience inherently. Even writing a sad song involves some kind of catharsis that, in time, makes me feel better and strengthens me.  In that same vein, I do process pain through my art (mostly songwriting). Singing can give a voice to pain and allow it to transform. You can see the beauty in that poignant moment and thus see past your problems.  Being a singer/songwriter terrifies me. I think that’s why I do it. Whenever I have a really strong impulse to do something–like serious desire–there’s typically a high level of fear that accompanies it. Why else would it be worth doing if there weren’t a risk involved. So I’ve devoted my life to it, because it makes me feel the most.

Injustice usually pushes my buttons. I don’t like people being taken advantage of.
Nothing is wrong with the world, only our perception of it. 
One time, in early high school, I peed in my pants driving home from the video store in Wichita Falls, Texas. I was renting rated R movies to jerk off to and had deliberated too long in making my selection. I thought I could make it home, but I was wrong.”
Btw my album is called The Make Up and it comes out Oct 1st “
 
 

Stop. Be still.

IMG_3150 as Smart Object-1

tri vo studio

Him: Are you okay?

Me: No. Obviously.

Him: Stop. You look tired. Stop. Don’t. Don’t hug me. You always try to hug me.

Me: I need affection. Please hug me.

Him: Stop. Fine. Yes. Here. Hug me.

Me: Thanks. Let’s lie down?

Him: No, I’m not here for that. I’m here for you.

Me: I’m fine.

Him: You’re not.

Me: I am. I’m fine.

Him: No, Michael. You’re not. You’re not fine at all. Some very traumatic things happened. You’re trying to act like you’re fine, but you’re bouncing off the walls. Be still.

Me: I can’t. I don’t. I don’t have time for being still, not for one second. I have so much to do.

Him: Why am I here? Why did I come over here? Do you know?

Me: Kiss me.

Him: Stop. No. Stop.

Me: I need affection. Hug me again.

Him: Okay fine. What happened?

Me: Lots of stuff.

Him: How was LA?

Me: It wasn’t as nice as I’d hoped it would be.

Him: Are people mean?

Me: Uh. Some of them are, yes. Extremely.

Him: You mean at the Network?

Me: No. I mean other comedy types that I thought were my friends.

Him: How was the Network?

Me: They were nice enough.  I had no idea what I was auditioning for. I had to stay in my hotel room for three days straight while they grilled me about who I was. I was isolated. I quit my job, lost Alex over it, and I got so exhausted that I might have showed too much ‘realness’ in the final interview.

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Him: Wait, you lost Alex over it?

Me: He was terrified of being alone for six weeks. Maybe he just didn’t really love me to begin with, though? Soon as he said yes to moving in with me, the smiles stopped.

Him: He stopped smiling at you?

Me: Yes. He would look for reasons to provoke me. He wouldn’t smile. He wouldn’t eat food I made, even when I knew he’d skipped dinner. I got a few promotions, and career advancements. He wouldn’t show up to celebrate them.

Him: Wow.

Me: He left me right when I needed him most. He left during the hardest callback process of my life. Whywouldyoudothattosomeone?

Him: Michael. Slow down. Things are fine now, right?

Me: Sure?

(long pause)

Me: I hate this so much.

Him: Stop.

Me: Lie down next to me.

Him: Stop.

Me: That’s why you’re here.

Him: Stop. Stop pacing around. You’re crawling out of your skin.

Me: Why did he do this?  I hate this the most. I told him I didn’t want a relationship but he kept at it. He kept coming over.

Him: You need to be still. People play games. They don’t even know they’re doing it.

Me: Somewhere along the line he stopped smiling at me. Started making me beg for affection. Cruel. I had to work so hard for every morsel.

Him: That’s how us Asian boys act when we don’t get monogamy.

Me: I offered him monogamy.

(pause)

Him: You offered him monogamy?

(pause)

Him: What did he say?

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Me: He told me it was too late – that I should have wanted monogamy the whole time. That I should have known when I met him. I told him the next time he tries to change the mind of a grown man, expect it to take much longer than 8 months.

