Well, I promised a long, long time ago that I would keep writing until I had 20,000 UNEDITED pages, roughly in chronological order, and in the spirit of my coming to terms with my demons, I would continue to share every ugly, ignoble, and agoraphobic truth in my closet, lest I die trying to appease the social network. However — and this is a big however — I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT SLEEPING WITH WHORES. So.
I’m going to pause at age 21, and skip to age 23, the year I first encountered The Aliens. Bear with me. I wrote about the drugs, and as a lesson to the younger ones, this story shows the perils of messing with controlled substances outside the safe container of agencies that know how to properly administer them.
I was a junior in college, having taken some time to travel abroad, and as my life had gone to date, always not knowing which way the wind blows. I had decided to withdraw from my focus on film studies and music, to instead pursue philosophy and see if I couldn’t figure out — HOW DOES ONE GET THE LADIES? Pacino’s advice had not panned out for me, and my professors compelled me to look under every rock, leave no stoner unturned. Hahaha see what I did there? Creative writing.
Anyway. Hookahs and hashish notwithstanding, I was determined not to relive the misery of my 22nd year, so I buckled down, rolled up the windows, and began to read in earnest. I was taking some interesting courses that year. A survey of History was most enlightening, regurgitating Gordon Wood and so on, and I was introduced to World Religion. Buddhism, Sufiism, Catholocism, Jewdaism, so many isms! I was unable to contain myself so I dropped out again, and decided to apprentice myself as a carpet maker.
But look, I’m getting ahead of myself. These years were heady and sordid as the 20s can be, and lest I lost the arc of my own story, I should preface a bit and say… well. Some things happened to me this year that should defy credulity to any reasonable-minded reader. Indeed, I doubt I shall succeed in convincing you that what happened was real. And yet, I implore you: take my words as gospel. I swear on my father’s ashes that I’m not making this stuff up. Life is full of surprises. You never know. You know?
One day in the Spring, mid-April, I was on my way from the 24 hour coffeehouse where I sometimes hung out when I couldn’t sleep to my painting class, and I heard an unusual noise. It was a whirring/buzzing sort of sound, like that of a distant lawnmower somehow interlaced with a harmonica. It is hard to describe it. Curious, I took a side road — I was walking near the small downtown area off-campus — and followed the source of the sound.
This memory is making me shaky. I need to pause.
Alright. Thanks. Where was I?
Right. It was the best of times. But mostly it was the worst of times. Oh right and I was investigating this strange emanating noise. Sorry, had a few beers.
The noise seemed to be coming from a house at the end of a cul de sac I had never been down. As I approached, I noticed something… impossible. The sound was coming from a quaint Victorian house of modest taste, but the house was … vibrating. It’s walls were rippling visibly and the roof was clearly dripping into puddles of shingle colored … It was. It was not right.
I cautiously approached the house, conscious of not appearing to be an intruder or potential Jehovah’s Witness, but still drawn by an inescapable need to understand, what was I hearing and seeing. I looked around, the street was quiet, curtains drawn. I had not ingested any substances and was well-rested, and as of yet, had not been diagnosed as severely mentally ill. So I could only assume this strange house was… real…
Look. I made a very strong choice when beginning this memoir never to inject my older, present day thoughts or voice, as the telling necessitates that I describe my story as it unfolded for me. This has been challenging, as it makes me come off as a naive neophytic clueless and morally challenged buffoon at times, albeit with some wit and acumen. But as I get into these strange tales of alien abductions and anti-gravity technology which is still, technically, classified national security stuff, I need to tread carefully. I’m not sure how best to proceed. Might be better off writing about escorts after all.
Also, in fairness, I’m a bit tipsy and writing in a cybercafe where several of the other patrons are, frankly, not humans, but reptilian lectoids sent here to observe me writing. I need to be very very careful. And I’m regretting not taking the mandatory supplements prescribed by the men in white for just such predicaments.
This is going off the rails. I am not sure how to continue…
In my creative writing class at Harvard, we were encouraged to do a practice called freewriting, as taught by Peter Elbow. The idea is, normally when we try to write, we are so inhibited by our internal editor that we can stare at a blank page for hours or years, never really getting any words out, so the practice forces the elimination of the editor. The idea is simple, with 3 basic rules: you must write continuously, you are not allowed to edit or delete characters, and… what is the third rule? I forget.
I’m being distracted by some lizard-human hybrids who are talking loudly in the cafe. Also my text is now highlighted. Technology. Dammit. I should stop until I can sober up a bit.
Suffice it to say, the next chapter was Earth-shattering in my young life, and ever since. Knowledge of the existence of Aliens, and their human associates who have ruled the world since ancient times, more or less destroyed my capacity to function properly in academia and beyond.
Well, shit. I hate to say this folks, as I’m known for lacking any editor, but the powers that be have informed me, I gots to keep it together. Pronto. Or risk the wrATH O
OK OK OK NO MORE UNNY JOKES OK JEEZ.
So… I can’t get away with that stuff. I’m informed I must resume scheduled programming and continue, in Earnest, with my witty but dry memoir of a nobody turned somebody.
And so, the Illuminati will have to wait for subsequent chapters. For now, I bring you: sleeping with whores. Part 1.
You see, as already transcribed, I was not only devastated from an early age with my mother’s existential threats and proclamations of servitude and punishment at my unwanted pregnancy, but I was likewise mortified beyond my capacity when the true great love of my life was erased, not once, not twice, but thrice that I can count. At age 22, it was but twice, but nevertheless, I had learned that I was no good. Unwanted, useless. I chalked it up not to her infidelities but to my own bastard scruffy looking nature, and bald lies I could not conceal with any amount of
Ugh I hate admitting to the need for an editor. She always had that on me in spades. I say and I say and I say over and over and over and a better writer just says, hello. It’s nice to meet you.
My name is _____
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?