I am a literary movement. I believe in gatekeeping. I am tired of having to try to explain what I
am talking about to people who have not even read my last one. If you cannot take the time to read then
I have no time for you. If you cannot read then I have read them for you. You become this way by
limiting your interactions to books and pharmacy counters. Did you read how obnoxious he is? No, I
did not either. I just assume he is because I am a stuck up cunt. I know you are but rubber and I am glue
so whatever you say stuck on me and sticks to you. Ridiculous.
I am a literary movement. This was my first dream in a past life. I remove my hands from my eyes as I begin to see a kaleidoscope of black and white shapes moving away from me in discerning ways. The ceilings are white, the floors are white, walls are white. Blake Murphy is sitting in a chair drinking a bottle of whiskey looking at me. I run to the bathroom moments later puking what is not there. I am walking through a snow covered forest on snow shoes utilizing ski poles. I wonder why none of my friends will get me mushrooms. It wasn’t until I was talking to Rebekka about the songs that we wrote that I realized no one knows what the fuck I am talking about. Has every one really just been nodding along all these years? Do you understand how far I have slipped into space?
I am a literary movement. I can try to write things and explain them to people but no one ever understands what I am talking about and I always feel retarded. I bought like twenty-four lavender plants and have propagated them to over two-hundred. They are growing in buckets on skids in the backyard. I have read every single farming pdf published by the Canadian government. They have been quietly deleting them. Go look yourself. I had to move home and I cannot afford to pay rent. I am outside lighting joints with matchbooks because my mother brought home a trashbag full of them from mental health. We have no internet. We have no live television. We love James Bond dvds. 2021. We fight like psych patients. We always tell each other we love each other before we go to bed. I hear rats running through the walls. I am drunk in front of the stove burning another short story that was rejected. No one wants to read anything that I have to say. I thought there were like special grants for people like me who were deficient and needed help being able to be able to work on short stories and stuff. I filled a grow bag up with 300 pounds of soil and put in it on a skid in her back yard. My sixty-five pound mother cannot move it or mow around it. I think it is clear I qualify. I am also growing a metric fuck ton of basil.
I AM A LITERARY MOVEMENT. You think you are my equal? I am unequivalent. Are you even reading? It is easy to write your own stories and have five people that jerk off to your photos that you know share it. Or does everyone only view your social media without actually interacting? If you are such a creative person then it must be really easy to prove it. Remember to be yourself when your mother tags you. (Editor’s note: do you think you should point out that you know the word is nonequivalent? Or do you think people will get it?)
If you ask me what books I have read I will tell you they are all stupid. I don’t know who the fuck Jodi Picoult is. Do you really think people spend hours upon hours wondering whether or not to include a comma? Do you think they publish things and then delete them hundreds of times making revisionist edits? Do you think they keep doing this until they grow tired opting not to share anything at all? Life is hard for everyone.
I think J.K. Rowling has a bad rap. It’s not surprising he would think that way. No, not really. Do people add emphasis to italics anymore? Why would you want to argue with Forrest Gump? I stopped reading the Harry Potter books after Goblet of Fire because we could no longer afford them and the waiting list was too long at the local library. I wonder what she has been up to?
Fifty Shades of Blue. He was the brightest star that burned out, I want them to say. The Colby Latocha Story. (Editor’s note: I don’t know if you can talk like this. I think aspects of this story strongly need to be rewritten. Do not take this under advisement, this is serious.)
How are you so sure? Can you even get a family doctor in Canada?
I am talking to a medical student about my suspicions of the spectrum. He asks me if I have difficulty with my interests. He realizes what I am thinking as I take a moment before I tell him I never lose interest in the things that I like. He is off to surgery next. I haunt the halls of athletics and recreations. I am sitting in Bracken doing online school trying to get into community college. Everyone is so much younger than me. I am too embarrassed to look at any books even though it is all I want to do. Telephone tablet computer screens. I wonder if in a different life I may end up haunting the halls of Stauffer. The Smith-Bader School of Momentous Magnitude. Queen’s Community housing is doubling my rent. None of the law students here have gumption.
I plotted out acreage. Just off the 416. The idea is to have a lavender farm. The temperatures of the world are only going to keep increasing. We are sitting on the most valuable real estate on the entire planet if you believe this to be true. You forget about the fresh water of the great lakes as you think I am wrong. That is not the idea, though. I want to have a lavender farm. It is a tourist attraction. Lavender farms do not make their money by distilling raw flower into oil. That is actually a myth. The costs of distillation are prohibitively expensive and most people just add oil from other suppliers to their own product. I honestly do not believe I would be cut out for agriculture but it is the only respectable profession.
I am not an academic. I am not a laureate. I do not even fucking go here. Did I snap or did the mask slip? I guess only time will tell but have you ever been so entertained? Do not call me pretentious. If you are going to be ignorant then I will learn you. Portentous. I am not pretending. I am capable. (Editor’s note: remember “I am a literary movement” – great reference! Should you use it again here?)
Of course I can make sweeping generalizations in my writing without impunity. You are free to challenge me in any way you choose until you realize that I already lost every race I wanted to participate in. (Editor’s note: Colby actually came last place in the very last cross country race he participated in. And then they offered to hand him a blank piece of paper so he could participate in graduation because he failed high school! The participation generation! Hilarious!)
I am a literary movement? It was never a question.◆