Him: Hm…  That doesn’t sound right. That sounds like an excuse. Maybe he’s just a kid? Maybe he doesn’t know what he wants?

Me: People are cat-fishing me now, online. They’re making up fake profiles in order to say cruel things. Why is everyone so awful?

Him: Stop. Be still. Okay. Lie down. I’ll lie down with you.

Me: Kiss me?

Him: No. Just lie here with me. I want you to be still. It’s okay to cry, but don’t move. Just be still. I’m going to touch your face a little.

(he touches my face. tears slip out of me. we are quiet for a long time.)

Me: (whispered) He tricked me. I don’t trust anybody now. He took that away.

Him: Stop. You trust too much anyhow.

Me: No. Not anymore.

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(long silence. i am still. my diaphragm shakes.)

Him: Stop.

(long silence. tremors build inside me.)

Him: Still. Be still.

(long silence. i control the tremors)

Him: Good. Still.

(i turn away. i am still. i breathe, but not too deep. he starts to snooze. he has no idea i’m still crying)

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-3

The Ficus is Dead

drawings by lex millena

Him: Oh hey.

Me: What? Shit. Hey! Happy Thanksgiving.

Him: Happy Thanksgiving sweetie. Are you here alone?

Me: Yeah. I went to a few friends. Now I’m here. I don’t know why. Where’s Jason?

Him: He went to get cigarettes, he’ll be back in 20 minutes or so.

Me: Ugh. You guys are still smoking? I thought you almost kicked that when we were together…

Him: I never really stopped. I just only had 2 or 3 a week.

Me: I know. I smelled it on you, from time to time. I didn’t always mention it.

Him: I knew you knew.

Me: I knew you knew I knew.

Him: I knew that too.

Me: We were very passive aggressive towards each other.

Him: We were. You are.

Me: Okay, okay. Thanks for saying hi!

(pause)

Me: I understand you and Jason bought a car and a house together.

Him: I guess word travels fast.

Me: I hear things. We’re both in comedy. People talk.

Him: It’s funny, I’d never think to say that. “I’m in comedy.”

Me: You are. The bulk of your money comes from comedy.

Him: I think of myself more as a writer.

Me: Yes. You’ve gotten very good.

Him: Oh, have you read?

Me: Yes. I follow you online, here and there, when I can stomach it.

Him: Ouch.

Me: Oh stop. I’m sure you don’t read my blog.

Him: That’s correct – I don’t.

Me: Okay so, fine. Well I read your stuff sometimes. You’ve gotten quite good.

Him: I’m glad you think so.

Me: I mean, I’m not nuts about reading about myself, but it’s very good writing, so that’s flattering, I guess.

Him: I don’t write about you. I write fiction.

Me: But some things are based on me.

Him: Some elements of some of my characters share parts of your behavior patterns or point of view. But I wouldn’t say I’m writing about you.

Me: No, of course you wouldn’t. But even so, it’s funny that as soon as I start recognizing myself in your writing, the very next thing I notice is an attitude of contempt from the narrator toward the ‘me’ character. It’s not my favorite thing in the world.

Him: You’ll never believe this, but I don’t write about you.

Me: I don’t write about you often, either. It’s good writing, Carson. Congrats on getting published. That’s huge. And I heard about the grant too.

Him: It’s political. I’m good at politics.

Me: You’re a good writer.

Him: Well thank you.

Me: You’re welcome. And you’re right. I’ll never believe that you’re not writing about me. We lived together for 8 years. I worked you through grad school.

Him: Let’s not start down this path again.

Me: Of course not. It’s a holiday, and in any case I have no regrets.

Him: I’m glad to hear that. Neither do I.

Me: How big of us.

(a very long pause. we stare across the bar and survey the crowd. we don’t make eye contact)

To Be Continued…

Thanks Old Faggot – Part Two

Him: So tell me a little about yourself?

Me: What do you want to know?

Him: Well, why do you meet people online who are clearly lying about their age?

