Skip to main content

Don't Get it Twisted-Note from the Author


You've probably figured out that my primary motivation for writing this blog is to get laid. I don't like bars and I smoke too much so I have a hard time cruising. I'd rather not break my ego so I stay in and do this thing.

This hasn't exactly worked out the way I wanted it to, but it hasn't exactly been a failure either.  It takes a lot of patience for the effect to manifest, but in the mean time I get by in real time.

I've finally given up on hopes of an incredibly good-looking and introverted mob boss finding intellectual nirvana through my words, then whisking me away to raise our equally good-looking children in the Tuscan sunshine. I suppose he has better things to do that ogle my implied nudes- because he probably lives in a temple of exposed Grecian statues and gets his dick sucked by Berlusconi's personal handmaids on rotation. It was hard, but I let it go.

Unfortunately, due to the nature of the text and its accessibility,  I have to deal with an obsessive but predominantly benign group of fucking weirdos. I call them loony birds because I don't feel that they necessarily warrant a malicious title. They're just fucking weirdos- they're not fucking jackasses.

The loony birds are merely a natural consequence of putting my dirty everything up on the internet, a consequence that I have to man up and swallow (HEHEHEH). As a mere consequence, however, they become an insufferable nuisance.

Now, I don't mean to say that everybody who has a little OWLC crush is a loony bird. Not at all. Loony birds are people who have a total lack of understanding or adherence to social norms, either because they can't or because they simply won't indulge them. They are comforted by this candid account of the life of a pretty girl without actually having to deal with the anxiety of the encounter. They allow their comfort to define a truth that cannot possibly exist. The encounter is an illusion.

The loony birds are lonely people who have somehow taken the second-person narrative as a direct confession of my desires for them, despite logistical impossibilities. And while I have no qualms with the comfort this delusion may offer, I certainly promote it to an extent, I do have an issue when the delusion attempts to overreach its subjective boundaries and capture my affections. The delusion is safe so long as it is recognized as such. Note that I do not share your delusion; I can relate to your delusions, but mine are polite and delightfully inconspicuous. They do not offer any inconvenience; they are aware of their caste.


Let me make this clear; if we haven't fucked, you are not a subject of any fuck-related piece. Even when I write longingly for a bone, its a bone I have previously experienced and deemed excellent. It is not a lonesome call to hopelessly inept individuals to harass me. Sure, some bones are bones I haven't yet had the pleasure of calling my own bone, but those individuals exist in my immediate reality.


I like blending the truth for you, my beautiful audience. I appreciate that you may submit to these drawling trains of thought. But I am not real- I am a concept that you bring to life.  Attempting to woo me, without having a positive real-life encounter as a solid premise, will generally lead you towards a path of thorny defeat.

In your defeat, your battered pride will beckon for your frustration to unleash itself upon me.

But the true recipient of your diseased love is imaginary, and no matter how vehemently you may curse my name, you can never indulge in the release of a true catharsis because the object of your affections never existed.


So, in summation, while I fully comprehend how your social awkwardness can impede your want for a legitimate social connection and occasionally feel the maternal sympathy of a nurse tending a sick child, you are not my child.

My words are your solace; my being is your distress.


Don't get it twisted.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster

Fright

I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.



my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries




May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…