Sprebas

Was roaming the computer last night, looking for a little fun. Stumbled across this, a real piece of work this emo type of text. Anyway, might as well post it I thought, just for a few good laughs.

After, I'll be that guy people talk about sometimes. Starting with, "Remember when..." and so on. How funny I was. One or two might say how they feel responsible somehow.

 

Was there any signs?

 

What was he hiding behind that warm smile and his contagious laugh?

 

All my stuff put in boxes. Most of it thrown away.

 

The thick stack of papers thrown away. All my thoughts hidden behind my smile penciled down and laid out in plain view for anyone to read. Any answers to be had - thrown away.

 

There would be no other note left behind.

 

What would be the point I wonder?

 

So people might understand?

 

Too little too late.

 

I will be mentioned, talked about, remembered.

 

Then people will go on drinking their coffee.

 

All my problems solved in that one simple act.

 

When I made myself the past.

Chuck.

 

I spend so much time being what people might expect me to be. For instance, when people ask me, “So, what are you supposed to become?” Like, what am I aiming for? What´s my plan for the future? And when people ask me those things, I can never tell them what I really want, because it´s this really stupid thing. Not the dream, that’s not stupid. But the answer is. Telling people you want to live your dream and that you´re prepared to aim for it. To fight for it, and if this dream is not being a dentist or a carpenter, but something totally different, like a writer, then they frown. Almost like you just farted in their face or something.

 

But here´s the thing. I´ve been reading all your stuff. I even became a member of the website, the Cult, to read all those essays you wrote about writing. And since that first time, after I´ve read Fight Club, after me discovering transgressive fiction, I picked up writing again. After a five year long break from it. And now, when I pick up a pen trying to tell a story, picturing it in my head, trying really hard to get that one message down on the piece of paper, I always have this problem. That annoying voice inside my head telling me, this is nothing like Chuck. Whatever I try to write, I always think, “How would Chuck tell this story?”

 

So, what happened was, I met this girl. Yeah, really. She´s asleep now, in my bed, being late at night and all. And what happened when I met her was, sure, I´ll give writing a try. Because up to that moment, before I met her, I really just wanted to go away somewhere. Just disappear, you know. Send a note from the airport to my mother, telling her I´m going away or something. And then, she ruined it all, to steal your words from Fight Club. But not really. Ruining, I mean.

 

The thing is, I have a head full with stories and every time I try to get that pencil to the paper, I just freeze. I go blank. Then I get frustrated and that carpenter job seem really sweet. It took me a while to realize, but I finally did, that I had fallen out of love of writing. Yeah, it´s true. I love my stories, but when they come out, it´s like trying to tell people about a dream you’ve had. About half way through, you realize it´s nothing like that dream you had, so you stop telling. My girlfriend reads all my stuff and tells me it´s great and not to worry, inspiration comes and goes. She thinks I´m too hard on myself. Me? I´m just being realistic.

 

So I pick up other writers like you. Not really like you, but you know. I read Bukowski. Jim Shepard. Salinger. Ellis. I even picked up Amy Hempels complete stories, because if I did, I might become you one day. Of course, it does not work that way. I bet that’s the problem I have, not believing in myself enough to write what I want on my own terms. Telling a story the way I want to tell it. I don´t know if that is something that comes with time. If it´s something I will learn, to learn to trust in my own ability, or something. Or if what I really need is someone that believes in me, someone not being my girlfriend or my mother, telling me what I need to hear and not what I want to hear. Or, maybe they´re both?

 

Anyway, not that you would read this or anything. Just saying.

I have no idea what this is. Had great fun while writing though.

I had this friend who said he wanted to do something, before he gets settled with wife, have kids, buy a house and gets stuck at a job. The old ball and chain, he called that way of life and it was, according to him, almost impossible to escape. "At best, you can postpone it. But it always catches up with you in the end."

 

But before all that, he really wanted to get on the roof of famous tall buildings, free his man stick, point it to the stratosphere and take one good long piss.