Me: Well. I write about it. I had a string of painful, awkward dates about a year and a half ago, and I started writing about it. People starting reading. Now, when I come across someone online who seems angry, self important, or blatantly deceptive -no offense…

Him: None taken…

Me: Instead of ignoring or blocking those people, I go out with them and write about my experiences with them.

Him: I’m not sure I like that.

Me: I’m not sure I asked for your approval.

Him: That’s why. That’s why I don’t like it.

Me: What do you mean?

Him: You’re being glib. Sarcastic.

Me: Do you think?

Him: I do. I think it’s a real problem with your generation. You roll your eyes at everything and you’re terrified of any sort of genuine human interaction.

Me: Doesn’t this particular interaction – me sitting with you on this park bench – prove your theory wrong? Isn’t this a genuine human interaction?

Him: Well it would be, except you have the ulterior motive of wanting material for your blog.

Me: And you have the ulterior motive of wanting to sleep with me.

Him: No I don’t.

Me: Come home with me and give me a blowjob.

Him: Okay.

Me: SEE!

Him: Okay fine, I concede that you’re right about that. But where did you meet me?

Me: On Grindr.

Him: Exactly! A site for guys to meet each other because they want to hook up…

Me: So?

Him: So – who’s worse? Me, the horny, dishonest old man?? Or you, the good-looking young liar?

Me: Jeez, Old Faggot – can’t we BOTH be awful people?

Him: HAHA. We can…

Me: And thanks for the compliments. You’re a handsome guy yourself.

Him: Thanks, can I put my hand in your lap?

Me: Twenty years ago you can.

Him: What an asshole.

(pause)

Him: So why?

Me: Why what?

Him: Why put yourself in these awful situations? What do you gain from it?

Me: I don’t know. I like writing about things that are true

Him: Don’t give me that horseshit. You’re being sarcastic.

Me: I’m not! I’m just saying it sarcastically!

(pause)

Him: So you started writing why?

Me: To process stuff. I was in a long relationship that ended. About a year went by with me being single. Then I started dating again. People were awful. Defensive. Petty. Small. I wanted to write about it. Kept me from getting depressed. After a while though, I started seeking out people because they seemed a little off. It got alienating. I don’t know exactly why I’ve kept doing it. I’m compelled to, somehow.

Him: Ugh.

Me: What?

Him: Just…  Your generation.

Me: What?

Him: You guys all feel shy, and alienated, and lonely, and yet you’re so very hyper-connected. It’s narcissistic. Everyone is squawking constantly, but nobody is listening. Nobody cares. And worse – you don’t just urgently need to communicate your awkwardness or your ironic detachment – you guys fetishize it.  

Me: I’m not sure I’d go that far.

Him: I would! What is an American Apparel ad, if not fetishizing awkwardness?

Me: Uh…  It’s…

Him: Or what about those movies by P.T. Anderson?

Me: … Boogie Nights?

Him: No, that’s a great film. I mean like Rushmore and the other one…

Me: Royal Tenenbaums?

Him: Ugh. Awful. So coy, and precious, and ironic…

Me: So you mean Wes Anderson.

Him: I guess. He’s all the things about your generation I don’t understand. He fetishizes that alienation you were talking about. He urges the rest of you to indulge in this glorification of the uncomfortable. Life doesn’t have to be so labored and ungraceful, you know. We used to just call it ‘going on a bad date,’ and it happened every once in a while, but we didn’t react by being glib or sarcastic on the next date. That was considered rude. We certainly didn’t write about it for the world to read.

Me: Okay fine. I get it. You don’t approve.

Him: I don’t.

Me: Well then don’t read.

Him: I certainly won’t.

(pause)

Me: You know. You spent a lot of time calling me indelicate. But that doesn’t explain why you think I’m interesting enough to sit here and waste the afternoon with. Stop looking at my dick. It’s nothing special.

Him: It looks pretty nice, through your pants.

Me: Thanks Old Faggot.

Him: Can I ask you one more question?

Me: Sure. But you have to wait until Part Three.

Him: Why?

Me: I rarely blog more than 800 words.

Him: Why?

Me: It’s self indulgent, Jerk.