December 7th, 2020 - Dietrologia
Dear TNY,
Blah blah blah, “Dietrologia”, blah blah blah.
Firstly, this story, of what I read of it, reads just like this: I found a cool word that I’ve become obsessed with and don’t care if you think it is cool or not!
Dumb.
Anyway, I made it maybe a third of the way into this story and then skipped to the end. I was super fucking annoyed with this rambling old douche who was that old man we all hope we don’t become, that one that just sits in his chair waiting for someone to pass by so that he has someone to talk to such that he can get all misty-eyed with his nostalgic stories and you get trapped there, like a fucking victim, unable to leave because you are trying to be nice but you are dying inside, one minute of his life at a time. That’s why I skipped. Then I got to the end and saw that there were some abused children in the story. Based on the last couple of weeks, you know children are my weakness. But this week, you saw fit to keep the story, at least the first third, focused on the character we all want to walk away from, instead of giving us the better differentiation between the children and/or a reason to care about them.
And that’s cool. It’s fucking tragic. But you don’t shy away from the tragedy you commit on your pages most weeks. As I’ve stated before, I bet it feels really fucking cool that you are part of some massive, global entity, and everyone you work with is so cool and interesting. And you’ve got that little apartment that you outfitted from a small but upscale city hardware store and your Zoom happy hours complete with DoorDash amuse-bouche and your complete lack of ability to do ANYTHING of real value, even your fucking job as the curator of decent fiction.
And that’s cool too. Each to their own.
I find the dichotomy of the human race troubling. A lot of the people who should wake up every single morning under the oppressive weight of their own inadequacy and failure, much like you, TNY, well…they just don’t. And so many great people, who have done so fucking much, and continue to do so, wake up each day feeling like today might be the day they kill themselves because they haven’t done enough. It’s not fair.
But who am I, right? I’m not one of you. You don’t listen to me and you don’t have to. I get it. I’m sure there are more than enough subscribers out there, carrying your TNY tote around, letting everybody know they are part of the cool guy club. I use mine as the meat bag at the grocery store, not that you asked. And I don’t bag my meat either, and I don’t wash the tote. I hope it rots through from the putrid bacterial colony I’ve cultured in the weave.
Anyway, I’m bored. Of myself. And you.
Later.
Nick
