June 16, 2020
F. is sick (F. fell ill). Illness struck F. F caught something, a cold. F. stumbled into another sickness. A cold shivered her.
ALL THAT TO SAY I HAVE NOT SLEPT.
These days you have to bury your aesthetic within the straightforward and factual. Don’t reach for alliteration or any other rhyme (unless it passes unnoticed).
Why? Better question: Why do I feel/think this way?
Reading M.’s story. Reads like a New Yorker take on me, written by someone who has never met me, but has based said article on a picture that someone described to them from a news article they read in quoted sections on Buzzfeed or Vice.
The story occurs in the late 90’s perhaps the very lowest 2000’s. Egregious details like this: “On the Hewlett-Packard in Spencer’s basement” . . . We said HP or just computer . . . I’m taking this all too personally.
More: references to the Trench Coat Mafia that sound off, because having been in high school during Columbine (and personally interested in this event), I can’t remember anyone saying something like: “People thought [insert name] was Trench Coat Mafia.”
I’m taking all this too personally.
I hate nearly everything I read from contemporary fiction writers. Do I hate myself?
“I’m here to do a photo series.”
“Oh yeah.”
“How Langford was built. Can I take your portrait?”
. . .
“Show me how you ended up here? On a road like out of a Beijing suburb?
And he smiled his face. A real, well-meaning smile.
A person should appear high-as-fuck when walking around a city. Otherwise they aren’t looking.
School Shooter (dialogue): yesterday two kids got their revenge. Killed fucking #### people. They got what was coming to them.
