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pretentioustwnt in dyslexiaed

If you're reading this, then you probably thought dyslexiaed was a terrible or brillant name for a community. The truth is, I based the whole success of this community on the name. Dyslexiaed. It was a certain something, doesn't it?

If you're still reading this, well, I don't know why. But, here's some of a short story I'm working on.

And, after you read that, well, then it's your turn to share with the group. (or maybe, maybe you could just add on to the short story below)

and now for my untitled story:

The thing about making a movie is they say to imagine your target audience is stupid. If it’s the middle of summer, and there’s an oscillating fan on screen, you tie ribbon or string to it, so you can tell its creating wind. If the audience has to remember something that was said fifteen or twenty or more minutes ago, use a flashback. A voice over. Get yourself a narrator.

Assume your audience is the stupidest bunch of suck-ass morons you could ever meet.

When writing a book, do the exact opposite. Pretend your readers are intelligent Ivy League college types. Leave more to the imagination, don’t always explain every little thing; be witty and clever and pretentious. Don’t bother with conventions, sentence structure, proper grammar. Be an artist, they’ll understand and adore your brilliance.

Just create something beautiful.

The thing about being an artist is this: who gives a fuck what your audience thinks.

Paint or sketch; use your oils or watercolors or whatever, and who cares what anyone else feels about it. Do it for yourself. Tell yourself a story and let everyone else fill in their own details.

Not that anyone is ever really an artist.

You’re certainly not an artist.

You’re the same stupid suck-ass moron that needs ribbons and string tied to a fan to get the point. You need a picture to understand, a dictionary to comprehend. A fucking pie-chart, multicolored and labeled with Times New Roman easy to read font, explaining what you’re suppose to feel and think. A how to breathe instruction manual, or else, you’ll forget.

Suffocate on you’re own stupidity.

Anyone really brilliant, well, they’re probably crazy. Anyone really influential, they probably had the worst life you could imagine. They were probably beaten and molested and killed tiny woodland creatures for emotional release. These people, these real influential artists, they’re the people who you probably avoid in the street, careful not to bump shoulders, because there is something not right about them.

Something that is scary and terrifying and inspiring, that you’d rather just ignore completely than try and understand.

People like you, if there’s any talent, it’s how you know how to wash dishes without your hands losing all their moisture. It’s blue-collar talent, this totally fucked useless talent of the poor, to know the pink-tag and green-tag days at the local thrift store, and really needing twenty percent off a two dollar shirt. This is your talent. Washing toilets and cleaning other people’s fancy homes. Waiting tables. Factory work. Coal mining. Black lung. Exhaustion.

These are your talents.

This is your art.

Like the people who kept the Roman baths warm and steaming, burning up and going blind, tending the underground fires all day. You are that guy. That guy all burnt up and about to die of heat stroke so someone else better and richer and prettier can relax in a fourth century Jacuzzi, drinking wine and having more sex than you will have in your entire life.

This is who you are. Plebeian.

This is how you’ll die. Just like your parents, and their parents, and their parents. Fingers calloused and your hair gray and your skin worn, feeling like leather, practically dead already and all before you're fifty - this is how you’ll be remembered. This walking dead person waiting tables with that fake smile all waiters smile.

You are not an artist, no matter how great they say you could be if you only applied yourself.

You’re a suck-ass moron with flow charts of your life. Charts depicting how you began, how fucking crappy your life was, and how this whole terrible mess will end; when you got these charts, well, you’ve had them forever. Since before you can remember, but that isn’t the story.

The end, well, that’s really the story. And, if you’re interested, just so you aren’t confused, so you aren’t surprised, the ending is bloody. In the end it’s just you and miles of nothing but the prettiest sunset you’ve ever seen. In the end, it’s only just you sitting there alone, cross-legged, watching a pool of your blood grow bigger and bigger.

These are your talents.

This is your art.

And you, you stupid idiot, you’re sitting there bleeding and about to die, about to become a homicide, and you think 'I would’ve liked to paint this sunset'. So you dip your hand in your blood that is still spreading all over the place and, you stupid little twat, you finger-paint on a nearby rock.

And then, well, you probably die after that - that's probably how your entire pathetic, miserable, worthless life ends.

After that, after you're dead, well, that's when you really start living.


Your name is Jenny May Miller and the person who shot you, well, he might have been Andrew Harrison. Maybe he’s a big shot lawyer or doctor or movie producer. He might live in St. Paul or Denver, or maybe Hollywood. You aren’t sure.

You might have been chloroformed, thrown into the backseat of his Buick and driven out here to the desert. And shot to death. Left to be vultured to death, pieces of your skull and collarbone left scattered along the New Mexico-Arizona boarder. Or, wherever you are, you aren’t sure.

You aren’t a waiter or a house cleaner, or anything like that. In your other life, the life before the chloroform and being vultured to death, you worked in a pharmacy. You lived with your uncle who was dying of the AIDS virus, and you were a big fat failure. How you got money for the rent and the groceries and the cell phone that never rang, was you stole pills from work and sold them to the junkies on the Parkway.

Oxycodone, meperidine, alprazolam, methylphenidate. You stole atomoxetine and pentobarbital sodium and hydrocodone and diazepam. These are the medical names. You stole them all and sold them for five, ten dollars a pill.

Used the money for rent and paints and helping your uninsured uncle pay for The Cocktail.

After a while, well, those diazepams started looking real good.

And after a while you started taking just as many pills as you were selling. This was after your uncle was dead from the AIDS and it was just you and all those pills and the junkies on Ocean Parkway.

That’s probably how you met Andrew Harrison. Who isn’t a movie producer or lawyer or anything. He lives in the same nowhere city as you, and he’s a junkie. You remember thinking he was really handsome, with his hollowed cheeks and all those ribs protruding right through his oversized sweater. Andrew with his long elegant fingers and pretty red lips. Andrew who thought you were cute, and fabulous and clever, who bought 15 or 20 methylphenidates at a time.

Andrew who lived in some fancy apartment building with a doorman and was just waiting waiting waiting for all the old family money to run dry. Then, he said, when it was all gone, then he’d really have to start existing. Then, when he was poor and homeless, then he’d be able to evaluate whether or not he was actually alive.

How Andrew came to shoot you. How it got so bad as for him to chloroform you and throw you into the back of his Buick, drive you out to the desert to be vultured to death, well, maybe it was all because of Julian Wilson.

Maybe you were sleeping with Julian and Julian was sleeping with Andrew, and Andrew, he really really loved Julian. And Julian, he really really loved you.

And you, you really loved yourself.

But this isn’t a romance. You have to remember you're sitting in the desert bleeding all over the place, finger-painting with your blood. You have to remember Julian is already dead, and Andrew, he’s probably half way into Mexico by now.

You have to remember with the sun and the loss of blood, you’re starting to hallucinate.

You’re forgetting.

You have to remember you’re about to die and be vultured. This bit is important.


October 2007

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