 

From that height the sterile by-products having passed through his kidneys and deemed useless by his body, would be scattered by the wind. Dissolve into vapor. Microscopic particles of maple syrup yellow, small enough for anyone downwind to breathe. Said he'd read about something similar in some old French text.

 

I haven't seen him in months now. Not since I dropped him off at the airport and waved him goodbye at the terminal. I have no idea where he might be. But every now and then I get a postcard. A picture of the Eifel tower. Another of the Leaning tower of Pisa. Empire state building. Petronas twin towers. Never any text on the back of the postcard, only my address and a few stamps. The top of the buildings, clearly visible on the picture, encased with an angry red marker. I can't know for sure who sends me these, but I have my reservations.

Lisa was, as far as Richard knew, my girlfriend. This was true a few months back now, back when I went to work with a purpose. Back when I left small notes in the apartment for her.

 

"Miss you" and "Thinking about you".

 

Stuff like that.

 

This was my way of apologizing.

 

At home, talking with this girl on the phone. She tells me she doesn't have a dog.

 

If you as a man perform bad one time, she tells you it's ok. You get over it. No big deal. Then it happens again. And again. And again. Then one day eventually, you'll come home and find a note telling you she's gone. That was two months ago now. And trust me on this, she will tell you it's ok the first few times. Manhood saved. I happens to everyone. It could be stress. Bad eating habits. Smoking. But when you make a routine out of it, eventually there will be a note on the refrigerator door. Her clothes and toothbrush gone. The don't-try-to-call-me-feeling left behind.

 

The girl in the phone, I tell her it's not important whether or not she actually has a dog. What matters is how the story goes to the insurance people and she's way better off  telling them her dog ate her phone. Putting the phone in the microwave oven is not considered a mistake, even if she had no idea it would be turned into Chernobyl.

 

If you have a problem with any modern life accessory, anything electric really, and you need to call someone, odds are I'm the guy you'll end up speaking with. You'll dial the number found in the yellow pages and a mechanical voice will say: "Welcome to bla bla support and divine intervention service. If you have any questions considering electrical equipment, press one now. If you have any questions considering problems with your insurance company, please press two. Would you like to have your fortune read by one (it's really only me) of our psychics, please press three."

 

No matter what number you chose, I will be the one on the other end of the line. Sitting at home in my living room watching TV, solving your problem. Reading your future. Dodging taxes.

 

It used to be I read a lot, back when I told myself and others I wanted to write a book. Shared my dreams with people, friends. Girlfriends. Family. Now, gazing at the bookshelf, I can't decide if I want to read the books or if I want to have read them. Back in the days of dreams and hopes, all my friends helped me get through rough times. Bukowski, Hemingway, Mozart, Beethoven. They took me to places I don't believe exist, but I was happy when I was there. Now I hardly ever do anything other than helping people with their problems. I'm wasting my life. My friends knows this as well as I do. I can change anytime I want. But I won't. Waiting for the big IT to happen. I have dreams if you ask me. Other than that, not so much. I am waiting for something that won't happen.

 

I have my regulars. People calling just to call someone. Anyone. Me. I can tell by the sound of their voice who it is and what their main issue is. I don't know their names so I made some up based on what we talk about. There is Forever alone Misery, Microwave Kate, Sexalot Steve and Billy Bob Cancer. Go ahead, guess their problems.

 

Bill Bob is a heavy smoker. He told me himself and from the sound of his voice I believe him. The sound of a man speaking through a hole in his throat like a mechanical recording heard from the other end of the universe. I've made it my mission to make him give up smoking. Anybody needs a hobby.

 

"You're not afraid of cancer?"

 

The gurgling sound like a speaking sink tells me, "Naw man. The cure however, that freaks me out."

 

He goes on telling me how they, the doctors, put you in some sterile white room where they will radiate the hell out of you. Now it all comes down to endurance, stamina, who can last the longest, you or the cancer?

 

If that doesn't work they open you up and cut away the tumor and even some healthy tissue around it to make sure they really got it all. So, if you have like a brain tumor they'll crowbar you skull open and yank that thing right out along with a good portion of your brain. You might end up like a moaning drooling vegetated zombie. But hey, at least you're alive.

 

To be continued